Another day, another doner
I'm not in the least bit surprised to learn that the humble kebab can provide someone with their entire day's necessary calorific intake.
After all, we've all been there: the late night stop at the aquarium of a takeaway; the muttered affirmatives as we're asked "salad?" and "hot sauce?"- then, in the shameful privacy of our own home, comes the papery divestment.
On the outside it may merely resemble an adipose pitta bread, but once we bite into it, the stuff comes tumbling out: the car-tyre-strips of meat, the gory sauce, the thick roundels of cucumber, and entire hayricks of coleslaw. How - we ask ourselves as we gag on the stuff - can there be that much coleslaw in the world, let alone in this single doner kebab?
The doner kebab has become a staple of the London scene, so much so that if you drive one of the great arterial roads of the metropolis - say from my gaff in Stockwell down to Croydon - the stylised doners on the takeaways' signs have the quality of a flicker book, as one hefty block of meat is rapidly succeeded by the next.
Yet this is primarily a convenience food, much munched by busy Londoners, because it takes no time at all to slice the block and stuff the bread. Even asking for a shish kebab - cubes of marinated chicken, lamb or beef - slows us down too much, yet, in my experience, a shish can be a gastronomic treat even in the wilds of Sanderstead. It's freshly grilled, the ingredients are simple - and unlike junk food, they aren't oozing additives.
Going upmarket still more, a kebab roll at Maroush - either in Beauchamp Place or on Edgware Road - is as near to the authentic Eastern Mediterranean experience as you can get in central London. I make a point of stopping in there at least every month or so, and whether shawarma (the same as doner), shish, or kofta (balls of compressed mince meat), once I have the tightly-wrapped flatbread snack in my little hand it's hot - and I'm toasty.
Indeed, I have a confession to make: virtually all I ever eat are kebabs. Long lamb kofta kebabs are what I order from my favourite Indian takeaway, Hot Stuff in Vauxhall, and I eat flat ones when I sit down at the Indian Club restaurant in the Aldwych. If I eat Thai or Chinese I invariably have some satay - and after all, what's that, except a slightly more irenic form of the kebab?
I've no idea if my being espaliered in this fashion on an almost daily basis is what's responsible for my trim form and excellent health - but it must all add into the mix. I dare say that when I die and go to hell, I'll appreciate the irony as Satan threads me on to his pitchfork and stokes up the brimstone. I wonder if I'll have the sangfroid to cry out: "Hold the hot sauce! And the coleslaw!"
