Old-school Greektown favorite where "Opaa!" rings loudly.

Our Review

Raised by a Lebanese Gypsy with a taste for Greek men (especially if they drank or gambled), I’ve often found myself on the three blocks of Halsted between Monroe and Van Buren. When I pretended to have money I’d go to Costa’s. Before I was married, there’d be Athena watching at Artopolis. But when I want to honor my Cephalonian peasant roots I scurry to Roditys. The room is nicer and brighter than I first remember it, the veteran waiters as prompt and familiar as ever. Most recently my friend and I started with a dry, crisp, chuggable rose and a platter of cold appetizers: tzatziki, taramasalata, a flavorful if flimsy spanakopita, eggplant salad, a few olives, and wedges of feta and kasseri cheese. We also gobbled up the saganaki, which had a pleasant texture and the requisite funk. The biggest downer of the night was the loukaniko, an oregano-and orange-rind-laden fried sausage chopped and cooked to oblivion. As always at Roditys, the highlight was the fatty, piquant gyros, my favorite in the city. We finished with rice pudding and a buttery caramel flan, the perfect antidote to a gyros-induced MSG trance.

John Kouris

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