Kissing Up for Kebabs

I'm sorry. Epic fail. It has been over two months since my last post, and how things have changed! I went for a run in the University Parks a few days ago, and was awed by the simple beauty of the emerging crocuses and daffodils. My winter coat is starting to feel a little uncomfortable when paired with sweaters, and I have taken my thermal gloves out of their habitual abode in my pockets. I've even forsaken wearing an extra layer when I go runing; one t-shirt is enough from now on, it seems.

Furthermore, my academic situation has also changed--for the better! I have been accepted at two graduate schools thus far, UW-Madison and Columbia, so I don't have to worry about being the over-educated waif mooching off my parents, being far too acquainted with the intimate linings of my couch. On the Oxford side, I have cleared the first hurdle and received a respectable mark on my first essay, leaving only three more essays between me and...well...not graduation, but the end of my course, at least. You see, in Oxford, you have to book a spot for your graduation, and the backlog continues to grow every year. Each college is allotted an obscenely small number of places at the official ceremony, so when I made the decision to deliberate over potential dates with my parents, I didn't realize I was simultaneously ruining my chances of attending my own graduation in the near future. The dates are spread out over a few months (perhaps even the entire year, I'm not sure); it is rather odd to see graduates a la skunk-wear walking around college when you only just figured out how to order up a book from the Bodleian! But this for me is still a while away. I still have to complete two essays for this term, leaving one whole term to create a dissertation worthy of the all-important mark of "distinction."

Meanwhile, I thought I would explain a uniquely Oxford institution that may not be familiar to those of you outside our little Oxon bubble. No, it's not the Bodleian; every university has a library. No, it's not the sandwich shop; Brits throughout this Sacred Isle have a strange fascination with the grab-and-go. It's not even the canal and tow-path, although Princeton's doesn't actually have canal-boats on it. I'm speaking of the Oxford Kebab Van.

For the brain-sucked, alcohol-wasted, grease-craving, or simply penny-pinching Oxford student, there is simply no substitute for the kebab van. For anyone hoping for something reasonably cheap after the six o'clock (at the latest seven o'clock) barrier, this nirvana-on-wheels is just about your only option. At the start of term, all freshers received a map of "Oxford after dark." This is not superfluous, because after the sun sets this town becomes a different beast, utterly devoid of nutritional possibilities and commercial speculation. If you don't want to enter an expensive restaurant or eat pub food, the little burger icons on the map are your only salvation, marking the places throughout Oxford where little rumbling generators power Pakistani-laden food dens, oases of taste in a barren wasteland.

I don't mean to be at all racist in my last statement; it's just a fact: most of the kebab vans are run by Pakistanis. Hence the names: Hassan's, Ahmed's, Ali's, Houssain's, Mehdi's... (I am not kidding! Those are actual vans!). That doesn't mean to say that they only serve Pakistani food. In addition to the various kinds of kebabs, you can also get more distinctly British fare: jacket potates, baguette sandwiches, chili con carne, and, of course, CHIPS. [Side note: British chips, what Americans would call thick French fries, are this country's absolute OBSESSION! Some of my British friends have said, "Oh, but you Americans eat French fries all the time." No, we don't. Compared to the British in the consumption of fries, we would make Ronald McDonald feel like an NRA member at a Greenpeace meeting. St. Catz's hall serves chips almost every night; if it doesn't, there is some other kind of potato.]

Then there's the kebab van that I have been known to frequent: McCoy's. Now, where the heck did "McCoy's" come from?! After all, the guys who run it are still Pakistani! It's a mystery to me...

Just as much a mystery to me, though, is what I have done to earn the ire of the black-haired, laser-eyed man who runs said van. One of my good friends, Mariam, who I know from Princeton, lives right near McCoy's, which also happens to be right outside the entrance to my church. She goes there much more frequently than I do, and has struck up a friendly rapport with the operators, partly because the language they speak is similar to Iranian, which she speaks. So I went with her and Julia to check out this kebab van, because I had never experienced this institution.

Well, evidently I made a huge mistake: I didn't order a kebab. Now, come on, as far as British menus go, the list of options presents a feeling similar to sitting down with the menu at a New Jersey diner. They have everything, in various sizes and styles. Chicken kebab, or chicken tikka? Chili con carne on rice, or on a jacket potato? Baguette with hummus, or hummus and falafel? I love hummus, so I asked for a hummus baguette. The look on the man's face when he turned away must have cooked the spinning lamb shank by itself. I'm sorry--I like hummus! And I like baguettes! What's the big deal?! His coldness was apparent even to Mariam--who of course was chatted up and received absolutely impeccable service.

So I was determined to make it up. We went again, this time with our friend Jason. And this time, I would order a kebab. I did: chicken tikka with salad. But when I said I wanted all the salads (in British lingo, that means all the vegetable toppings, like onions, tomatoes, lettuce, etc.), he growled, "Well, do you want jalapenos?" I said no. "Well, 'all salads' means jalapenos. I would have put jalapenos on top and IT WOULD HAVE BEEN YOUR FAULT!" I am not paraphrasing, at least definitely not the last part. I still don't understand it; all I did was ask for the salads! Evidently, he hadn't forgotten my infraction of the previous week.

So, I still have not yet pierced the kebab van culture. I have not been able to pass through the (not so in)visible barrier between me and the kebab man's heart. Perhaps I never will.

From now on, I'm going to Hassan's.