Is there a chain of kebab restaurants called the 'Best Kebab' or is just the name of choice for the doner chef? The reason for this somewhat left-field question is that yesterday, while in the vicinity of Old Street, London, I saw no less than two such establishments. Now, not wishing to cast aspersions on the quality of offering, somehow I do doubt that these are indeed the best kebab restaurants in London or indeed the known Universe. And let's face it, they can't both be the best can they? Perhaps that title resides with the Best Kebab in Kilburn High Road where I went once on a date (boy, do I know how to pick them!). OK, it was the end of a date, that time in the wee small hours when after a belly full of merlot and vodka and with legs aching from dancing, the idea of a [best] kebab seems so 'perfect' and so you put aside thoughts of romantic ambiance and settle for greasy formica instead. This was nonetheless hardly the perfect end to the evening I had been hoping for, particularly as said 'date', a certain Andy, decided to invite the cab driver to join us for our supper - cabbie then proceeded to take a joint out of a battered tin in his pocket and explain that this wasn't his first smoke of the evening (yes, he had apparently just driven us all the way from the West End while stoned out of his mind*).Just did a quick mental calculation of when this story took place ... err about 14 years ago. I feel old ... Those were the days.. when I stayed up past midnight, before premiership footballers were born in the 1990s and long before I found it necessary to buy moisturisers that mention words like 'regenerist'.
The point of this blog was not really to critique kebab restaurants (don't worry, this isn't my long-promised food journalism piece), nor even to feel my nearly 40 (eek!) years. It was just an excuse to write something for the fun of writing! I'm off to sleep now, it's well past my bedtime.
* Young people, please note: - this is the reason why you should stand around in the cold waiting for a black cab and not accept lifts from dodgy blokes in beaten up, invariably beige, saloons.
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One of James's mates ended an evening's drinking by calling into a town centre Chinese takeaway and ordering Wonton, chips and gravy. He then asked if it could be delivered to his home. 'Yes sir', came the reply. 'Great, while you're delivering it can you deliver me too, back to my home, as I haven't got enough money for a takeaway and a taxi!' I think he ended up walking!
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