Dee: in search of the Perfect Kebab.

Many A few years ago, in the dim, dark depths of my Honours year, I worked as a sandwich hand and general dogsbody/cleaning girl at a little lunch place in Canberra. It was a nice little place, actually, run by a quirky Lebanese couple called Max and Jamil. He was absolutely unflappable and never told you if you were doing a good job, just looked at you, and she went psycho crazy one week a month, but they were fun people, and the place had soul.

What it also had, were kick-ass kebabs. Seriously, I have not had a kebab anywhere since that even remotely compared. And I've been trying. Quite a bit, recently. And, in response to the (quite acceptable, but pale - PALE - in comparison) specimen I had for lunch, I ruminated for a little about just what it might have been that made those kebabs So Damn Good.

Max's extra-special spiced lamb and chicken was an unfair advantage right off the bat. I don't know what he added to it - concentrated powdered extract of awesome, perhaps - but it was eyes-rolling-back-in-your-head good. Plus, the onions for the kebabs were special; purple onion, with continental parsley and spices and possibly something involving chickpeas.

So even before we start with the making, Max is ahead. And then there's the method. Now, yes, I'm a picky girl eater, and I don't like getting greasy tahini under my fingernails, but mostly I'm just of the opinion that food shouldn't fall apart halfway through, and certainly shouldn't be a running battle from the first bite. Radical, I know. (This goes for burgers too. Irish, I'm LOOKING AT YOU.)

People, roll my kebab properly. If you can't actually get the edges of the khobz to overlap, then there's too much stuff in there. I'm sure these gauche Occidentals constantly whinge about getting their money's worth, but I don't want to get my money's worth all over my white pants, OK?

Back at Max's... well, we used to use a full-sized khobz for starters, but we also used to make sure that it rolled properly and tightly. And then - THEN - we'd pop it into the sandwich press for twenty seconds. Guaranteed no leaks (because that'd make the paper burn to the press and you only made that mistake once) AND the heating and compression made all the goodness of everything mix together and, like, transcend this earthly plane.

No, I'm serious.

All that for five bucks. Now that's what I call a kebab.