Any alliteration cannot do justice to the billowing boldness and befuddling brilliance of a new hole-in-the-wall gyro joint that has quietly graced Seattle with its presence. There's no sign announcing its presence. No carefully crafted press release mass-distributed to Seattle foodie culture. No quirky Twitter account bellowing out happy hour deals. It is an enigma - and dammit, we'll keep it that way...for as long as we can.
But it will get out.
The drippings alone made me lick my plate. Yeah, that's right. I went at this recycled cardboard plate like hungry happy Labrador, prepping dishes for the dishwasher. Inside this gyro, a voluminous variety of veggies viciously vexed in form, a volition so vivaciously violent that I asked the voluptuously pregnant server if I could have a bib. Or a feed bag. She smiled and brought me a wet bath towel. "This will help," she said. Methinks I'm not the first to ask.
The meat, though. Oh my sweet lord. What evil lord presided over these lambs and fed them nothing but rainbows and salted caramel ice cream?! And had Padma sing them lullabies as they drifted off to sleep, dreaming of meadows filled with chocolate torts and warm apple cider and cashmere bathrobes? Because I'm quite sure these are the only conditions in which such delightfully delectable lamb can be rendered.
So,I've pontificated enough, and most certainly have ran through my monthly allocation of SAT words, I've left one key piece of information out. The location...and the name. There is no sign. No menu. And I was disallowed from flash photography. I can tell you that a handy neighborhood search using the latest in check-in software might yield a result that *perhaps* looks like a house, or humble abode, of gyros, run by a man who may, or may not be named, Samir. That's it. I've probably said too much.
Restaurant Week reviews begin later this week. Sneak preview of the pads we're previewing: