Gyro Food Quotes

At the fairgrounds we saw them in the parking lot inhaling the effluvium of carnival, the smells of fried dough, caramel and cinnamon, the flap-flapping of tents, a carousel plinking out music-box songs, voluptuous sounds bouncing down tent ropes and along the trampled dust of the midway. Wind-curled handbills staple-gunned to telephone poles, the hum of gas-powered generators and the gyro truck, the lemonade truck, pretzels and popcorn, baked potatoes, the American flag, the rumblings of rides and the disconnected screams of riders -- all of it shimmered before them like a mirage, something not quite real.

Philadelphia was the smell of the summer sun, of burnt asphalt, of sizzling meat from food carts tucked into street corners, foreign brown men and women hunched inside. Ifemelu would come to like the gyros from those carts, flatbread and lamb and dripping sauces, as she would come to love Philadelphia itself. It did not raise the spectre of intimidation as Manhattan did; it was intimate but not provincial, a city that might yet be kind to you. Ifemelu

Were there even a lot of food trucks around then? I thought the big boom was just a few years ago with that Korean barbecue truck in LA." Lou researches everything. Farfar smiled. "Amir's family ran a popular kebab shop in Mariehamm. It was a pretty easy transition for him---at least as far as the actual work. Me, not so much. I could cook a little bit, but I had never made munkar before in my life. They just made me happy, and I knew that is what I wanted to offer, as strange a combination as it is." "I don't know," Lou said. "If you ever go to the Gyro Fest at the big Greek Orthodox church in York, people eat a huge gyro, then go back for honey puffs. Doesn't seem like that much of a stretch." "Looo, this is why you're my favorite person.

you seem to be stuck in a rut here. Go another route or go forward, but move.

Mini Chicago hot dogs, with all seven of the classic toppings for people to customize. Miniature pita breads ready to be filled with chopped gyro meat and tzatziki sauce. Half-size Italian beef sandwiches with homemade giardiniera my mom put up last summer. We did crispy fried chicken tenders atop waffle sticks with Tabasco maple butter, and two-inch deep-dish pizzas exploding with cheese and sausage. Little tubs of cole slaw and containers of spicy sesame noodles. There are ribs, chicken adobo tacos, and just for kicks, a macaroni and cheese bar with ten different toppings.

There were mini Vienna hot dogs with all the classic Chicago toppings. A macaroni 'n' cheese bar with all kinds of fun add-ins. Cold sesame noodles in tiny white cardboard Chinese take-out containers, sliders served with small cones of skinny fries. Fried chicken legs, barbecued ribs, mini gyros in tiny three-inch pitas. All of it the most delicious and perfectly prepared elevated junk food, complete heaven, and just what I love. She gave us each a bamboo tray with a piece of parchment paper on it to use as plates, and large kitchen tea towels instead of napkins. There were cold beers in a tub, endless bottles of rosé, and a massive birthday cake, chocolate with fluffy vanilla frosting, and rainbow sprinkles. And then, after coffee, mini ice-cream sandwiches on chocolate chip cookies.

It helped that I was working with a pretty awesome recipe. Baba had this way of drawing out the tender in his meat, marinating and using delicate pinches of spice that he dusted gently over the hills and valleys of slices and rolled balls and rural-hewed chunks destined for gyros or meat trays or to be garnished with salad within a deliciously sloppy naan sandwich.

There's a great Lebanese restaurant a few blocks over. They have the best shawarma in the world." "What's shawarma?" "You know what a gyro is?" "No." "Same thing.

It angered her all her life that immigrant food always had to be cheap. Tacos, papusas, dumplings, pho, gyros, kimchi, pad thai... she could keep going. These were all foods worthy of double digits. Of dignity.

The Food Hall is a feast. For the eyes. For the tongue. For the mind. It is vast as desire, an ocean of food. Its edges a horizon you could approach for all eternity and never actually reach. It's also really freaking fun. There are groves of sun-ripe fruit, air thick with the scent of peaches and plums, lemons and limes, deep-jungle soursop, grapes on the vine, pitaya and stink nut and green mangosteen, pomegranates descended from Persephone's own pips. There are city-sized mazes of street meat, umami smoke rising in columns, the sizzle of griddles and grills caramelizing everything from anticucho to bún chả, lamb gyro to pani câ mèusa, dodo wing to Tyrannosaurus thigh. There are islands of cheese--- actual islands--- afloat in whey, burrata barges shuttling souls through a paneer pass to an ivory ibérico coast, an isthmus of ricotta connecting it back to a Muenster mainland. In the Food Hall, the world is an oyster! A Kushimoto white as sky, an undiscovered varietal untouched by human hands. A bowl of cherries! Amarainier, Montmorello, cross-bred juices sluicing down your chin. A box of chocolates! Clustered coconut, stickjaw caramel, a heart-shaped Whitman Sampler Wonka Wonderball Surprise.