Steakiat Habirah: Shwarmtastrophy Strikes

When we were first coming back here to Israel last month, I didn't have any specific shawarma related goals outside of eating several boatloads. I hadn't yet conceived of my mission here, and I didn't have any specific falafel shop in mind to visit. Except one: Steakiat Habirah (Capital Steakhouse). The story behind Steakiat Habirah is as follows. One Friday afternoon back in '07, when Miriam and I were here last, we were at the crowded Central bus Station in Jerusalem, trying to find the bus to Kedumim to spend the weekend with my cousins. Well, Miriam got a little irritated at me because I kept wandering off (she doesn't appreciate a good wander like I do). And in the oyster of the bustling* Central Station on a Friday afternoon, that irritation grew into a full sized pearl of a fight (I'm awesome at metaphors). Eventually I had enough of that fight, so, naturally, I wandered off.

I moseyed on out of the bus station and down the block, until I saw a restaurant with a sign above the door saying (can you guess?) "Steakiat Habirah."  Hungry from my extensive moseyings, and hypnotized by the twirling stick of meat just inside, I decided this would be a good place to rest my weary legs. Now, to be honest, I remember very little about the shawarma I ate there. All I remember is leaving the place and thinking to myself that that was the best shawarma I've had in this wondrous shawarma-filled land. It was truly the shawarma of kings.

Since that day, any time I heard someone was going to visit Israel, I demanded they pay a visit to Steakiat Habirah. For their own good. So when I returned to Israel, what choice did I have but to do the same. So after we arrived, I decided to pay a visit and become reacquainted with my long lost, beloved steakiyah, and to be reminded why I loved it so much. So I hopped on the #4 bus to Central Station. And with the ghosts of perfectly spiced flakes of meat dancing on the back of my tongue, I made my way to the shop.

To my disbelief, the sight I arrived at was very different from the one that greeted me four years before. The man behind the counter was replaced with a different, more bearded, man behind the counter. But more disturbingly, the warm stack of juicy meat turning in the shawarma oven was replaced by a listless pizza turning in a pizza oven (or whatever it is pizzas do in there). The name on the sign was different too. I can't remember it, something with the word "strudel" in it; "Sal's Pizzas and Strudels," or "Strudelman's Pizza." Something like that. I had to find out what happened. I could only shuffle inside, as when one's shock is so profound, one can't muster any gait more than a shuffle. I asked the bearded fellow behind the desk what happened to my beloved steakiah. I have no idea what he said. In my grief filled daze, his response just sounded like gibberish to me (or maybe Hebrew, they sound very similar). But it didn't matter. Steakiat Habirah was no more. Yankel's Strudel Emporium was there in its place. All I can do now is grieve and promise to do everything I can to ensure that no shawarma place will ever go out of business again.

You Maniacs! Damn you Strudelman! Damn you to hell!

*an appropriate word for the situation, no? Brings up images of people hustling for a bus. Plus, people who are hustling for a bus don't have time to say "I'm hustling for a bus." So they just say, "I'm bustling." I'm pretty sure that's where the word comes from. 

-photo courtesy of Veev