The opening salvo in our new occasional guide to experimental cuisine, Bruce Barnard explores the comparative pleasures of cook-at-home kebab meat.
As a drinking man, it’s fair to say that I’m not that fussy about the meats I’ll consume. Once, on a long walk home, after eating a kebab with chilli sauce so profoundly hot, I found myself licking the condensation from car windows to provide me with some relief from the stupidity of it all. “Yes”, I screamed, when faced with a bag full of stuff I’d usually like. “This is fucking brilliant.”
OK, the meat looks dodgy when you stick it in the microwave, but after a few minutes it’ll take on a power and taste which will make me recreate that full-on late-night takeaway dynamic. I’d chopped my own salad. Made my own sauce, my pitas were golden. Sadly, when the star of the show arrived, I quickly realized that it was ringing in its performance.
Strips of mechanically recovered filth, neither fish nor fowl, or indeed meat of any practical application, sit in limp majesty, and whatever you do to crown this with value will be destined to failure.
File under missed opportunity.
Keen-eyed readers will note that the illustration is of a different brand of kebab meat – we’ll blame Bruce for not supplying a photo. We make no claims as to the comparative qualities of the two brands.