Forgive me, father, for I have sinned against Halifax’s holy food. I have committed a crime with the donair.
And I loved it.
While I was in Nova Scotia over the Christmas break, I had a long list of things to do. I needed to check in with my friends to make sure they hadn’t forgotten me. I had to watch the entire extended edition of the Hobbit movie trilogy (which isn’t as bad as everyone says). I had to attended an outdoor hot tub party during the coldest night of the month because Easter Coasters are a bit too short on common sense.
But the number one thing on my list with a bullet was the food that’s plagued my dreams for months during my stay in Saskatchewan: The donair.
I’ve had burritos and wraps in Yorkton, but they haven’t satisfied my donair craving. It’s an itch that can only be scratched by this singularly-East Coast concoction. It’s a whirlwind of flavour, sweetness, and instant regret.
When I arrived in Halifax, I didn’t run off and devour a donair. I had to pick the right moment. I had to savour every second. There is a ceremony for this kind of thing.
Now, during my stay, I hung out with my aunt and uncle, who recently moved to Halifax from Toronto (which is the complete opposite of how migration usually goes in my home province). My uncle, who wasn’t raised on donairs, suggested a new way of eating them. He said it’s best to ask the servers not to drizzle the wrap in donair sauce. Instead, he said you get maximum flavour and minimum mess by dipping a dry donair into the sauce.
I was appalled. I wouldn’t even consider such a suggestion. Donairs are meant to be soaked in their signature sauce. I’m no traditionalist but this is one custom I stand by.
Near the end of my stay, it was time for my donair ceremony. My dad and I were about to watch the final Hobbit movie, so he went out and got us lunch.
But when he returned, I was horrified by what I saw beneath the layers of tin foil: A dry donair. My dad had listened to my uncle’s advice. I had no words.
I opened the small packet of donair sauce and poured it over my plate. I dipped my donair in it and took a bite. I have to be honest: It was better than usual.
The donair meat wasn’t drowned in sauce, so it had a chance to breathe and show off its flavour. Dipping the wrap made the sauce’s sweetness stand out. It wasn’t overhwhelming like donairs typically are. It was great meal.
So that’s how I betrayed the custom of the donair. I turned my back on tradition. And I’ll do it again in a heartbeat. I’ve found a better way to eat donairs.
But if anyone tries to convince me to eat a donair with a knife and fork, I won’t be responsible for my actions.
