Opinion – Cozinha Bruta: Greek barbecue, why does São Paulo hate you?

On the 17th, when Jô Soares would have turned 80, photographer Bob Wolfenson published, on his Instagram profile, an unprecedented photo of Gordo eating a Greek barbecue in downtown São Paulo. He does not mention the date, but the sandwich cost R$0.50 – less than 10% of the current price.

Those who grew up in São Paulo at the end of the last century and those who frequent the center know very well what a Greek barbecue is. For the others, I explain.

A Greek barbecue consists of several steaks stacked on a large vertical spit, which is rotated by an engine. Behind the skewer is a heat source, usually an electrical resistance. The gadget operator “peels” the outside of the meat loaf with a knife. Stuff the sandwiches and allow the inside of the thing to bake.

Greek barbecue in downtown São Paulo has always been very cheap. Suspiciously cheap. For a few merrels, the combo also includes vinaigrette and an artificial soft drink.

Citizens with the purchasing power to be able to have lunch in fact nurture historical mistrust –not entirely unfounded– regarding the origin of the meat and the hygienic conditions of preparation. It turns out that all street food, when authentic, involves some health risk.

It has little to do with a lack of cleanliness with the profound disdain that the São Paulo elite feels for Greek barbecue. He is to São Paulo what acarajé is to Salvador and tacacá is to Belém. Greek barbecue is São Paulo’s quintessential street food. But São Paulo wanted to be New York and turned its back on it (except for Jô).

Some chef from São Paulo could have worked on, I don’t know, a reinterpretation or an improved recipe for the Greek barbecue, with good ingredients and techniques to prepare a really tasty food. But nobody was interested. Until some daddy’s boy discovered the wheel when he went backpacking in Europe.

Rotating meat skewers became common on the Pinheiros-Vila Madalena axis at the beginning of the century. A business resembling Greek barbecue was now sold under the kebab name. And the kebab had a history: it was the döner kebab, food from Turkish immigrants that conquered European kids. Now São Paulo wanted to be Berlin.

This is how the city scene works: everyone with their eyes turned outwards, in a jequice that intends to be cosmopolitan.

I didn’t find much about the history of Greek barbecue – just generalities that point to a common origin with that of the döner kebab and the Levantine shawarma. Vertical spit barbecue is common throughout the Middle East and Greece.

Now why would it be Greek and not Lebanese or Syrian? The Arab communities in São Paulo have always been much larger and more influential than the Greek one. Thanks if anyone has a clue.

With the most recent waves of Syrian, Lebanese and Palestinian immigrants, shawarma gained space and acceptance in the city’s gastronomy. Cool, but Greek barbecue is still in limbo.

Greek barbecue is not shawarma, it is not kebab. It has São Paulo flavor, comes on French bread with vinaigrette and a courtesy juice. He deserved more consideration from the birthday town.

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