Yes, this is a story of my disenchantment with the state of the local purveyors of the bread wrapped meaty treat; the kebab.
I remember a time when getting a kebab was a bit of theatre. A middle aged gentleman with a black moustache, button up shirt and sensible trousers would take your order and then he would brazenly slice the meat to fill your order from a big spinning stick that would draw you in like a moth to a toilet light with the radiant glowing heat. He would then add lettuce, tomato, onion, burgul and parsley laden tabouleh and garlicky yoghurt sauce. Then it would be wrapped with the skill and efficiency of a man who had just wrapped his seven millionth kebab and still loved every minute of providing you with this service. Carnies would dance, music would fill your ears and you would be sent on your way…
But this was the opposite of all that.
The name of this kebab joint alone (that shall remain anonymous as this is one of those “if you don’t have anything nice to say…” moments that my ma would always talk about) should have been a beacon, a red light, a sign saying “Achtung! Minen! Do not enter!” But no, the kids and I had decided we wanted a kebab so a kebab it was going to be.
The guy out the front on the foot path, sitting on a lone melamine chair just like the one that was essential decor for all local fish and chippies on the 80s, smoking cigarettes and generally just looking like he was in a bizarre in the middle east (except he was sitting in the middle of a sea of schoolies* in main street Byron Bay) could have triggered an alarm to reinforce secondary fortifications, but no. Maybe the Swedish backpacker counter girl who was having a lot of trouble understanding what we were asking for could have triggered a tertiary defence mechanism in my culinary thought process, but no, none of my inner smart brains were on my side today.
We ordered and I watched in horror as she went to a bain marie at the side and pulled the meat for our kebabs from it’s sweaty bath. If I still had hopes of eating a decent kebab this afternoon, they were well and truly dashed at that moment in time. My utopian kebab dreams came crashing down to reveal a stark reality that did no please me at all. I wanted my mummy. I wished that I had deployed some kind of self-defence and preservation measures but alas, my decisions were void of these today.
Closer inspection of the meat in my kebab revealed… well, I don’t know what it revealed. It was really fucking processed though, I can tell you that. It looked like some kind of meat a spaceman might eat if he were on a three year long mission. I had the chicken, beef and lamb combo but I couldn’t find any chicken looking substance in there. Maybe they process all three meats together thus creating the chickeefamb. Yeah, I think that’s what they did.
The truly sad thing is the kids will probably grow up thinking that is exactly what a kebab is. What sort of chance does the next generation have if this is the caliber of the westernized middle eastern street food they will be eating? Not a big one that’s for sure. Believe me when I tell you if someone is born in a brothel to a prostitute mother, with a prostitute grandma and an uncle and aunty who are bisexual prostitutes specializing in “Harry Potter themed threesomes”, chances are that child is going to think sucking cock for a crisp fiver is not a bad deal at all.
Work that one out.
Please tell me if you know where the good kebab shops are…
Meh (this is me being totally unimpressed).
*Schoolies. School leavers. A celebration for the end of secondary school years. A big party. Schoolies generally swarm to seaside party destinations just like Byron Bay