I'm not a massive kebab eater. I can't help but associate them with rubbery offerings inhaled as a student under an alcoholic haze, bringing with them that inevitable feeling of guilt and regret the following morning. My dad indulges himself every now and then - which, considering his penchant for 50p tea in polystyrene cups from a greasy spoon, is in itself a bad sign - and my mum's words of warning still ring in my ears that every revolving doner has been there for years, with nameless meat glued to the outside of the ancient cores.
So I tend to stay away.
But on Sunday night, not only sober (well, one Crabbies down) but at the comparatively early hour of 11pm, I found myself in a kebab shop. I'd been dragged there by my friend who was significantly more inebriated than me but had been extolling the virtues of Ali Baba throughout the pub quiz at the Wheatsheaf. The lamb kebab, she promised, was the best she'd had in south-west London.
Her words were so strong that I was nearly tempted over to the dark side, but having eaten four sausages at lunch in an effort to stave off my impending hangover, the idea of more meat nearly made me sick on their nice clean floor. So I opted instead for a halloumi and vegetable wrap, which turned out to be the best decision ever, because they grilled it, filled the wrap with copious amounts of salad, and were super generous with the cheese. Apparently a combination of garlic and sweet chilli sauces is not authentic but I do I look like I care?! The guys behind the counter were all cheerful and friendly, bantering away without a hint of sleaze, although that may have been because we were with my friend's 6-foot-something South African boyfriend.
I waited until I was on the tube to chow down on my prize. Dear god, it was good. The first three quarters, anyway. Unfortunately it was so packed full of stuff (and rather poorly wrapped) that it all fell apart at the end, which peed me right off. Understatement of the year. When a sandwich of any description collapses before its rightful conclusion, it drives me round the bend. It makes me want to swear, scream, and hurl the remainder at the wall. I know this is unhealthy and the manifestation of a deep psychological issue, but there you are. I'm damaged, but at least I'm honest.
Luckily the fact that I was underground and in the presence of children saved me from turning into the Incredible Hulk but I had to bury the anger and that was even worse. Ali Baba, you've put me back a good few years and that's just upsetting. Any good therapist will warn you. Don't repress those wrappy emotions. read more
