Best Shawarma in Town

It's another amazing day of a Vancouver summer that none will soon forget - the bees are buzzing in heat that drips sweat down every crevice of my body, the sun hasn't been covered by clouds in over a week, not a waft of wind to be bought - and I meander the downtown streets in search of some nourishment that will settle the bagpipe notes jumping around in my stomach.

Robson sidewalks are thumping with tourists spilling over into the street. I bypass one, two, three hot dog vendors all proclaiming to have the best smoky in town. Chapters windows boast a new collection of Chapters bags, pens, cups, napkin holders - all things you expect to purchase in a book store - and I try hard not to get enticed by one of their mass productions when I'm so pleasantly distracted by the wonderful smell of roasted chicken and garlic. Warm smells of your mother's kitchen aka the shawarma place on Robson and Granville.

I wonder towards it, hoping maybe the lineup wont be too bad anymore... it is after 2pm, the lunch crowd has come and gone. But I'm not surprised when I see the line still reaches three deep outside the tiny shop doors. Should I wait in line? The smell is too enticing, I can't forgo.

As always, I'm in the shop before I've even noticed a wait, that's how fast they are. Two men stand behind the counter that takes up the entire length of the room, and look at us - four of us squeezed inside like squashed marshmallows - in anticipation of our order.

Like good ducks we each list of our orders; chicken, beef, chicken, chicken, followed by one of the men echoing almost in unison; one chicken, one beef, one chicken, one chicken as he simultaneously peels one half of each pita bread from the other, prepares its aluminum foil plate underneath, and slides it over across the counter.

What follows is an art form of assembly lines; tabouli? (yes, no, yes, yes) peppers? (no, yes, no, yes) mayo? (yes, yes, yes, yes) - the man behind the counter dresses each pita half before the customer is even finished his monosyllabic answer until: hot sauce? yes, yes, yes - he's gotten ahead of himself, taken on more predictive skills then he can vouch for - NO - but it 's too late, my chicken shawarma is drenched in spicy red liquid the constancy of water and suddenly the whole room goes quiet.

Both the men behind the counter pop their heads up for the first time. One still holds the hot sauce bottle, the other holds his index finger above key on the cash register. The assembly line has halted in it's entirety. Not only that, they are all staring at me in terrified silence their eyes asking: what will she do? Do we have to start again? Will the whole thing fall apart? How long must I wait for my shawarma?

And finally, the whole room breaks into a ruckus laughter - the men behind the counter slap each other's backs, when I declare: Ah! What's a little spice! I got napkins! I pull a wad of napkins out of my bag.

Ha! One of the men exclaims in genuine appreciation. You come prepared! I can see them mentally wipe the sweat off their brows in relief and then all the cogs fall back into place; chicken, chicken, beef - one chicken, one chicken, one beef - tabouli? yes, yes, yes!

I walk out of there, my prized shawarma in my hands, the smell of roasted chicken dipped in tabouli and mayonnaise following we me out into the street, all the way to the Art Gallery steps where I enjoy my feat, each bite better than the next.