Bottom: how Joval fed the hill and hid from thirsty vagrants

But sometimes the work of a restaurant inspector and food critic plunges me into such depths, into such deep and dark circles of hell, casts me between millstones so heated that not even the greatest hate-spreaders among you will rejoice and possibly feel my sympathy. Maybe not.

I had such an experience on Saturday, when, persuaded by some benefactors (or perhaps ignorant, because, let’s be fair, despite my decade of efforts to educate, protect, and help people understand food, many have yet to learn as they should) in the capital’s Pašilaičiai district, which is warmly, albeit incoherently, responded to by the surrounding population.

Why incoherent? Because the recommenders told me that the host is an Armenian, or maybe a Turk, or maybe a Kurd, which makes it clear that those recommenders have very little understanding of what they are talking about. Those nations are completely different, although, of course, nationality doesn’t change much in the kebab business. All of these nations are from roughly the same part of the world, they have many questions and complaints with each other, and they have many similarities in cooking.

The kebab is greeted by several people waiting outside for their kebabs (no space inside): a very large menu over their heads, a busy kebab master, the smell of a ventless kitchen, and an annoying waitress who doesn’t have the best day and is not willing to talk friendly. None of that, it won’t be my first time, although I haven’t heard the words “I told you so” in my direction in a long time in response to a question. Like in a Soviet store, where when asked how much it costs, the salesperson replies “written there”, although it would be quicker and easier to say how much it costs. I don’t feel angry: that person works at Pašilaičiai, which in itself is likely to cause him inconvenience and inconvenience. Worse for him than for me. I hope the next few days are more fun for him.

In the course, it turns out that almost all the menu we see is purely theoretical. In other words, it’s the dishes that could be here if they were here, but no one bothers. “Is there something you don’t have?” – It turns out that you had to ask what you have because they have kebabs in lavash, kebabs in pita and kebabs in a plate. All Turkish delicacies are gozleme and Turkish pizza (ask), or the delicacies of Lithuanian minimalist student cuisine (fried dumplings) maybe next time.

It will take fifteen minutes to wait, and there are two or three places inside, also almost in theory, so staying inside is unattractive, especially since you must be looking out the window at people waiting and looking outside. Therefore, we started to position the cart near the “Kubas” shopping center so that we can eat in the cart like true aristocrats, especially we brought porcelain plates and silver tools, Egyptian cotton tablecloths on the roads.

Fifteen minutes they walked slowly until, at the end of that period, a retired local resident with a crutch appeared between the building wall and our car, bringing an adult drink from the store and wearing a dirty surgical mask on his chin. He found it appropriate and fun to open the drink by standing right next to our car, 12 inches. distance, so maybe you felt that the sticker should become the wall of the building, which it did (etiquette rules require not to do this demonstratively when drinking in the parking lot – drivers and car passengers can be envious) . He refreshed himself from the neck of the bottle, apparently spent a lot of time at concerts and festivals in his youth, and the habit remained.

In my mind, I thanked him that at least after a minute of his snacking, he didn’t choose to be relieved where he drank, especially since the wall of the house would be adequate for that.

At that point, we realized that we would probably need to eat kebab elsewhere because the chakras were somewhat questionable. After taking the order, I drove a few hundred meters and parked the car next to the residential house. There are some trees there and we feel almost in the park.

The best that can be said for the kebabs (we ordered one on a pita and one on a plate) was a soft, juicy chicken, but that would be it.

The kebab in the lavash was badly twisted, in a hurry, everything fell like a bag. The sauces were relentless Lithuanian style, maybe someone will like it. Not for me. I like when the kebab is twisted firmly, when it is easy to eat and when the abundance of sauces does not try to compensate for the gastronomic poverty.

The saddest image was a kebab on a plate, it was a real joval. If that drinker with a dirty mask and crutch on the wall of the mall had seen that plate, even he would have laughed at us.

The fries (whose oil was not the freshest) managed to dry in three minutes, because meat fell on them and we found pieces of zucchini on the plate (why, maybe they brought them from the garden family and there was no where? put them?). Turning this dish into a can, grating half a kilo of fermented cheese, pouring mayonnaise sauce and filling and baking it would give the traditional “San Bernardo casserole”, or “niamka”: it is a dish that is not only the consequence of a lonely life, but also a reason why. living alone.

I paid € 9.50 for two kebabs and left fifty cents for a tip.

Two out of five geese, and those who recommended this place to us, know it: not an eternal flame awaits you after death, but eternal life in Pašilaičiai and they will feed you these skewers with zucchini and fries until the last day of the final judgment.

Memo kebab, Žemynos str. 18, Vilnius. Tel. +370 675 08870.
Facebook profile: https://www.facebook.com/pasAhmeda/
Monday to Friday from 11:00 to 21:00
Saturdays and Sundays, from 12:00 to 21:00