The Kebab House – 6, St Michael’s Hill, Bristol

A real treat, avid readers. A guest review! From my esteemed friend (and closet kebab fan) William aka Billy. Enjoy. I welcome further contributions, please mail to the (hastily created) kebablog@googlemail.com.

The Kebab House – 6, St Michael’s Hill, Bristol

All at once I was upon it; the chilli mist stinging my eyes as it mingled with the sweat from my all-to-eager stride home. One piece… two pieces… ten pieces even – I lost count of the number that were wasted on me in my initial thirst for lamb. I got a grip and sat back. This is no way to enjoy a kebab, I had to tell myself. It occurred that many a mediocre pitta must have passed my lips un-rebuked in this common state of over-excitement. Reviewing a kebab is much different from merely ‘doing’ a kebab. The level of attention and insight is far higher – necessarily – but in some ways this contemplation dilutes the visceral thrill of being ‘in the moment’, man and lamb, alone together for a brief few minutes; interrupted only by the few melancholic pauses as the end nears – and of course the odd fork broken in sheer excitement.

In homage to a true review then I should start right at the beginning of my experience: the decision. It wasn’t a tough one, as we stared in through the unfamiliar window it became clear that this was the place to go. It was new to me – a small Greek restaurant at the bottom of St Michael’s hill – but it looked warm, authentic, and to top it all it was right in front of us. Now I should stress here that this is not a ‘kebab shop’ in the sense that is immediately called to mind when you hear the phrase. It was for the most part restaurant, with a small counter in the foyer that served take-out on the side (and presumably also provided the various kebabs for the eat-in customers). I chose a lamb Shish – it didn’t seem right, somehow, to order a Doner in such a cultured location – and we waited as the meat sizzled slowly towards tenderness. We entertained ourselves by discussing these new surroundings (marvelling sheepishly that such a gem had remained unknown for so long), and by scouring the restaurant menu to see what more this emporium had to offer a customer that was lucky enough to find themselves at a table.

As it neared completion, the chef (and I think owner) sprang back into life and began to prepare our pittas. “Salad and sauce?” The familiar cry didn’t hint at the revolution that was to follow: “naturally”, I replied, and waited to be asked which of the range of sauces I would like to compliment my meal. This did not happen. Before I could gather my thoughts the chef appeared to choose for me, and deftly applied some chilli sauce and a brief squirt of what I now understand to be lemon juice. About to protest, it quickly dawned that this was not through some mad presumption on his part – there was no other choice, the only choice had been the answer to that first question: “salad and sauce?” My mind reeled, horrible thoughts of a mayonnaise-less kebab were swimming through my confused head. I countered weakly, and accepted the warm package that was handed to me before we hurried out the door to tuck in.

I must admit, at first I was not optimistic. I am accustomed to large quantities of sauce being an integral part of the kebab experience. However we talked it out on the brief walk back and concluded that if nothing else it would be a king amongst kebabs in terms of health, and that a kebab that was prepared in this way deliberately was worthy of a chance. As it turns out it didn’t even need a chance – it wasn’t down to luck or fortune. That Shish kebab was fantastic, and the chef had always known it would be. It tasted good, and it felt good for me. There was a decent amount of meat and the salad still had a freshness to it that so many others have failed to retain. The salad was simple, but plentiful; the meet tasty, and cooked professionally; whilst the chilli sauce packed a bit of a punch but was mediated subtly by the dash of lemon that now made so much sense to me. I feel, however, that what finally secured it for me – and left me hopelessly enamoured by this new experience – was its manageability. Bereft of needless ladles of sauce the pitta maintained its consistency throughout the meal. I could eat it all with my hands and yet did not once wish for a napkin. Imagine this, just for one second; if you can.

We both finished our meals in relative silence, stunned I think by what was occurring. I was full but not nauseous; energetic even. We contemplated a second but the stigma I think might have been too much. To admit addiction not ten minutes after the first purchase would have surely placed the ball too firmly in the chef’s court, and left him free to jack up the prices as we came crawling back for more – unable to resist, turning to crime to fund a life that I had not chosen. Forever in his pocket.

Needless to say, however, we have been back.

I some ways it has made me feel rather cheated. The pounds that I had loyally invested in kebabs throughout previous years might have been saved if I had only realised sooner that in comparison to this – this humble and simple concoction – the ‘taste sensation’ of the more sauce-heavy kebabs could be replicated with a big jar of garlic mayonnaise and a spoon. I wonder occasionally whether it was worth it. When I find myself kebabbing farther afield, and this experience is beyond my reach, I poke moodily sometimes at the white-crested strips of Doner and think of the times when this was still the height of my kebab experience. I remember when more sauce meant better – when the mayo, chilli, and mint mix made so much more sense and I would have laughed at a less saucy offering. I consider, often, whether it would have been better never to have known. The experience of that little St Michael’s hill palace is such a rare one, and so hard to find elsewhere, that I feel cursed sometimes that every other kebab must take a reluctant step down, and I must acknowledge that things will never be the same.

Is ignorance bliss? No. Ignorance is ignorance; and you would do well to let your plastic fork splash back into your saucy illusion and go get yourself a real kebab.