NISI Greek Taverna

Nisi Greek Taverna 1204 US-30, Schererville, IN 46375 Some restaurants try too hard. They polish the tables until they reflect your face back at you, serve cocktails with herbs nobody asked for, and pretend they’re something more than a place where hungry people come to be less hungry. Nisi isn’t one of those places. Nisi is the kind of joint you find wedged between the unremarkable bones of suburban life—strip malls, brake shops, a parking lot that seems to have been designed as a psychological test. If you make it through the asphalt obstacle course, you step inside to a room that feels transported from some island village where the wine flows and the paint chips but nobody cares. The smell hits first—grilled lemon, warm broth, garlic that refuses to whisper. It’s a comfort you don’t get from chain restaurants or Instagram-hungry fusion spots. It’s the smell of people who cook because they love you, even if they’ve never seen your face before. Avgolemono The avgolemono arrives, steam curling upward like a quiet invitation. Most Greek diners serve a bastardized version of this soup—too thick, too gloopy, something that tastes like cornstarch and regret. But this? This was light, bright, almost cleansing. The bone broth was honest. The lemon cut through without bullying the rice. It tasted like a grandmother’s memory—something carried through generations, protected, never diluted for convenience. It was the kind of soup that makes you sit up straighter. The kind you finish and immediately mourn. Dolmades Then the dolmades—tight, disciplined, hand-rolled with the kind of precision that suggests someone in the back still has pride. No loose ends. No soggy bulk. These were one-bite dolmades, the way they should be. The lemon hits in a way that feels almost medicinal—bright, sharp, cleansing. A reminder that Greek food wasn’t built for delicate appetites but for people who work, sweat, argue, pray, and laugh loudly. You don’t nibble these. You commit. Feta & Honey The feta with honey shows up like a blind date arranged by a friend you trust. You want it to work. You want the alchemy of salt and sweet to sweep you away. But here, the ratio was off. Too much feta, too little honey. The conversation never clicks. You chew, waiting for the magic that never arrives. Saganaki (Graviera) Then the saganaki lands with its little moment of theater. They used graviera, not the usual mastelo or kasseri. Graviera is saltier, louder, a cousin who shows up uninvited but somehow steals the show. The flame flares, short and proud, and the cheese hits your fork like a dare. It’s brash, unapologetic, and absolutely right for the moment. KalamarI with Skordalia The kalamarI is lightly breaded, careful, restrained. It comes with skordalia, the garlic dip that usually smacks you across the face and reminds you why Greek grandmothers fear no vampire. But here, it’s muted. Not bad—just not memorable. A filler chapter between better scenes. Service And then there’s the server—the invisible glue holding this place together. Attentive without hovering. Warm without faking it. The kind of person who makes you feel like you’ve been coming here for years, even if this is your first time. There’s something deeply human about that kind of hospitality—something you can’t teach, can’t script, can’t fake. The Vibe Nisi isn’t perfect. It doesn’t need to be. Like Greece itself, it thrives in the tension between beauty and rough edges. The parking sucks, the honey-to-feta ratio is a tragedy, and the kalamari won’t change your religion. But the highs? Oh, the highs. The soup alone is worth the drive. The dolmades are a quiet act of devotion. The saganaki is a celebration of fire, salt, and courage. Final Thought Nisi doesn’t feel like a restaurant trying to impress you. It feels like a place feeding its own people—and letting you take a seat at the table. It’s imperfect, human, honest. The kind of Greek food that tastes like it has a history. And if you’re lucky, you’ll walk out smelling faintly of lemon and smoke, wondering when you can return.