The unbeatable glory of a doner kebab

Ionce shared a bed with a doner kebab. I’d hungrily joined a 3 a.m. queue for much needed post-pub sustenance, only to pass out as soon as I sat down on my bed to eat it. It was a vinegary and leathery bedfellow to wake up to, but I’ve felt ever since that spending a full night with a doner qualifies me as an expert.

I can tell you that any major city’s kebab purveyors can be ranked by the number of pints you need to have drunk before you feel like tucking in. Think of this number like the zones on the London Tube map. At the smart end there’s the zone one kebab: restaurant-grade and easily enjoyed as part of a full sit-down meal. At the other end there’s zone six: a last resort on the way home from a six-pint (or more) pub session.

Each kebab house, whatever its zone, is run by a patriarch who is referred to as ‘bossman’ (‘Cheers bossman, go easy on the garlic’).