Clearly, I’m OBSESSED with Kebabs
For those of you who aren’t quite sure what a kebab is, it’s like the Turkish/Lebanese/North African version of a gyro, and they’ve taken Europe by storm. They shave meat off of the shwarma, put the meat into a warm pita, and adorn the kebab with veggies and delish spices. Now, you can see why I had roughly 15 in the past ten days. Furthermore, the Turkish word for kebab, döner, inspired the greatest Facebook group name ever: “I’ve Got a Boner for Döner.” I love kebabs so much, while I was still a French major Sophomore year, I considered writing my thesis on the prevalence of kebab culture in France and that it served as an indication of increasing levels of assimilation of Maghrebins into French society, (this was a very superficial analysis that I didn’t actually research, it was only in the idea phase, however, as the devastating riots of 2005 and 2007 proved that the omnipresence of kebabs is pretty much the ONLY way the North Africans have integrated themselves into French everyday life). I can even cite my all time top 5 kebabs in France:
5. In the summer of 2003, my friend Noah (aka #1 Jew) and I were famished in Paris’ Latin Quarter. Desperate for kebabs, we searched all throughout the narrow alleyways until we came upon a small street with no less than 10 kebab stands. We didn’t bother perusing, stopped at the first kebaberie where we were asked the most mind-boggling question: would you like frites on your kebab? Fries on a kebab, talk about life-altering! In addition to the top 5, this divine treat also made the pantheon of most unhealthy snacks ever consumed.
4. The kebaberie in Megève always produces a fine kebab. My reasons for citing this locale are manifold: 1) the owner knows my order by heart, even when I haven’t been there in a year, 2) I regularly see the owner out at the bar until three in the morning, so when I walk into his store at 2 p.m. the next day and order multiple kebabs, knowing glances are exchanged, followed by uncontrollable laughter, 3) this kebaberie has a sauce called samurai. It’s really thousand island dressing, but samurai is a much cooler name than thousand faggypants island.
3. It was 3:30 a.m. in Nice one winter, and my roommate Rodd and I have had a long evening of hedonism in my favorite pub in all of France, O’Neill’s, where they played U2’s Elevation Tour DVD on repeat all night long, much to my delight and Rodd’s chagrin (though Rodd did enjoy the crowd’s rendition of Wizz or Wizzout You). Here was our dilemma: our flight back to the States left at 7 a.m., and we were in no shape to board a transatlantic flight. There was only one remedy; we needed a greasy kebab, stat. At 3:30 in the morning, even in kebab-obsessed Nice, this was no easy task. After twenty minutes of searching, we’d resigned ourselves to defeat and began to dread what would surely be a miserable, vomit-inducing plane ride. At 3:50, our fortunes turned. Down a seemingly insignificant alley, we saw a kebab stand in the process of closing for the evening. I started screaming at him to hold on, in what would appear to be mock urgency, but for me and Rodd, there was nothing facetious about it. We arrived to discover that there was just a teeny bit of lamb on the shwarma. A look of dejection engulfed our expressions of delight (we thought we’d have to share, something neither of us are particularly good at), until the kebab master informed us that there would be enough for both of us. It might not have been the best kebab I ever had, but it surely was the timeliest, and ensured that I didn’t have an unfortunate incident en route to the Etats-Unis.
2. While studying abroad in Tours a few summers back, my daily kebab habit allowed me to form a number of rapports with various kebab vendors. One in particular, whom my friend Inaki dubbed “the most genius kebab man ever,” created a particularly delicious döner. In Tours, there is a city ordinance that mandates all bars and eateries close by 2 a.m. Our habitual routine was to leave the “Bar of Dirty Americans” (a term coined by Ms. Katherine Ross) at about 1.30 to ensure that we could easily secure a kebab. One particularly delirious Friday, we lost track of time, and exited the bar right at the stroke of two. My partner in crime, Berry, was desperate for a kebab this evening. Alas, due to the late hour, a lengthy queue had formed in front of the stand, and all hope looked lost for Berry. When our favorite kebab guy indicated that he had served his last kebab, Berry fell to his knees, looked up to the sky, and mournfully cried “Pas de kebab, pourquoooooi?! (No kebabs, Whyyyyyyyyy?!)” Fortunately, I caught the eye of the kebab guy as Berry was melodramatically scorning the heavens. Because I was one of his most valuable customers (I’m pretty sure I singlehandedly kept him in business), he motioned to me, and as he was closing the rot iron gate, signaled for me to come in. I hesitated for a second, because an alarm in my head was warning me that I was about to be raped. My apprehension was for not, as he prepared me two kebabs, and promptly snuck me out the back door. This may not have been the tastiest kebab that I had ever eaten, but the fact that Berry and I were able to (loudl y) enjoy kebabs and the rest of the crowd were left starving brought me an odd feeling of superiority.
1. The best kebabs in all of France are, hands down, outside of the Stade Gerland in Lyon. This might be just because I associate them with the sweet taste of victory.
And, yes, it’s official, I become weirder by the brog.
