7343/19863
Back in Shepherd’s Bush this morning and right in my old stomping ground (or is it stamping ground? - not with the queues at the post office, am I right?). It’s coming up to six years since we left and in some ways it feels hard to believe that we ever lived here. But I lived here for ages. It just seems so unfamiliar.
But when I walked past the Shabab kebab shop I had a slight pang of regret. I think the chicken shish from this place might be the only thing I truly miss about London. It might be the most delicious thing in the world. Why didn’t I mention it on Off Menu?
I wondered about having a chicken shish for lunch, but I was there too early and it wasn’t open yet, missing out on all that all important 10.30am kebab custom. Idiots. But I looked through the window and saw the man who runs the place (Ian Shabab?) getting ready for the day. His hair was a bit whiter than the last time I’d seen him, but it’s probably six years since I’ve seen him and it’s possible that my hair is a little whiter too. If Ian Shabab can age, then none of us are safe.
I thought about the man from Shabab and what his day must be like. Those six years had passed and he’d been making kebabs for the majority of days, just as he’s made kebabs for years before. The business has survived, because it’s the best food in the world, and the man is a genius, but it struck me what relentless and repetitive work this must be. Every day for decades making kebabs, mostly for drunk idiots. That’s his life. Is that a fun existence? Is it a fair existence for a man of such genius?
I suppose most jobs involve endlessly repeating the same thing over and over again - just look at my jokes - and I suspect and hope that there is much to love in his work. It’s very sociable and I feel I like remember men who seemed to be his pals hanging out there. And I hope the place has made him rich, but if it had, would he still be serving there. That’s assuming he owns the business. He may just be a perpetual employee of the real Ian Shabab.
I didn’t know if I envied him or felt sorry for him, but I realised that mainly I just missed eating his kebabs. I didn’t eat them all the time - it was the occasional treat so that it would always remain special. But I regretted that my timing was slightly off, though the chicken shish feels like something that has to be eaten at night. I went to Pret A Manger in the Westfield instead, which is almost the exact opposite experience. Though the man didn’t ring up my coffee in the till so I got it for free. That’s a result. You don’t get that at Shabab.
