Identity Crisis of a Pita

As with any weekend in New York comes the possibility of new discoveries, old friends and just maybe something delicious squeezed in between. I began my weekend on Thursday (doesn't everybody?) - a night out with one of my best girls and her new "friend," who I am tickled to say is no longer in quotes and has, in fact, earned the oh-so-important prefix of "boy."

The impromptu social outing brought us to the newest outpost of Zaytoons on Vanderbilt Ave in Prospect Heights - the Middle Eastern spot that's earned a fairly loyal following amongst the healthy Brooklyn type. A type I would never claim to be my own, but never one to close the book on a potential culinary escape I thought I'd give it a second try. The boy ordered a schwarma (beef / lamb) and a garlic "bread." My friend chose a lamb pitza and I, as so often happens, made a clutch decision opting for the shrimp pitza in a moment of panic and indecision. While I can say that no one left hungry, I would be remiss if I didn't also point out that no one left satisfied. The schwarma was less than up-to-par, neither visually or edibly stimulating. The garlic bread was no more than a glorified pita with chopped garlic sprinkled haphazardly on top - garlic that could have benefited from a quick sautee in a bit of olive oil, or roasted beforehand to bring out the sweetness hiding within the pungent cloves. So far, not impressed. Which brings me to this idea of a pitza - not quite a pita, not quite a pizza. As far as I'm concerned, there are enough things in this world existing in a literal or metaphorical gray area - food should not be one of them. While some blending of flavors and techniques can potentially create new and wonderful culinary delights, it is my belief that identity crises should be left to us humans. A pita topped with meats and vegetables flavored with the accents of a Middle Eastern kitchen, slathered with tomato sauce and mozzarella does not a pizza make. And though I can appreciate the attempt at coining a new culinary creation, a pitza in my opinion is a failed concoction that should be laid to rest.

Overall, a fine atmosphere and an acceptable neighborhood joint that works well enough for an afternoon mint tea and maybe some hummus and plain pita, but for a more satisfying dining experience I would suggest heading to the nearest hole-in-the wall kebab joint for an authentic meal suitably lacking in modern-day mashups.

Food = Love

I have often been told that food is an empty substitute for true emotion and human touch. That the sensation of satisfying a craving or hunger is only a temporary (and quite possibly unhealthy) filler for sadness, loneliness or anger. And if that's the case, so be it. Food is love to me. I eat, not out of some hedonistic desire to consume - though that's not entirely out of the question at times - but rather, most often I eat to experience the most basic joy and pleasure I have in life. Some people golf. I eat. I eat often and I eat a lot. My loved ones worry that I will at some point balloon out to some ungodly size, and not only do physical harm to myself, but more horrifically become an embarrassment to them. The 600-pound woman who must be cut out of her home and carried through a veritable wasteland of take out containers and pizza boxes. But curse of curses, I'm not 600 pounds. Yet. And so I forge on. Ingesting the foods of as many cultures as possible, doing what I can to expand my own gastronomic horizons. It is with this verve for unearthing the infinite array of comestibles out in the world that I invite you to join me on my Culinary Capers, spanning the most humble of epicurean delights to, on occasion, the very haute.

Gluttony Girl
"The belly rules the mind." ~ Spanish Proverb