For 20 years before retiring, Janet and I were weekenders at our house in Callicoon. During the blustery months of January through March, we closed the house and returned to New York City. I almost always went out to Queens on the weekends to stay at Janet’s spacious apartment, as my own living quarters were little more than a cell. When I didn’t feel like cooking, we would venture out to restaurants not far from Janet’s apartment.

A favorite was in Astoria—a historically Greek neighborhood—with many eateries and food shops featuring Greek and Cypriot ingredients. We found a restaurant called Zenon Taverna and ate there often. We were taken by the friendliness of the customers, who often plied us with food they couldn’t finish or thought we should try. It was homey, unpretentious and the food was delicious.

Over time, we became friendly with the owner, Stelios Papageorgiou, who would stop by our table to chat or offer a gratis dessert. Somehow it came up one evening that he too had a place not far from us, in Orange County, where he went to unwind when not working at the restaurant. He’d cook, hunt and garden on his large plot of land. He added, “You must come sometime and see my property.” We exchanged phone numbers.

One morning, months later, I answered the phone to hear a man speaking excitedly. I had trouble understanding him because his accent was heavy. Then I heard the words, “Zenon Taverna” and realized it was Stelios. We were surprised that he had actually made good on his promise to invite us for a visit. I grabbed the only bottle of Greek wine we had in the house and we hopped into the car one morning.

When we arrived, having driven down a long winding road, we found Stelios, dressed in khaki shorts and a long-sleeved top, a knife in a leather sheath at his belt. We were introduced to his friend Costos, who was visiting Stelios for the day, then taken on a tour of the enormous garden. There were lettuces, cabbage, corn, fava and green beans, squash, peppers, chard and the heftiest deeply hued beefsteak tomatoes I’d ever seen. Stelios walked us to a large, rustic wooden table heaped with the ripe bounty he had already picked and then motioned for us sit at the table, where Costos was comfortably ensconced.

“What were you hunting for this morning?” I asked as our host brought over wedges of glistening tomato wedges and sliced kohlrabi on two paper plates.

“I sat 20 feet up in a tree for two hours waiting for a bear,” he said, adding, “They have been giving out permits because the bears are coming dangerously close to people’s homes.”

“Have you cooked and eaten bear?” Janet inquired.

“Of course, I eat everything I hunt,” was his answer.

With a beer in hand, Stelious sat on a big cooler that abutted an enormous grill, while Costos brought out a bottle of ice-cold ouzo (an anise-flavored aperitif) and poured each of us a small glass. “We eat the kohlrabi raw with a little ouzo before a meal,” Costos instructed. It was crisp-textured and crunchy, reminding me of jicama.

Stelios moved to the grill and began cooking. First, he brought over tender octopus, slick with olive oil and lemon juice, then halloumi cheese, blackened with grill marks and slightly tangy in taste.

“Do you like porgy?” our host asked, holding up a whole scaled fish and then placing it over the hot coals.

Meanwhile, he served us slices of bread he had grilled, then announced, “I’m making chicken souvlaki.” Janet and I glanced at each other, eyes popping open wide. Soon came rounds of pork tenderloin, pork ribs and homemade sausage brought from the restaurant.

We had not expected to be fed and were overwhelmed. Costos smiled as Stelious worked contentedly.

“I don’t garden. I don’t hunt. I don’t cook,” he said, “I just come to relax with my friend. More ouzo?”

“No, no thank you,” I said, adding “we really should be going, and I’m stuffed.”

To our surprise, Stelios set to quickly packing take-out containers with the entire porgy, then another with chunks of chicken kebob that had been skewered with onions, tomatoes and bell peppers. He set them before us.

“Come, come, you must take from the garden,” he insisted, gesturing toward the table laden with the produce we’d passed before. He strode over to our open car trunk with a bucket filled with huge leaves of Swiss chard and a bag he’d filled to the brim with green beans, throwing in a couple of ears of corn and a few carrots for good measure. I had taken a number of those glorious tomatoes and added them to the trunk.

We hugged goodbye and thanked him for the treat of being with him in his paradise. Oddly for me, I had not retrieved the camera I always keep in the glove compartment of the car. I had not taken a single photograph. I wanted to remember the magic of that day forever, just as it had been.

When we arrived home we went out onto the back porch of the house and I placed all the fruits and vegetables on the picnic table there. Now I grabbed my camera and captured the full scope of Stelios’ largess. During the following week, Janet and I relived that idyllic day as we ate from his garden and grill and, most strikingly, from his generosity and big-heartedness.