It's been over 48 hours since I had the Arabi Meal. I didn't know what i was getting into.
The truck was unassuming and nestled in the back of a gas station parking lot. But shwarma... shwarma SHOULD come from street vendors. You won't find this rule in the New Testament, but it would be red text if it was there.
I didn't know where to start, so I asked this young Adonis behind the counter, "what's good?" Without hesitation, he reached out of the truck with his slender, muscular arm and pointed to the meal. "With lamb." I'll never forget those words as they sent me on a pilgrimage of flavor.
I've had authentic Afghan in Afghanistan, Persian across the Straight of Hormuz from Iran, chicken pita sandwiches in Tel Aviv and even the Cheesecake Factory in Dubai. But Shwarma Loco made me feel something. I wanted to take my Styrofoam plate and pair my meal with a fine Chianti; abandon the measured, traditional approach to fine dining and give in to the hedonistic pleasures of street food because life is fleeting and I don't need to stuffy, effete practices of the wealthy and sophisticated. I'm going to live, and live richly.
The food I received that day refocused my worldview. I want to drink fermented yak's milk in Mongolia. I want to spear and eat a lionfish in Honduras. I want Turkish coffee in Istanbul. But first...
I'm going back to Shwarma Loco. Let the Devil try and stop me. read more