The Tale of a Chicken Gyro

Last week I ordered a chicken gyro from the new Arabian fast food place close to where I work. I am not sure what a Greek gyro was doing on the menu of an Arabian fast-food restaurant in Trinidad and was too hungry to ask. I placed my order and a girl with nice legs asked if I wanted pepper with it. Once the confusion over what “it” meant I said yes to the pepper since less than ten Trinidadians ever rejected pepper on their fast food since 1498 and I wasn’t about to enter that Hall of Shame. The girl was attractive even when she shouted my order to the chef who, on waking up, looked both Syrian and depressed. The chef was yawning while he took out the pita bread from a bag that looked more suited for garbage than food. Some time later his memory returned and he threw on two scoops of chicken that would require radiocarbon dating to determine its true age, and then heated everything in a microwave for one minute. He then sprinkled the gyro with lettuce and squirted on a sauce that looked like grease only not as classy. If it was one time I wanted to lose my lunch was then and I was too hungry to surrender without a bite but it took only one bite to surrender. Maybe I will try the lamb next time.