My affinity for Shawarma is a keepsake from Bangalore. Carrots, lettuce, onions, potato-wedges, pickles and sliced Chicken – dry-rubbed and slow-roasted on the spit, are mixed, chopped and thrown into a zesty pile of pale garlic sauce to fraternize, and, in time, freely slathered on a keenly folded Rumali, soon to be rolled into a dwarfish bolster that disappears precisely in three and a half bites. That is my Shawarma - the Tom Alter of streetfood - nextdoor, delectable and exotic by provenance.
Trail of Shawarma once led me to a neighbourhood I call the conscience of North Calcutta, Hatibagan [or, The Elephants’ Garden]. Sited near a buzzing Star Theatre, Lebanese Junction is reaping what MASH Steakhouse does always in London’s teeming Piccadilly Theatre – the boons of a key location. It soon dished up one of the brightest chicken Shawarmas I’d had in recallable past. Scrumptious fries on side and a surprising note of garlic in filling turned the wrap into a fount of fascinating flavour. Raring and spurred, I sent for a Spicy Chilli Pork – made of loin cut into thick strips about two inches long, glazed and tossed in a house-sauce made after sweet Kansas BBQ dip. Skilled cooking coaxed the fat and lean to blend and soak in the bold tang to the bone. I loved what I ate. Fret not if you see a scooting rodent or wayward flies joining you in your repast unasked. Delicious Chilli Pork, I vouch, would redeem every unease. Lebanese Junction, I wish you well!
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