Mastic in Mesta

Perhaps the thing that Chios is most famous for is mastic, an aromatic resin harvested from the mastic bush.  Mesta is one of three mastic villages on Chios, the other two being Olympi and Pyrgi. Although these bushes grow across the Aegean, Chios is the only place that grows it commercially.  Apparently, it is only here that the trees produce the valuable resin.  For centuries, mastic has been used in paints, cosmetics and in cooking.  People also like to chew on it, and an interruption in its production in the early 19^th century caused a brutal revolt in Istanbul.  At one time, a kilo of mastic resin cost the same as a kilo of silver.

I had read about mastic before we got here and then, coincidentally, heard a spot about it on The Splendid Table podcast sometime during the spring. “That’s where I’m going!” I thought.  The woman interviewed for the spot talked about mastic’s indescribably unique taste, its suitability for both savory and sweet foods.  I had never heard of it before we planned this trip, and I was eager to try it.  Indeed, it seems to be used in just about everything here—chewing gum, juice, seltzer water, liquor, ice cream, soap, and body lotion.  You can also get little pills that are supposed to be good for a stomach ache.

On our first night in Emporios Bay, we ordered a bottle of mastic flavored sparkling water.  Alec took a sip and slid the bottle over to me.  I couldn’t read his expression.  I took a swig—indescribable is right.  It tasted like someone had bottled “musty basement.”  I was sorely disappointed.  We tried some of the gum, which is a bit better, although weirdly textured.  I have no desire to load up on mastic face cream or shampoo, but I would like to taste it in a sauce or a sweet. 

Yesterday evening, Vasilio gave a “mastic tour”.  Much to Milo’s dismay, we all decided to go.  “I don’t want to go on any mastic tour!” Milo declared.  We started in the town square, where Vasilio told us about the pirates who came to the village hundreds of years ago and left with women, children, and mastic.  We walked out of the village through the locals’ gardens, and C.C. and Milo picked eggplant, tomatoes, and cucumbers from Vasilio’s plot.

Then we crossed the road, entered another field, and came upon what looked like an enormous shrub, about 15 feet tall and 15 yards wide.  A break in one end allowed us to enter into it and discover that it was actually about 30 mastic bushes, planted in four neat rows.  It is harvest time in mastic land, and Vasilio demonstrated how the resin is gathered.  First the farmers scrape and sweep away the leaves from a wide circle around the trunk.  C.C. and Milo were happy to demonstrate—city kids for whom farming tasks are still fun.  Next, a layer of calcium carbonate—a very fine, white powder—is thrown under the tree to cover the clean circle.  This allows the resin to drop without sticking to the dirt.  By now the kids looked as though they had been dipped in flour sacks.  The farmer then makes a series of small cuts—a couple of inches long—into the trunk and branches of the tree.  When you do this, and we did, you can see the clear resin begin to come to the surface.  The farmer makes 10 or 15 a day throughout the harvest period, and the resin drops to the ground.   We discovered the hard way that it is extremely sticky until it’s completely dry.  Once dry, the farmers scoop it into sieves, which help to separate out the dirt.  Then they throw what’s left into buckets of water; the leaves and pieces of bark rise to the top, and the resin sinks.  They scoop the resin out and remove any dirt.  All of this for 80 euros a kilo—a pretty labor-intensive practice for something that tastes like musty basement.

I haven’t given up, though.  I plan to buy a little container of the powdered stuff and experiment with it when I get home.

Vasilio had set up a table in the middle of the mastic grove laid with a range of tasty local treats—amazing bread baked in a wood-fired oven, the tomatoes and cucumber we had picked, salty cheese, almond-stuffed figs, olives, and a pickled green that comes on many of the salads here, all washed down with a raisiny local wine.  We chatted with our tour buddies—a man from France, a young couple, and then walked home as the sun began to set.  “That mastic tour was really cool,” Milo declared, having completely forgotten his earlier protest.