Like a Dubai version of Morgan Spurlock's Supersize Me,
Andy McNab attempted to eat shwarma for breakfast, lunch and dinner for two weeks. Today, his story is no longer under wraps.
"How many's that now?" "Uh oh, the Handbag's off on one again... four," I reply. "Four?!" "Yes, four – one after three, one before five, why?" "How do you do it?"
"Well, with the utmost of ease really; I carefully peel away the paper, so as not to spill any of the contents, and then stuff them into my mouth, chew and swallow. It's a simple operation that I've been perfecting for the best part of 33 years. It's quite popular you know, has been for some time now, we in the trade call it eating. Very useful, stops us from dying, or at least prolongs our existence."
"Ha ha, but four... I can barely manage one."
"I know dear I've witnessed your pitiful efforts so many times now and it's just one more reason why I'm significantly superior than you are." And that was the precise moment our conversation ended... for about 10 days.
She was, of course, drawing to my attention the fact that I have a little soft spot for a shwarma, or two, or three or... Small yet perfectly formed, moist and delicious surely these little culinary gems must easily squeeze into every man's top five favourite foodstuffs. I mean they're not exactly haute cuisine, let's not fool ourselves. They are, however, what every man looks for in his life – they are a constant, and they are dependable, they are his rock.
Point in case: I've just conducted an experiment, in which I wandered downstairs to our lounge room (think Mos Eisley Cantina and you'll begin to get the picture) and checked down the back of the three sofas, three armchairs and under the beanbag. In little over a minute I managed to retrieve Dhs22 and 25 fils in assorted shrapnel, along with a pencil, a stubby-cooler, a half-chewed doggy-chew, a TV remote, four spent batteries, a bra and the missing X-Box controller. Admittedly, it was the money I was hunting out – everything else was but a bonus. Now, Dhs22.25 is hardly the hard cold currency that'll secure you a table at Verre or Buddha Bar, but, should you opt for the supper of champions chopped up chicken and/or meat, shredded lettuce, chopped toms, a couple of mangled up chippies, special sauce and a flat-bread roll then you will stave off starvation for around a week, and have enough left over to almost afford a can of Thums Up* (yum yum) as a treat.
Now, addiction is a word that I really don't like using, it's just a bit too negative; sounds dirty. I prefer 'dependency' or 'weakness' as they seem a little less dramatic – more socially acceptable.
However, call a spade a spade. The Handbag seems convinced that I'm addicted to these little morsels of joy and like any decent Handbag worth her salt, she seems intent on depriving me of one of the only things left in my life that I truly enjoy. However, in her haste to rid me of my evil habit she stumbled upon a scheme that to me sounded all too inviting... aversion therapy.
"It's simple, you eat nothing but shwarmas for two weeks and by the end of it you'll be so sick of them you'll never want to eat another..." "So what's this exactly – a challenge? Is this like a bet or something? What do I win?" "No, it's aversion... oh, alright then it's a bet. I bet you couldn't eat shwarmas and only shwarmas for every meal for two weeks."
"You're on!" This is perfect... I mean who couldn't eat shwarmas for breakfast, lunch and supper seven days a week for two weeks?
Immediately my mind began to work its way through the seemingly endless opportunities for variety and change during my two-week shwarmafest – after all, and inconceivable though it was, the last thing that I wanted was to tire of my sustenance prematurely. So I could have straight chicken or straight meat, chicken and meat mix; chicken, meat or mix with or without salad, with or without ketchup, with or without hot sauce. There were enough variations on the simple winning formula to keep my body, mind and spirit engaged.
I spent literally minutes planning my diet. And with military precision decided that a two-day rota is what was required – first two days chicken and salad, second two meat and salad and the following two days meat and chicken mixed, repeat twice and then throw a free choice last two days in for good measure and that's it – job done. I win, she loses. I am man, she is Handbag.
WEEK 01, Day 01
"The wheels already begun to wobble."
Cold shwarma from the fridge for breakfast – sadly not the breakfast of champions. Personally I prefer a nicely overflowing bowl of Rice Krispies and a quick Gold Blend (should I be getting paid for dropping these names?). The first problem with refrigerated shwarma is that the paper in which it is meticulously wrapped the night before kind of fuses with the flat bread to such an extent that it becomes almost impossible to separate the two.
So my first shwarma of the campaign probably included more fibre than usual as I gave up on unwrapping the paper and just stuffed everything into the shwarma-trap. However, I suppose the benefits were that it gave me something to do for the rest of the morning – namely, picking bits of paper out from between my teeth.
The second wobble happened a few hours later when at lunch time I was presented with my second shwarma of the day, one that I had little interest in eating and no desire to be picking paper from my teeth all afternoon as I had done for most of the morning. Furthermore I was beginning to realise that shwarma consumption was a 'time of day thing'.
There's a big difference between cruising down the road to your local cafeteria, the buzz of the street, the shoppers, pinkies holding pinkies, the meeting and greeting and, of course, the omnipresent smell of a shwarma sizzling away in front of a gas burner. That's the hook, isn't it?
A cold shwarma served up on a breakfast plate isn't really a shwarma. A shwarma is as much in the interaction as in the meal itself. There's the familiarity with your regular carver, the guys on the register and a few of the other patrons – it's kind of like the coffee shop buzz or even the Caveman's cave. It's a social thing – eating with others. It's inherent, part of our biological code. A cold shwarma on a plate is just that – a cold shwarma on a plate; but unwrapping a fresh shwarma in the company of others is a connection with our primitive ancestry. (Does anyone feel a PhD beckoning?)
The end of day one was a bit more of a highlight: a lazy wander down to the Al Fai Caff and a quick chat with Naser Abbas my carver du jour. "So then, it must be a perk of the job, do you get to eat as many shwarmas as you want?" I asked.
He looked at me in bemusement.
"You have a shwarma every day, maybe two or three?"
"No, never." "Not ever." "No, never." "Why not ever?" "Because I don't think I will like."
As I've mentioned in previous articles, Naser Abbas – always reliable, always there when you need a shoulder to cry on. So I had my double fix and then headed back to the villa with my two gift-wrapped treats – tomorrow's breakfast and lunch.
At the end of day one, I took a short pause to reflect on the day's culinary experience. It wasn't good. I think in the space of one day, not even that – half a day – I'd managed to hit the shwarma wall, and I got the feeling that I wouldn't be bouncing back from it anytime soon.
"What to do? What to do?"
WEEK 01, Day 02
"...and we fell off the wagon."
The only way I could bring myself to eat my breakfast shwarma was to reward myself with a spoonful of Rice Krispies and slug of coffee.
Had it really happened? Was I really having to consume my favourite bundle of nutrition in the same way that we get infants to swallow spoonfuls of medicine... by rewarding myself with 'a spoonful of sugar'. My lunch break didn't fair much better, three minutes into lunch, a half-eaten shwarma was deposited into the bin and a Caesar salad was purchased. I had officially failed in my quest to eat shwarmas for two weeks, I had failed in my quest to eat shwarmas for two whole days. I had hit the shwarma wall and was left feeling dazed and confused and as the dark clouds of defeat gathered overhead I desperately began to collate a number of Premier League excuses to counter-balance a gloating Handbag.
"Well, as well you know, my diet is the single most important thing to me after you... and I was just a little anxious that I wasn't getting the correct balance of what I needed." "Naser couldn't guarantee they were MSG free." "Please, I'm begging you. Don't make me eat another one!"
In the end there was no victorious rhetoric, no "I told you so" or even a solitary sly comment. There was, however, the slightest trace of a smug smile as I suggested we head out for Thai that evening.
Two days, I know, I hold my hands up – it sounds shocking, a complete and utter failure of mythical proportions. But you try it.
Try facing a cold shwarma for breako knowing you've got the same to follow for lunch and supper. Good luck to you if you take up the challenge... you'll be needing it, and please drop us a mail if you manage to beat my shameful effort.
Editor's note: Since submitting this article Andy guarantees us that he has, with the support of his family and friends, been clean of any shwarma-related relapses.
- Thums Up is an Indian cola drink.
