Dear reader, we apologize.

Off the Eaten Track has been in a bad place, unable to fulfill its duty as the bringer of culinary light. We have no adequate explanation for our absence except that we’ve been paralyzed by the general darkness roaming the world like a swarm of dementors. One day, we simply lost our appetite and stopped exploring.

We wandered the office halls with our heads bowed, not even cheered up by Cultural Fika. The fizzy water lost its bubbles, the coffee tasted stale, and Alkemistens banana bread turned to ashes in our mouths. When hunger eventually set in, we shuffled over to Kooperativet and got elbowed in the face by hipsters while waiting obediently in line for an overpriced tikka masala.

Workloads had become unbearable, and the Gothenburg Construction Site Index was at an all-time high (a member of the OtET family once spent three days in their car driving from Korsvägen to Lindholmen). To make things worse, E.C. had phoned home and was now spending 32 hours a week at the Mothership. We were giving birth to a new organization. Geopolitics had become the world’s most depressing sandbox. Those were dark days that never seemed to end.

Then, suddenly, something woke us from our slumber.

It was a sunny day – an exceptionally crisp and colorful fall day that had forced us out on a rare walk. It was one of those days when, as a kid, your parents would ask/instruct you to pick fallen apples, sort them, and put them in black plastic bags before the apples decompose. Your mom or dad would dangle a modest wad of cash in front of you with the additional promise of a cup of hot chocolate after you’d finished your chores.

If that didn’t work, they would scare you with stories of moose that wandered into residential neighborhoods to have their fill of fermented apples, destabilizing them and turning them into bloodthirsty beasts out for human flesh. Stories of deranged moose (like the one ramming into MN’s car) have made an indelible imprint on Swedish youth, tricking many of us into spending hours on our knees in the wet and moldy grass while our parents chuckled over an Irish coffee by the kitchen table.

So the day was simply too perfect to pass up, and we headed west. We didn’t care about direction since food was no longer on our minds. Usually, we’d walk east since 90 % of all decent food joints at Norra Älvstranden are that way. But not today.

We walked and talked, complaining as we were prone to do about the miserable state of affairs. Just as we approached the roundabout by the LTC (Lai Thai Cottage, the Thai restaurant across from Nemo housed in a worn-down summer house with a distinct Blair Witch vibe), we turned left on Plejadgatan, heading for Slottsberget. After a minute or so, we took a right to enter Lindholmsvägen. And we were there at Lindholmens pizzeria, housed in a nice landshövdingehus.

We had spotted this unassuming little corner place on previous walks but hadn’t thought much of it apart from commenting on its somewhat unexpected location. It is pretty worn down, generally unimpressive, and has been closed occasionally. It’s also on the (b)eaten track, strictly speaking, disqualifying it as an OtET venue. And since there’s no shortage of pizzerias around Lindholmen, we didn’t get excited by another one. In short, we’d never given it serious consideration until today.

But the door was wide open, and since the crisp air had made us hungry, we decided to enter. No doubt, the purpose of the open door was to let in some cool air. But we quickly realized that the main reason was probably to release some of the foul air that had accumulated within. The place was packed with school kids (mostly boys) – sweaty, angry, focused – inhaling their pizzas and plates of fries and rinsing it down with water. Some were sharing a soft drink. They all had their eyes glued to their phones, pupils dancing like pinballs in their irises.

But it wasn’t just the critical mass of adolescent angst and maelstrom of hormones that had raised the humidity level. The cooking and the kitchen activities also added to the tropical atmosphere: dishes were being washed, cooks were huffing and puffing around, and the oven was constantly opened and closed, releasing 450-degree puffs of baked bread, tomato sauce, and garlic into the restaurant.

It was actually kinda nice, and even better were the rotating fresh and sweating kebab skewers, which gave the impression that this place had a high turnover, indicating skilled bakers, fresh food, and good service.

All in all, we seemed to have stumbled upon a popular joint.

Now, pizzerias in Sweden are generally known for their impressive menus. You seldom find less than 50 dishes (there’s always a few pasta dishes, some salads, and something scary featuring prawns), meaning these places can accommodate nearly every palette and dietary restriction.

This is a blessing and a curse. Because of their near-infinite diversity, it can be hard to discern a pizzeria’s quality. The Margarita may be juicy and delicious, but the Ciao-Ciao might taste like cigarettes – we all know this to be true. Much like any restaurant, a pizzeria might have a few signature dishes, but that doesn’t mean they’re excellent across the board.

So what any experienced (carnivorous) pizza eater does is order the one dish they know to exist on every menu: the kebab pizza – the mother of all benchmarking dishes. Every now-living Swede born before 1980 knows precisely what they were doing when legendary statesman Olof Palme* was murdered on 28 February 1986 (OtET was playing hockey, desperately trying to conceal a mouthful of snus from an approaching parent running onto the ice to tell us in a trembling voice that the world had come to an end). It’s the same with kebab pizza: you remember the first time you had it. You also know which was the best you’ve ever had. And naturally, also the worst.

Even though saliva had already started accumulating in anticipation of what promised to be a good and fresh KP, we had to halt our order in a moment of reflection. It wasn’t like we were struck by lightning. This was more of a gentle knock on the door of our sedated souls. It was nothing more than a combination of letters, really – nothing but an inconsequential compound you haven’t said or thought a million times. But seeing it in print, communicated with such naked pride on a menu in a sleazy joint at Slottsberget, meant something.

It meant that anything is possible. That there is hope. That there is love, honesty, and decency still in this world. The writing was brutally precise, so free of corporate pretense. On the menu, in a combination of letters so strong it could have carried the weight of Karlatornet, it said:

GRISKEBAB

That’s PIG KEBAB, in English.

Of course, pork would be the standard modifier for referring to pig meat. However, just because pork is a more frequent, formal, and clinical term lacking the same playful associations as pig, it doesn’t fully justify the joy we felt upon reading it. Neither does the juxtaposition of the informal, almost childish term pig with the more formal, restaurant-associated term kebab. But it is a tad unusual, colloquial, or even unexpected. And yes, someone from the backcountry – unhinged by gross quantities of moonshine and generations of profoundly unbiblical sex, to paraphrase Bill Bryson – might pronounce this word amusingly.

We laughed hard at this. More importantly, however, choosing to call it griskebab felt like solid evidence that we were dealing with a no-nonsense place, creating even greater expectations on the kebab pizza we were about to order.

And we were NOT disappointed.

Lord have mercy.

A great kebab pizza combines tender, spiced meat with a crispy crust, tangy tomato sauce, and creamy garlic or yogurt sauce. Fresh vegetables like onions, lettuce, or tomatoes add crunch and balance to the richness. Fusing European and Middle-Eastern flavors with classic pizza elements creates a delicious, satisfying experience.

Kebab pizza is considered Swedish, inspired chiefly by German and Turkish cuisine. It’s believed to have originated when many Swedish pizzerias began serving the German version of Turkish kebab, and then someone combined the dish with pizza. KP became popular during the 1980s and 1990s (along with bearnaise sauce pizza). Today, it’s probably the best-selling pizza in Sweden.

OTeT has been eating kebab pizza since 1986. In fact, you could shape an ISO standard based on our experiences. And on our Kebab Pizza Index, the KP at Lindholmens pizzeria is probably one of the best ones we’ve ever had. Saying “and that’s saying something” is saying nothing. This was an absolutely beautiful, near-perfect kebab pizza.

Also, this was one of the simpler versions: no fresh veggies, just a pickled chili for topping. And that’s the way we like it. No fuzz, just a super-crisp bottom with a savory and spicy yogurt sauce upon which they had sprinkled a generous serving of thinly sliced, hyper-fresh pig. (The other pizza we ordered was equally delicious.)

• Name: Lindholmens Pizzeria, Lindholmsvägen 1
• Cuisine: Europeand/Middle Eastern-style pizza
• Walking distance from Zenseact: 5 minutes
• Price: 119 sek
• Rating: 5 NCAP stars (Norra Älvstranden Culinary Assessment Program)
• Pro tip: Avoid the kids, FFS.

Sadly, we couldn’t finish our food. The serving was simply too generous. After completing a complimentary coffee, we excused ourselves and returned to the office. Despite having just consumed a week’s worth of calories, we felt light on our feet. Inspired, optimistic, and even hopeful for the future.

Today’s text carries the same old but equally valid OtET message: take walks, try new places, and open up to the world. You can break stalemates and patterns and find beauty in the most unexpected places. OTeT supports Latin, and omnia bona et pulchra difficilia sunt is a suitable quote for this occasion (btw, the title of today’s post means “in every swine, there is a pearl”). It literally means “All good and beautiful things are difficult,” echoing Stoic philosophy, where the masters of eloquent whining, like Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius, highlighted the effort required to recognize what is truly valuable in life.

The meaning of the quote (and the concept) is roughly that beauty and other higher values are not immediately apparent or easily attainable. Meaningful rewards like virtues, profound insights, or the ability to appreciate beauty require us to work hard and be observant to be realized. This philosophy also reminds us that finding goodness, especially in unexpected places, might require us to look beyond the surface, overcome our preconceptions, or face challenges to truly appreciate it.

That’s our lesson for today!

We’ll hopefully return shortly with another review. In the meantime, heed the great Robert Frost’s advice and choose the road less traveled – a wise gastronomic approach and an outstanding professional mantra for every Zenseactian.

*”Olof Palme was a great internationalist politician who fought for peace, against nuclear weapons, and for development aid. During his time as Prime Minister, 1969-1976 and 1982-1986, extensive working life reforms were implemented that gave co-determination to employees, a 40-hour work week, and a pension at the age of 65.” (Quoted from https://www.socialdemokraterna.se/vart-parti/om-partiet/var-historia/olof-palme).