We could be gyros, forever and ever...

A while back, in a post I cannot find, I listed a few guilty pleasure foods. To wit:

Pork Rinds
Beef Jerky
Deviled Ham (Not SPAM. I want to be very clear about that.)

(Looking at this list it all seems a little Depression Era, doesn't it? When the shit comes down, I will be living large.)

Very few people would admit to enjoying such adulterated meat products, but I can't help myself. And it's not as if, in consuming them, I am transported by complexity of flavor. They are meat-ish and salty. Cure it, fry it, smash it, dry it. -j-j- will eat it.

Among these foods is the Gyro (pronounced Yee-ro. Not Jie-ro or Gee-ro. I believe either pronunciation is acceptable these days, but I still bristle. It's like calling Goethe, Go-thee, an ugly Chicago-ism I have yet to forgive.). Surely, you've seen it. It's that spit of hulking brown rotating by the grill at most hot dog stands. It makes its weary revolution hour in and hour out, drying on the the stake. God knows what they do with it at the end of the day.

When one orders Gyros, they slice strips off the mass (which might be lamb or something), grill it up and serve it on a pita with onion, tomatoes and tzatziki (yogurt and cucumbers). It is messy, it destroys your insides, repels your friends, and is a culinary abomination.

I love it.

I will only allow myself to order Gyros on rare occasions. And lucky me, I had just such an occasion a few days ago at Barba Yianni Grecian Taverna in Lincoln Square.

After rehearsal, I met Notnits up on Lincoln and Western. German Fest was ravaging the area and the corner was thick with sizzled sausages and sozzled suburbanites.

I'm not very smart about eating, especially when I'm working on a project. Sometimes I forget to do it, and then wonder why I have "out of body" feelings and crank out at the slightest perceived provocation. This was one of those times. There were too many people around, and it was hot. My usual happy greeting was replaced by a peck on the cheek and a gruff, "I need to eat. Now."

Barba Yianni is a restaurant that I have often wondered about, but have never ventured into. I like Greek food, I think, but only in the most casual, American way. Greek salads, Gyros, etc. So, when I saw it was half empty, I pointed the way and cave-manned, "Eat here."

It's a nice place. Very comfortable and easy going. If I recall correctly, they have some paintings of exposed brick and grapes on the walls, a decorative choice common for mid-range Italian and Mediterranean restaurants. I suppose it's meant to carry us away to Crete, however the effect falls a little short. One feels more carried away to the best Italian Eatery in Glen Ellyn.

I ordered a Malbec and took the hungry opportunity to order the Gyros plate. Ordering gyros at a sit down restaurant feels out of place to me. It's a fast food item. But maybe with a glass of wine and some ambiance, it will be fancy.

Fancy it not what I would call it. Plentiful, yes. But fancy, no. The waitress arrived and plopped a plate of steaming brown strips in front of me (complete with all the trimmings) as well as a plate of potatoes and peas covered in red sauce. I spread the tzatziki over the meat and pita and what not and took a bite.

The gyros were about what I expected: Dry, salty, lamby (maybe). Nothing out of the ordinary. To be fair (and this may echo the sentiment in my Falafill review) can one REALLY distinguish between a bad gyro and a good one? I wonder what that tastes like - a truly gourmet gyro.

In this instance, I cannot complain. It was what I wanted. I could only eat about half of it, but it was still decent enough to wrap up and take home. The peas and potatoes were not quite so good. Fairly bland red sauce, and the potatoes were a little on the mushy side.

Overall, I liked Barba Yianni fine. It's a comfortable place and food is serviceable. I got what I came for. I'm not sure that I would go again but if I do, I'll try whatever the house specialty might be, rather than the most basic fast food item.

And probably best not to go when my body is entering phase 2 starvation mode.

A Jawful of Falafel

Recently, I discovered a forgotten note to myself. It was written in the notes section of a palm pilot (God. Remember those? It was like revisiting an Apple IIe.) and it read:

Why do I keep eating unsatisfying food?

I have a murky recollection of writing this down - I think it came on the heels of eating a dry cookie that tasted like drugstore suntan lotion. Since recovering this note, I've been mulling over my food satisfaction levels. The compulsion to consume any old hairball out of the convenience store is a strange reflex. I am almost NEVER happy with what I've purchased, it doesn't taste good and I wind up resenting the loss of a good $1.59.

So I'm going to keep track of new things I eat and, as a new feature here at Shame, Inc., each week I will review the Meat Hut or Food-a-teria from whence it came. The restaurant need not be new to the world. Just new to me.

I want to make clear that I have no experience in culinary writing. I am merely recounting my personal experience. I am only what I am: a person who eats.

This week: Falafill located at 3202 N. Broadway.

I've been drooling over Falafill ever since the sign went up a few weeks ago. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to sample its wares.

At around 12:30, I marched over to Falafill carrying a four-pack of Scott toilet paper, without a bag (I had just been to the Walgreens to pick up the toilet paper and exited the drugstore sans bag - the result of a series of microscopic errors which added up to "Managers should not work the cash registers".). When I opened the door, I was hit with a sudden self conscious wave about the toilet paper as some flagrant admission that, yes indeed, I DO use the bathroom, thank you very much. And considering the volatile nature of chick peas in general, it would appear that I came to the restaurant prepared.

Falafill is set up just the way Americans like their eateries: Clean, white and sterile enough for a tracheotomy. Or to sell Frozen Yogurt.

As you approach the counter, there is a cooler filled with exotic beverages (including cans of Nescafe which, my friend Tina told me, they apparently drink a lot of in Egypt. Ever since she told me that I have softened my previously snooty stance on instant coffee.)

The menu is fairly simple: Lots of Falafel. Sandwiches, Salads, and a few combo items offering hummus and fries (there are also sweet potato fries, which I did not order - but I may next time.)

They could stand to revise their traffic patterns during a lunch rush. After an extended wait in line, I ordered my falafel sandwich and stood to the side clutching my toilet paper (One or two fellow customers eyed me with some suspicion. Makes sense, my proximity to the bathroom was close.). It's a small place and there is not much of a waiting area.

After an e-fricking-ternity, I finally received my sandwich.

Falafill has an extensive side and condiment bar. I dumped some lemon tahini sauce over the sandwich and left. There was plenty more to sample, but the toilet paper was getting in my way.

The sandwich itself was pretty good. The lemon tahini was a spit gland shocker. The Falafels were soft in the inside without being undercooked and the outside was nice and crisp. Truth be told, though, could I distinguish a bad Falafel from a good one? Can you?

My only real gripe about the sandwich is the use of a truly unspectacular pita.  It was just one of those plain old whole wheat burlap sacks you can buy at the grocery.  A mere vehicle for the falafel...but I wouldn't want to eat it by itself. (Which is how I feel about bread and sandwiches.  If I wouldn't want to eat it on its own, why bother?)

But why the inflated price? I payed $5.16 for a few fried chick pea balls and a pita. It was good, but I can get pretty much the same thing for $3.25 down the street at Aladdin's. Or ANY Mediterranean fast food joint, for that matter.

I don't think there are going to be any riots over this price hike. I seem to recall a quiet hullabaloo when Starbucks charged over a buck for a cup of coffee, but that died down in short order. Why? Because it was fashionable, addictive and non-threatening.

Falafill may not be addictive but it is fashionable, in that sterile, non-threatening way. I think it will survive.

Overall:

Was it what I wanted? Yes.
Did it taste good? Yes.
Right price? Eh.
Would I go back? Yes.

Wonder what hairball I'll eat next week?