I walked past the Arches recently, whistling as I did so with a fresh Grecian in my hand, and I peered in to check on proceedings. Perfectstubble was toiling in the rear of the counter as usual, fastidiously cleaning the floor and lending a hand with pizza preparations. The new young lead server was there again at helm, he literally doesn't look like he gives a flying shit about anything, least of all preparing an elephant leg for a night's consumption. The kebab leg behind him was fresh out of the factory by the looks of it and pale and uncooked to the point of appearing as a light grey colour (oddly, the actual colour of an elephant's leg). The most alarming thing about this was sitting atop the kebab was a coil of meat which looked like a freshly laid turd. I always assumed the kebab factories stripped and chopped cutlets and choice cuts of lamb, carefully shaping it around a skewer and lovingly packing it up for delivery. This made me wonder: do they simply blend poor quality meats of dubious origin into a paste and squeeze it into a mould?
I need to think of a name for the new young pretender, answers on a postcard.
Friday, 30 July 2010
Thursday, 29 July 2010
My Favoured Kebab
I have finally found it: after years of fruitless searching, misguided experimentation (mint sauce from Efes, no salad but cucumber, chicken doner etc etc), I have consumed the perfect kebab. I was enlightened to this particular combination by a pair of fellow kebab connoiseurs (eternally grateful, thanks Ant and Matt): chicken shish / lamb doner mix from the Grecian. Initally I looked upon this with suspicion, chicken has no place in kebabs - or so I thought.
I have eaten a lamb shish / lamb doner mix before and after initial enthusiasm, in hindsight I found I was a touch dissapointed. The price was OK - £4.90 - but I found the chunks of lamb more chewy and tastless than tender and juicy. Chicken doner just didn't cut it, it seemed to taste like curry and I longed for the soft, delicate touch of lamb. With this novel combo however the chicken is a moist celebration of poultry with a distinct barbeque edge from the charcoal grill; the lamb doner acts as a general lubricant and padding to fill the kebab out to its polystyrene-bursting best, whilst also tasting utterly divine of course.
I opt now for mint and yoghurt as sauce - as mentioned earlier I have tried mint sauce in lesser establishments and found it to taste like trebor mints dissolved in vinegar - however here it is a joyous homemade style dressing which lacks the strong, cloying texture of garlic mayo. I have all the salad aside from red onion, this tends to dominate, and they dress the salad with lemon juice to add a crisp, acidic note to the overall meal. I have been tending to avoid red cabbage also, I feel white cabbage is enough cabbage, plus bizzarely it is staining our plates at home with purple blotches. Thanks to the Arches (RIP), I have also discovered the pickled chillies, I assumed these would either taste strongly of vinegar, chilli or both; however it is actually a very mild, juicy treat which rounds off the salad perfectly.
This is all wrapped up in a warm parcel and I hurry home, clutching my precious cargo, for consumption at home in rapturous delight at the united, symbiotic partnership of lamb and chicken. Recommended.
I have eaten a lamb shish / lamb doner mix before and after initial enthusiasm, in hindsight I found I was a touch dissapointed. The price was OK - £4.90 - but I found the chunks of lamb more chewy and tastless than tender and juicy. Chicken doner just didn't cut it, it seemed to taste like curry and I longed for the soft, delicate touch of lamb. With this novel combo however the chicken is a moist celebration of poultry with a distinct barbeque edge from the charcoal grill; the lamb doner acts as a general lubricant and padding to fill the kebab out to its polystyrene-bursting best, whilst also tasting utterly divine of course.
I opt now for mint and yoghurt as sauce - as mentioned earlier I have tried mint sauce in lesser establishments and found it to taste like trebor mints dissolved in vinegar - however here it is a joyous homemade style dressing which lacks the strong, cloying texture of garlic mayo. I have all the salad aside from red onion, this tends to dominate, and they dress the salad with lemon juice to add a crisp, acidic note to the overall meal. I have been tending to avoid red cabbage also, I feel white cabbage is enough cabbage, plus bizzarely it is staining our plates at home with purple blotches. Thanks to the Arches (RIP), I have also discovered the pickled chillies, I assumed these would either taste strongly of vinegar, chilli or both; however it is actually a very mild, juicy treat which rounds off the salad perfectly.
This is all wrapped up in a warm parcel and I hurry home, clutching my precious cargo, for consumption at home in rapturous delight at the united, symbiotic partnership of lamb and chicken. Recommended.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Moving North – Do they even have kebabs up there?
Another fantastic guest review from Billy, our new North Gloucester Road correspondent. This is a kebabhouse which I have considered to be high on my wishlist of places to eat: The Charcoal Grill. The name is right, the reputation is there - but I have never set foot inside. Enjoy.
I crossed the border recently, stepped over that invisible line dividing north and south to settle in a new place at the top of Ashley Down. All those who are familiar with the G Road will know instantly where this division is drawn – at the crossroads by the Texaco garage, where Sommerville and Berkeley bisect Gloucester. Before this point the setting is very boho – shops predominantly sell pre-worn (or vintage) clothing; foodstuffs are sold by weight, not brand-name; and you can have an organic hair-cut. Stride on however and this scene is repainted step-by-step. Colours are gradually washed to grey as you enter the more functionalist district; and suddenly you realise that every other shop sells hardware supplies. Upon reaching this point you are on north Gloucester Road, and whatever it might lack in counter-culture it more-than makes up for in rough charm. I like this end of the street – sleazy Venus, a very acceptable 1:1 good/bad pub ratio, and a Somerfield on a scale that puts the south to shame. The question which I know is on everyone’s lips however, and that I am now in a position to explore, is: ‘great, but what about the doner?’
First the good news, there is indeed doner up here, and plenty of it. From the Charcoal Grill through Southern Fried Chicken to La Cuisine, choice is not an issue. The bad news, however, is that I have yet to find a serious rival to those heady experiences of the south, and my previous reviews. I must stress that I am a relative newbie in these parts, and so the law of averages dictates that I could have just been down on my luck once or twice. Heavens, we all know how the experience of doner is far from stable – certainty in a purchase is never full, and unconditional love of a favourite outlet is no sure guarantee of satisfaction. Therefore there is always the chance that a bad doner is merely a ‘dud’.
Nevertheless I can only report on taste and experience. The Charcoal Grill was my first foray into the wild. Situated about three paces from the Golden Lion pub you would’ve thought that the odds were in their favour – you have to go to a lot of trouble to disappoint a kebab customer that has spent their evening warming up for their meal in that place. They did it though, somehow they did it. It was all wrong from the start – small details didn’t feel right. To be fair the foot actually looked quite impressive, it was fresh and brand-new, and I assumed that it would be turned on upon my arrival – I have no problem putting some extra time into waiting if I’m to get the first carve of the foot – but this did not happen. I smiled and said ‘hello’, but received a sneer in reply. After taking a couple of seconds to scan the menu I ordered the large doner and sat to flip through a copy of a local trade magazine. After far too short-a time one of the guys grunted. I stood warily to see what he wanted, to be confronted with the meat of my meal. There were no strips, no ribbons, no loops, and no curls – just bits, quarter-inch thick bits. “You want sauce?” “Yes please… and salad” Yes, I had been made to ask for salad, I dread to think what would have happened if I hadn’t requested it. Another grunt, a splutter from the sauce bottle, and the tepid package was slapped on the counter. I slouched out uninspired, no bounce in my gait. I wasn’t looking forward to getting home and dragged my feet stroppily, aiming lazy kicks at stray pieces of litter and cats. I got hold of myself closer to my gate, and thought that things could be OK: it could be the tastiest doner ever – perhaps the lack of rapport and the questionable preparation were all part of an authentic northern experience. I’ve been wrong about doner before, and damn I hoped I was wrong this time.
Sometimes I hate to be right. Having sat down and unwrapped, I lifted my fork and set in. The downward spiral really gathered speed when I found the first hair, sitting atop an initial forkful. I don’t know what hair it was, I don’t really care. It wasn’t head hair, it had the wrong texture; and I am relatively certain it wasn’t an unmentionable, lacking the requisite curl – I settled for arm hair, for want of a better explanation and partly to calm my stomach. (By now of course you’ll have noticed that I said the first hair – normally the first hair you find in food is the only hair you find in food, for obvious reasons. In this case though I was very hungry, and writing a review that ends abruptly at the first sign of hair says little about a reviewer’s mettle – especially a reviewer of kebabs’.) Ploughing on I broke through the mantle of dry lamb and hit a vein of watery lettuce and mayonnaise. I don’t want to dress it down too badly, it wasn’t an exceptionally bad arrangement, although the flavours did not blend together as they seem to in a more accomplished offering. There was no spicing such as that of the Grecian, which was highlighted in Nick’s last review. It’s all about the blend in doner – taking great ingredients that aren’t necessarily destined to be together and weaving them into a whole is all in the art of the ‘kebbabier’. Take that skill away and you’re merely left with mayonnaise spread on a chunk of lamb. Nobody eats lamb with mayonnaise; not in any other context, and with good reason.
The second hair was in this layer, nestled comfortably in the spongy mayo, I feel lucky that it was on the surface when I went to shovel up the next load. By now my patience was wearing thin, I set the hair on the pile that was now forming, took a deep breath, and went deeper. I managed quite a few more forkfuls; however the salad was sparse and uniform. Lettuce. Tomato. Cucumber. The pitta fully contained the meal, and was probably the most appetising aspect of the doner, however I had no urge to gather it up together and get stuck into the final stage – the sprint finish with the hands that normally brings the meal to its close. There wasn’t a good balance of filling, and soon I found myself left with a dry pile of chunked doner meat. I considered adding my own mayo – it’s been done before with acceptable results – but I didn’t have any inclination to get up. As I cast my eyes around for a moist looking piece they came to rest on the final hair, by now mashed into the pita under the weight of the filling.
I didn’t bother to remove it this time. I laid my fork to one side and did the unthinkable – walking slowly to the bin I paused only momentarily to consider what I was about to do, and then threw away an un-finished kebab on the same night that I bought it, the shame biting deep. I don’t really remember what happened after; I think I just went to bed – the tears dampening my pillow as I drifted into an uncomfortable sleep.
Many thanks Bill, I shall heed your warning and not purchase a kebab from the Charcoal Grill unless I am really, really hungry. Also, I can only hope and pray that M&Ms on Whiteladies Road isn't a crock of shite also, this is another on my hitlist of mysterious kebab shops of excellent reputation but are slightly too far away to go to when drunk.
I crossed the border recently, stepped over that invisible line dividing north and south to settle in a new place at the top of Ashley Down. All those who are familiar with the G Road will know instantly where this division is drawn – at the crossroads by the Texaco garage, where Sommerville and Berkeley bisect Gloucester. Before this point the setting is very boho – shops predominantly sell pre-worn (or vintage) clothing; foodstuffs are sold by weight, not brand-name; and you can have an organic hair-cut. Stride on however and this scene is repainted step-by-step. Colours are gradually washed to grey as you enter the more functionalist district; and suddenly you realise that every other shop sells hardware supplies. Upon reaching this point you are on north Gloucester Road, and whatever it might lack in counter-culture it more-than makes up for in rough charm. I like this end of the street – sleazy Venus, a very acceptable 1:1 good/bad pub ratio, and a Somerfield on a scale that puts the south to shame. The question which I know is on everyone’s lips however, and that I am now in a position to explore, is: ‘great, but what about the doner?’
First the good news, there is indeed doner up here, and plenty of it. From the Charcoal Grill through Southern Fried Chicken to La Cuisine, choice is not an issue. The bad news, however, is that I have yet to find a serious rival to those heady experiences of the south, and my previous reviews. I must stress that I am a relative newbie in these parts, and so the law of averages dictates that I could have just been down on my luck once or twice. Heavens, we all know how the experience of doner is far from stable – certainty in a purchase is never full, and unconditional love of a favourite outlet is no sure guarantee of satisfaction. Therefore there is always the chance that a bad doner is merely a ‘dud’.
Nevertheless I can only report on taste and experience. The Charcoal Grill was my first foray into the wild. Situated about three paces from the Golden Lion pub you would’ve thought that the odds were in their favour – you have to go to a lot of trouble to disappoint a kebab customer that has spent their evening warming up for their meal in that place. They did it though, somehow they did it. It was all wrong from the start – small details didn’t feel right. To be fair the foot actually looked quite impressive, it was fresh and brand-new, and I assumed that it would be turned on upon my arrival – I have no problem putting some extra time into waiting if I’m to get the first carve of the foot – but this did not happen. I smiled and said ‘hello’, but received a sneer in reply. After taking a couple of seconds to scan the menu I ordered the large doner and sat to flip through a copy of a local trade magazine. After far too short-a time one of the guys grunted. I stood warily to see what he wanted, to be confronted with the meat of my meal. There were no strips, no ribbons, no loops, and no curls – just bits, quarter-inch thick bits. “You want sauce?” “Yes please… and salad” Yes, I had been made to ask for salad, I dread to think what would have happened if I hadn’t requested it. Another grunt, a splutter from the sauce bottle, and the tepid package was slapped on the counter. I slouched out uninspired, no bounce in my gait. I wasn’t looking forward to getting home and dragged my feet stroppily, aiming lazy kicks at stray pieces of litter and cats. I got hold of myself closer to my gate, and thought that things could be OK: it could be the tastiest doner ever – perhaps the lack of rapport and the questionable preparation were all part of an authentic northern experience. I’ve been wrong about doner before, and damn I hoped I was wrong this time.
Sometimes I hate to be right. Having sat down and unwrapped, I lifted my fork and set in. The downward spiral really gathered speed when I found the first hair, sitting atop an initial forkful. I don’t know what hair it was, I don’t really care. It wasn’t head hair, it had the wrong texture; and I am relatively certain it wasn’t an unmentionable, lacking the requisite curl – I settled for arm hair, for want of a better explanation and partly to calm my stomach. (By now of course you’ll have noticed that I said the first hair – normally the first hair you find in food is the only hair you find in food, for obvious reasons. In this case though I was very hungry, and writing a review that ends abruptly at the first sign of hair says little about a reviewer’s mettle – especially a reviewer of kebabs’.) Ploughing on I broke through the mantle of dry lamb and hit a vein of watery lettuce and mayonnaise. I don’t want to dress it down too badly, it wasn’t an exceptionally bad arrangement, although the flavours did not blend together as they seem to in a more accomplished offering. There was no spicing such as that of the Grecian, which was highlighted in Nick’s last review. It’s all about the blend in doner – taking great ingredients that aren’t necessarily destined to be together and weaving them into a whole is all in the art of the ‘kebbabier’. Take that skill away and you’re merely left with mayonnaise spread on a chunk of lamb. Nobody eats lamb with mayonnaise; not in any other context, and with good reason.
The second hair was in this layer, nestled comfortably in the spongy mayo, I feel lucky that it was on the surface when I went to shovel up the next load. By now my patience was wearing thin, I set the hair on the pile that was now forming, took a deep breath, and went deeper. I managed quite a few more forkfuls; however the salad was sparse and uniform. Lettuce. Tomato. Cucumber. The pitta fully contained the meal, and was probably the most appetising aspect of the doner, however I had no urge to gather it up together and get stuck into the final stage – the sprint finish with the hands that normally brings the meal to its close. There wasn’t a good balance of filling, and soon I found myself left with a dry pile of chunked doner meat. I considered adding my own mayo – it’s been done before with acceptable results – but I didn’t have any inclination to get up. As I cast my eyes around for a moist looking piece they came to rest on the final hair, by now mashed into the pita under the weight of the filling.
I didn’t bother to remove it this time. I laid my fork to one side and did the unthinkable – walking slowly to the bin I paused only momentarily to consider what I was about to do, and then threw away an un-finished kebab on the same night that I bought it, the shame biting deep. I don’t really remember what happened after; I think I just went to bed – the tears dampening my pillow as I drifted into an uncomfortable sleep.
Many thanks Bill, I shall heed your warning and not purchase a kebab from the Charcoal Grill unless I am really, really hungry. Also, I can only hope and pray that M&Ms on Whiteladies Road isn't a crock of shite also, this is another on my hitlist of mysterious kebab shops of excellent reputation but are slightly too far away to go to when drunk.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
The Worst Kebab I Have Ever Eaten
I had plans to go to Ritas, which has been tempting me with an absolutely enormous doner kebab, keen sweaty staff and for being a general oasis of kebab heaven in a stretch of pretty dodgy Stokes Croft with otherwise poor quality takeaway options (see reviews passim). The evening came to a conclusion after 3am and we got a lift back to the flat so this wasn't really an option - I went to the Arches as a last resort as Efe's was packing their elephant leg away and it was raining. I had instructions also to purchase onion rings and a burger. I have been in two minds about the Arches for some time, we pop in occasionally for chips and they have replaced the young pretender et al with a bunch of clueless newbies who couldn't give a shit about you or your food. I wish I hadn't bothered going at all.
3.30 am in any kebab shop is a depressing affair, there was a young man asleep on the table and two girls swigging from a partially crushed tin of lager were being sleazed over by one of the new uncaring staff members. I ordered my small doner, burger and onion rings. A burger was hurriedly slapped on the grill before the girls had their sleazing resumed. It was then I spied a mound of meat shaved from the doner sitting next to it - old meat due to be thrown away I assumed, it had clearly been there for some time. [You can see where this is going]. After waiting an eternity for the burger to be ready, finally the doner packing commenced. Without warning the pitta was stuffed with this crispy cold meat, then 3 huge chunks of cucumber were added along with some brown lettuce and far too much thick garlic mayo. It was then it became clear the onion rings hadn't even been put in the fryer, so I had no option but to get out of there as soon as humanly possible.
On getting home I thought it couldn't be too bad, they are professionals and kebab experts - they wouldn't let meat dry out. They did. The meat was so stiff and crispy it didn't even fit in the pitta bread, it kept springing out of its own accord. Thick globs of cloying garlic sauce saturated the kebab which after some manipulation I managed to close - shockingly there not even enough filling to warrant forking the excess up first. The meat was indeed cold, it was so well done that it actually crumbled - more like cheap corned beef than doner. I finished the kebab, but it was so utterly disappointing that I have vowed never to eat from the Arches again.
Why couldn't they do what Efes do when quiet and shave large amounts of doner to be kept warm, resulting in (if anything) a more juicy kebab? The Arches have lost their touch, shame on them. One positive, for the first time I had those green pickled chillies (probably because they ignored me when I said no). These were utterly lovely, not too hot, just a wonderful celebration of the real flavour and essence of chilli. I shall always have these from now on. But not from the Arches - RIP.
3.30 am in any kebab shop is a depressing affair, there was a young man asleep on the table and two girls swigging from a partially crushed tin of lager were being sleazed over by one of the new uncaring staff members. I ordered my small doner, burger and onion rings. A burger was hurriedly slapped on the grill before the girls had their sleazing resumed. It was then I spied a mound of meat shaved from the doner sitting next to it - old meat due to be thrown away I assumed, it had clearly been there for some time. [You can see where this is going]. After waiting an eternity for the burger to be ready, finally the doner packing commenced. Without warning the pitta was stuffed with this crispy cold meat, then 3 huge chunks of cucumber were added along with some brown lettuce and far too much thick garlic mayo. It was then it became clear the onion rings hadn't even been put in the fryer, so I had no option but to get out of there as soon as humanly possible.
On getting home I thought it couldn't be too bad, they are professionals and kebab experts - they wouldn't let meat dry out. They did. The meat was so stiff and crispy it didn't even fit in the pitta bread, it kept springing out of its own accord. Thick globs of cloying garlic sauce saturated the kebab which after some manipulation I managed to close - shockingly there not even enough filling to warrant forking the excess up first. The meat was indeed cold, it was so well done that it actually crumbled - more like cheap corned beef than doner. I finished the kebab, but it was so utterly disappointing that I have vowed never to eat from the Arches again.
Why couldn't they do what Efes do when quiet and shave large amounts of doner to be kept warm, resulting in (if anything) a more juicy kebab? The Arches have lost their touch, shame on them. One positive, for the first time I had those green pickled chillies (probably because they ignored me when I said no). These were utterly lovely, not too hot, just a wonderful celebration of the real flavour and essence of chilli. I shall always have these from now on. But not from the Arches - RIP.
Lamb Shish #1
Apologies for the absence, dear reader. I shall be adding new reviews soon - for now here are a couple to catch up with my Facebook group.
I was sober, hungry and in the mood for experimentation. I promised myself I wouldn't crack and go for a Doner. I steadied myself, took a deep breath and walked determinedly around the corner to the Grecian. The warm, summery scent of charcoal grill drifted gently across the road, mixing with the cool winter air and exhaust fumes into a heady aroma of reminiscence. I strode in and ordered a Lamb Shish kebab, unswayed by the gargantuan Friday night Elephant leg, taunting me from its vertical skewer.
The uncooked skewers were all laid out ready, looking fresh and enticing - marinaded and juicy. This was then expertly roasted over their charcoal grill until golden and oozing with flavour and a hint of subtle barbequeud crispy edge. The standard regime then ensued of packing a poorly opened pitta with the said meat and the salad/sauce selection process.
The best thing about the Grecian that really sets them apart is in fact the quality of their salad. Rather than the standard large chunks of cucumber, browning lettuce and thick-cut onions; they go for beautifully sliced cabbage, onions, carrot and tomato which are all seasoned with cumin seeds, pepper and herbs which is a wonderful touch. I went for, contrary to tradition, all the salad (apart from onion) with garlic sauce and some mint sauce on top. It was for my dinner rather than a post-pub snack, but I didn't opt for chips - more on this in an upcoming blog.
The Shish was delicious, a fantastic celebration of lamb and a charcoal grill. The only criticism with the chunks is that they were slightly bouncy. Bouncy rather than chewy I'd say; and the size of them meant that many bites were pure salad and pitta, which wasn't too concerning here due to the quality of said salad. The obvious remedy for this would be a mix shish and doner, then each bite would be full of soft lamby juicyness with the added thrill of the occasional nugget of barbequeud shish. I still think this is an option for dinner time only, the late night complexity, drunken rabble and wait time would prevent this being a pleasurable experience - and definitely an option for a good kebab house only, charcoal grill is a must. Without this method of grilling you would just have a flavourless, chunky version of a doner. It also struck me that the shish would be a perfect option for a quiet weeknight, I have been tempted by a midweek doner recently but on further investigation the skewer looked thin, pale, dry and unshaved for several hours so I opted for a different snack. All in all this is a very worthwhile experiment, which shall be repeated.
I was sober, hungry and in the mood for experimentation. I promised myself I wouldn't crack and go for a Doner. I steadied myself, took a deep breath and walked determinedly around the corner to the Grecian. The warm, summery scent of charcoal grill drifted gently across the road, mixing with the cool winter air and exhaust fumes into a heady aroma of reminiscence. I strode in and ordered a Lamb Shish kebab, unswayed by the gargantuan Friday night Elephant leg, taunting me from its vertical skewer.
The uncooked skewers were all laid out ready, looking fresh and enticing - marinaded and juicy. This was then expertly roasted over their charcoal grill until golden and oozing with flavour and a hint of subtle barbequeud crispy edge. The standard regime then ensued of packing a poorly opened pitta with the said meat and the salad/sauce selection process.
The best thing about the Grecian that really sets them apart is in fact the quality of their salad. Rather than the standard large chunks of cucumber, browning lettuce and thick-cut onions; they go for beautifully sliced cabbage, onions, carrot and tomato which are all seasoned with cumin seeds, pepper and herbs which is a wonderful touch. I went for, contrary to tradition, all the salad (apart from onion) with garlic sauce and some mint sauce on top. It was for my dinner rather than a post-pub snack, but I didn't opt for chips - more on this in an upcoming blog.
The Shish was delicious, a fantastic celebration of lamb and a charcoal grill. The only criticism with the chunks is that they were slightly bouncy. Bouncy rather than chewy I'd say; and the size of them meant that many bites were pure salad and pitta, which wasn't too concerning here due to the quality of said salad. The obvious remedy for this would be a mix shish and doner, then each bite would be full of soft lamby juicyness with the added thrill of the occasional nugget of barbequeud shish. I still think this is an option for dinner time only, the late night complexity, drunken rabble and wait time would prevent this being a pleasurable experience - and definitely an option for a good kebab house only, charcoal grill is a must. Without this method of grilling you would just have a flavourless, chunky version of a doner. It also struck me that the shish would be a perfect option for a quiet weeknight, I have been tempted by a midweek doner recently but on further investigation the skewer looked thin, pale, dry and unshaved for several hours so I opted for a different snack. All in all this is a very worthwhile experiment, which shall be repeated.
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
Kebab Doldrums; Indian Fast Food
I am feeling disillusioned with kebab literature. I shall admit that I have had at least two perfectly delicious kebabs since my last post, the Grecian and Effe's, but not felt suitably inspired to write about them. They were delicious, and I could probably dream up an amusing anecdote based around the procurement of them, but that spark has just been missing. It is for this reason that I feel I am compelled to reinvigorate my bloggings by reviewing an Indian takeaway that is very dear to my heart: Indian Fast Food.
Yes. They are called "Indian Fast Food". Plain and simple - you know you are getting Indian food. Reasonably fast. What strikes most people about it, and I shall be honest here, is that it looks pretty ropey. Wedged unceremoniously between a Doc Marten boot shop and the Cat and Wheel pub, the interior appears dark and unwelcoming, the walls unadorned with the sterotypical flock wallpaper and garish imagery. It smells a bit bleachy. Couple this with the no-nonsense name and it just doesn't draw the eye; having said this it is often fairly busy even on quiet weekday evenings.
Upon entering you are met with what seems more like a cheap breakfast cafe, the framed print on the wall of a bridge in Bangladesh over a murky river the only clue as to the delights the kitchen holds. The staff are very friendly indeed, over time and repeated visits they have started asking If I am well or commented on the weather which is a lovely touch.
Their menu scans well, with the usual array of anglo-Indian cuisine: Tikka Masala, Bhuna, Jalfrezi, Madras, Vindaloo et at. The main unusual aspect is twofold: the choice of meats and the price. The choice of meat is simple, mutton or chicken and they range from £3.50 for a basic curry to only £4.75 or so for a Tikka Masala. Mutton in 2009 I hear you cry! If anything they are ahead of their time, celebrity chefs are wholeheartedly endorsing mutton, in this case its chunky texture and strong flavour and texture works incredibly well with curry. I certainly consider nothing else.
A standard order for two reads as follows: Chicken Tikka Masala, Mutton Jalfrezi, Saag Aloo, Pilau Rice, Naan Bread, 2 Popadoms, Mango Chutney, Chips. This comes to an incredible £16, and feeds us admirably. The dishes themselves are plentiful for the price, no skimping on meat, although at times they can be a touch greasy (I blame this on a rogue chef, I just pour the oil off). The only issue, as with all curries, is the 4am gut cramps and associated increase in morning "visits" required. Don't let this put you off, this is an incredibly fine curry house that stands up well to its more expensive (and hyped up) neighbours. Oh Calcutta is overpriced, has gimmicky specials and is staffed by Brits; Sheesh Mahal is basically a standard 1970s curry house without the prices to match. Their trout dishes are nice, mind.
Part of the inspiration for this review is as a tribute - they are moving across the road to the site of the old "Wonderful" Chinese restaurant. (Ironically it was anything but). I truly hope they keep their unique character, their cheap prices and choice of mutton or chicken. If they fail to do this, then I shall be truly devastated.
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