The shawarma didn’t arrive—it descended like a sultan’s feast, bold and unapologetically generous. Every bite of the meat was tender, the spice not merely sprinkled but woven through like a savory story of perfection.This wasn’t fast food; it was Middle Eastern poetry written in protein. Trailing behind it were three dignitaries of flavor: a house-made harissa that kicked like a Bedouin mule, a whipped tahini as airy as desert wind but grounded by lemon and garlic, and a cucumber labneh so creamy and kissed with mint that it didn’t just accompany—it choreographed the whole meal. Together, they made the plate feel less like dinner and more like flavor diplomacy. If Aladdin had offered this instead of a lamp, nobody would’ve bothered rubbing anything except their tummy as they finished