Shish Kabob Grill: In the beginning. . .

First, a disclaimer. When I envisioned my project a year ago, it was . . .

Shish Kabob to Bastien's and everything in between that lies on Colfax! Alas, upon closer inspection, Shish Kabob does not actually have a Colfax address. Well doesn't this undermine the integrity of my project you ask? Fuck it I say. It's on the damn corner. It's got a window and a sign on Colfax, and that's good enough for me. Sure, the actual address is 1503 Grant St. but everyone knows that Shish Kabob is on Colfax. 

We go for dinner, post-work, the perfect little walking distance across the capitol lawn, windy as all hell. We are greeted by the electronic doorbell that has to sound at least three times per every one person who enters the door, and the sweet faint smell of Middle Eastern food. What is it? I ask. Lebanese? Moroccan? Greek? In the US we just call it Middle Eastern and everybody knows what you mean. Hummus. Or hummos. Or hommos. Tabbouleh. Shawerma. And gyros. The reason I was really excited for Shish Kabob Grill to be my very first stop on my tour of Colfax eateries (besides the fact that it sounds a lot more appetizing than $1.25 Scoop Chinese): I've never had a gyro. 

So of course I know that's what I'm going to order. I get the gyro plate as opposed to the traditional pita enclosed handheld, because I don't feel like bread or fries at the moment (and I know eatcolfax won't have a dearth of french fries). My plate of golden sweet spicy yellow rice topped with. . . with meat, meat that is steamy and moist and, and, well quite frankly looks like seitan wings. I kid you not. All you reading this might not get the reference, but dammit if that meat doesn't look like fried wheat gluten. And it is a bit spongy, but oh so tasty and clearly comes from an animal. What is this meat? I ask Kristin. It's beef and lamb, together as one. Wow. How does that happen? Well we're not sure but we think it involves squishing and packing and grinding and somehow the meat ends up on a vertical spit and is very slowly roasted, shaved off and folded into my rice. Yeah. 

Okay enough about the meat. On my way to the immaculately clean if a little heavily disinfected bathroom, past the case of unidentifiable orange beverages and baklava ready to go, past the cook line occupied by one patient and sly looking lady in hijab, I walked through what appeared to be the office of the establishment: a small metal desk complete with pictures of the family, covered in piles of credit card receipts, next to a filing cabinet no doubt filled with said receipts and some work visa info. This office of no walls, the anti-cubicle, in the middle of the restaurant. Owner man going through the paperwork, writing things down with a pencil. No computer. 

Sitting back down at our table, next to a window on which was hanging one of those flashing open signs. You know, O. P. E. N. OPEN. It was getting dark and the sky was gray and the blue and red lights from the sign reflecting on the table reminded me of a lonely Christmas Eve in New York City, at some two bit greasy spoon circa 1950. A woman walked by outside, a woman tall and heavyset with a long bulky coat and oversized hat pulled down around her face, strands of hair blowing across her face, a little poodle in tow. Clearly they had both seen better days. Kristin said she sees that woman at the corner of Colfax and Grant often, and isn't that a ubiquitous fixture, old woman on a corner with a dog, almost Parisian in a way if you squint. 

All this time we've been drinking Moroccan mint tea poured from a big metal tea pot into tiny clear glass mugs. Sugar on the side. I say that I wish we could travel to the Middle East and be invited into peoples' homes, drinking cup after cup of tea, getting high off tea.

As we get up to leave Kristin knocks my togo box and some rice falls onto the just-vacuumed floor. We smile and look like stupid tourists and profusely apologize to our waiter, who actually looks a little devastated. Day one, week one, of eatcolfax, success.