Kebabavan

I am from the Western Suburbs of Sydney. Say what you want about them, but you’ll have a hard time convincing me that better kebabs are to be had anywhere else in Australia.

No matter what time of the day or night the urge strikes you, you can always venture out and find a kebab stuffed full of tabbouli and happiness.

My friends and I used to drive to Granville at 3 in the morning for baklava and hookahs, and you could always get a kebab.

I live in Melbourne now, and while the souvlaki is wonderful and the gyros are a revelation, I am yet to find the perfect kebab.

I have had strange pocket bread, a whole parsley plant masquerading as tabouli, smiling red headed English girls cooking chicken on a George Formanesque grill, but nothing to compare to my beloved kebabs of the West.

Where are your balding hairy knuckled Lebanese guys swearing at wall mounted televisions? Where are your polite old brown skinned men saying “Habibti, for you, no worries about extra 50c for cheese. You married? I have sons!”

I found myself, on a Monday night just passed, standing on a street corner in St Kilda outside of a kebabavan. A kebabavan, for those of you not in the know, is a caravan from which kebabs are sold.

Husband and I had just finished dancing in Richmond at 8:30 and were going to go to the imaginatively named Richmond Kebab House which we had spotted on the way in to the studio. However when we had finished, it was closed for kebabs. The giant skewers with unnatural meat stuck to them had been taken down. I was devastated.

Undeterred though, we decided that we would venture forth into the world to find a kebab shop and sate our cravings for creepy shaved meat stuffed into rolled up bread.

3 closed kebab shops later, we ended up at the car wash kebabavan. Yes. It is a caravan selling kebabs inside a car wash located next to a gay bar. No. I don’t know why.

Inside the kebabavan was a very nice man who was from none of the countries where kebabs are from, who did a noble job, considering what he was working with. My heart was still sad with the results though.

Husband said to me, “What’s with you? Why do you care so much? They still taste good. Who cares if they’re like the Sydney ones?”

“I do.” I said to him. “I’m from the west! I need kebabs like people from the Northern Beaches need racism and the colour beige! I need kebabs like people from Newtown need vegetarianism and dreadlocks! I need kebabs like people on Oxford Street need short shorts for men and closed toed shoes!”

Coming from the Northern Beaches originally though, maybe he was too busy being racist and wearing beige to understand the importance of decent kebabs.