Chefs enjoy answering the question, what their last meal would be. However, they never answer the question, what their first meal would be, especially after the world is almost destroyed. And to tell you the truth, the answer is simple, The Shawarma Palace.

Through pandemics, wars, terrorist attacks, economic downturns, totalitarian government leaders, The Shawarma Palace serves as the light at the end of the tunnel for heroes, super or not, who do good and essential work.

Smack dab in midtown Manhattan, the timeless Middle Eastern fast food joint gives off a garlicky reek that’s more of a sensual tease than a condemnation.

The shawarma itself is fine, thin, garlicky shavings of extremely well-done meat, flavored with cinnamon and cloves, and sliced off a rotating split in an overstuffed pita—a good value for eight bucks. 

If you’re a vegetarian, you come for the falafel: crisp, golden-brown balls of spiced, ground garbanzos, tucked into whole-wheat pitas with fresh cabbage, tomatoes, and slices of beet-red pickled turnips. Dress up the pita sandwiches yourself with tableside sesame sauce, tahini, tzatziki, and the fiery-hot Arabic tomato sauce.

Alternative old standby’s on The Shawarma Palace’s menu are baba ganoush, the ground-beef sausage kofta, lamb kebab plates, rotisserie chicken, and sour grape leaves stuffed with rice and vegetables. 

But back to the shawarma. It’s just okay, and still, as with pizza and sex, even lousy shawarma can be pretty good and hit the right spot.