One of Aristotle’s many famous phrases, “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” has been applied to countless subjects, from metaphysics to psychology to corporate team-building exercises. Yet few have explored the possibility that the Ancient Greek philosopher was referring to something he would’ve encountered every day. Something he found miraculous, as its deconstructed components were polarizing, but its synthesized form was universally beloved. A whole pie that was more than a collection of slices. Specifically, spinach pie. 

Okay, yes, it’s unlikely, but hear me out. There are some foods that are undeniably an improvement on their individual ingredients. Take pizza, for example. Salami, mozzarella and bread are respectable in their own rights, but there’s a reason even Lunchables sells them in the same package: they’re simply better together. 

Now spanakopita, or spinach pie, is a fusion of some arguably controversial foods. I don’t know if anyone could ever claim to like spinach the same way we say we like fries or ice cream; not only is it a vegetable, it’s also not a very compelling one. And feta cheese may be the one dairy product Americans don’t absolutely adore. 

Yet spanakopita is one of the most well-known and well-liked staples of Greek cuisine. It’s a common find at not just restaurants, but even in the aisles of local grocery stores. Every time Costco has a sale on Cuisine Adventures Spanakopita, I buy three or four boxes to stock up, though I consume them so ravenously that I end up running out anyway. 

But these frozen facsimiles pale in comparison to a just-baked spanakopita from a φούρνος. Fresh from the oven, the filo casing is thicker and varies in texture throughout the pastry: the outermost layers are bronzed and crispy, shattering with each bite, while the inner layers are softer and slightly soggy with the juices of the filling. 

Speaking of the filling, there’s a distinct difference in the flavor profile of Greek spanakopita compared to American versions of spinach pie. I’d always noted the sharper, tangier taste of the pies I had in Thessaloniki, but never thought about it further until this year. I suspect it’s due to a combination of factors unique to the Greek version, including the quality of feta (fresh and from sheep’s or goat’s milk), mix of vegetables (not just spinach, but also wild greens and herbs) and volume of olive oil (the amount of oil I’ve seen my grandmother cook with is astounding and a bit horrifying). 

The contrast is clear, and it brings up yet another philosophical quandary to ponder. Intellectually, I’m aware Greek spinach pie is fresher, baked better and objectively higher quality than Trader Joe’s Spanakopita and other similar brands. Not only is it tastier, but it’s also more authentic, made in an independently-owned bakery using local Greek products rather than a cold, heartless factory pumping out box after box of identical products. But even though my brain knows these facts, I can’t deny what my taste buds tell me: I prefer the dupe over the real thing.

I have many hypotheses as to why this might be the case. I’ve never really cared for cheese, so maybe the milder flavor of frozen feta is more agreeable to my lactose-sensitive palate. Maybe I enjoy the flexibility of being able to defrost and bake my spinach pie at any time, since spanakopita is typically sold in the mornings as breakfast in Thessaloniki. Or maybe, being born in the United States and raised on artificial ingredients and imitations of international cuisine, I’m simply unable to appreciate authentic spanakopita. 

Every immigrant struggles to comprehend their connection to their homeland. While food can be one of the simplest ways for me to celebrate my heritage, it can just as easily leave me feeling like an imposter in an ill-fitting costume. As much as I love Greek cuisine, there are plenty of parts I’d readily rebuke: I abhor olives, loathe tripe and detest cold cheeses. When I don’t join my grandfather in savoring a slab of grilled feta, I wonder if I can really call myself Greek-American, or even Greek at all.

But at the end of the day, I’m not sure my unorthodox preference is even worth worrying about. Returning to the idea of Aristotle’s “greater sum,” I try to consider spanakopita as the sum of its many adaptations. Any given variation can subjectively be considered good or bad, authentic or inauthentic, delicious or disgusting. Nevertheless, together they amalgamate into a tasty treat that is near and dear to my heart, bringing me back to mornings from my childhood: I would always make a mess as I happily gobbled up pieces twice as big as my child-sized hands, scattering filo flakes all over the couch. In my memories, I can barely distinguish between my grandfather’s mahogany-colored leather sofa and the beige corduroy of the couch in my own living room. They blur together and all I can recall is my blissful, childlike contentment. 

An unlikely fusion of ingredients that has been reinterpreted many times over, spanakopita has as many dupes as a designer handbag, with just as much discrepancy in quality. Regardless of its source, though, I’m certain that spanakopita will stay a staple dish in my diet. And over a lifetime of eating spinach pie, my summed experiences will transcend any individual meal.