Shawarma has taught me a thing or two about loyalty. There are hundreds of places to get takeaway in Abu Dhabi but I usually return to the same old standby. Meat versus chicken is a choice no less gutting than a strictly enforced maximum condiment policy at a burger joint. Pickles and mustard accomplish different objectives, after all.
How do we determine that one thing is categorically better than another? If you’re trying to convey your excitement about a chicken sandwich, hyperbole and superlatives will get you there faster. But while speaking from the heart might be the most sincere approach, it’s not often the most objective one. For years, my solution has been an order of one chicken, one mutton and one falafel, the last functioning thematically as a sort of salad course.
The last time I walked through New York at a pace leisurely enough to notice signage, I saw several storefronts advertising something called “shawafel”. Allegedly, this is an unholy and aesthetically incestuous union of shawarma and falafel, crossbred, across bread; a scandal of misappropriated dirty laundry, a custody battle lost in a pocket of dough.
Restaurants don’t need to be authentic or restrained to succeed, but they do need to make people want to eat there. Even after renaming the taco the “tacostada” and branding itself as an American fast food restaurant, Taco Bell’s highly publicised second attempt to enter the Mexican market belly-flopped hard. Shawafels, however, are exceedingly popular.
One thing I don’t hesitate on when ordering shawarma is whether to get ordinary chicken or chicken “Mexici” (Mexican). I prefer the plain version, almost against my own will, holding out hope that I’ll someday find a local shawarma vendor who makes a Mexici that doesn’t taste like its sole distinguishing characteristic is a stale dusting of miscellaneous orange spice blend.
Shawarma Mexici has a legacy all of its own. Essentially an Arab reinterpretation of a Mexican interpretation of an Arab dish, it’s derived from a style of preparing meat that was brought to Central Mexico in the 1930s by Arab immigrants. Grilling seasoned meat on a stick and serving it sliced on a fluffy bread-like tortilla became known as tacos Arabe, which were then brought to the US by Mexican immigrants, where they developed a following in the Los Angeles food truck scene. Many versions had a skewered pineapple resting just north of the meat, allowing the enzymatic juices to trickle down, first tenderising the meat and then sweetening it.
Who says you can’t compare apples and oranges? Isn’t a juicy rosy-fleshed Cara Cara navel universally preferable to a waxy, floury-fleshed, commercially grown Red Delicious pulled out of cold storage? Isn’t a tart, heady heirloom Winesap superior to an out-of-season and overpriced Valencia? Not all fruits were created equal, but if you’re going to compare them, you need to start with a level playing field.
At this point, tacos Arabes are about as Lebanese as Salma Hayek or Carlos Slim – a mere technicality, but a little Lebanese goes a long way. Eventually, tacos Arabes made the long journey home, where we are now blessed with mediocre versions of them everywhere. But I haven’t quit looking for the one I’m going to love.
Nouf Al-Qasimi is an Emirati food analyst who cooks and writes in New Mexico
