You’ll hear it pronounced dozens of ways. The classic is “doner” (rhymes with “honour”), but plenty of folks call it a “Donner” (like the Christmas party). It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that it arrives in a foil wrapper, steaming and slightly leaking sauce onto your lap—a badge of honour for the brave.
There’s a special skill to eating one. You tilt your head to the side, lean over the wrapper, and accept that you will be wearing some of it. A kebab is not a tidy meal; it’s an experience that leaves a trail of sesame seeds on your jumper.
My Search for London's Best 'Best Kebab'
