Ram’s Food Reviews

06/19/2026

Ram’s Donair Odyssey, Chapter 12
Dream Donair & Pizza
6230 99 Street NW

Medium Cheese Donair $12.99

I didn’t like Dream Donair a decade ago—and I like it even less now.

Back then, they served me freezer-burned fries, ruining a poutine, but the service was okay: the employee called me “brother.”

Today, they gave me a terrible donair, and the service was curt, though I suspect that may have been the result of a language barrier.

I think the restaurant was Lebanese-owned back in the day—but somebody once told me the owners were actually Jordanian—and it’s now Nepalese-owned, bringing new items to the menu, including Indo-Chinese dishes like chilli chicken, paneer momos, and Schezwan chilli wings.

Although the new owners have expanded the menu to reflect their cuisine, they don’t seem to care much for the restaurant’s appearance. I don’t mind a run-down place, but this goes slightly beyond that.

The paint job is sloppy, with gaudy red paint bleeding onto areas it shouldn’t, including the washroom mirror trim. A taped-up cup holder covers the washroom light switch. The ceiling has water stains, and the acoustic tiles are blackened with grime.

The donair spits sit empty, surrounded by heavily burned foil, while a pile of Aladdin meat rests in a black pot waiting to be thrown onto the grill. Two tiny Samsung TVs offer little entertainment: one cycles through photos of the food, while the other sits on a home screen with options like YouTube and Disney+. A large canvas print of gondolas drifting through Venetian waters hangs on the wall—maybe to complement the pasta they have on the menu?

I skipped the sweet sauce this time around because that stuff’s been giving me acne breakouts, making me look like that guy from the old ’90s commercial who complained, “People don’t see the real me; they just see my acne problem.” So I opted for the spicy garlic sauce. A lamentable decision.

The heat seemed to come from a Buffalo-style sauce. It was garlicky, but in an unpleasant way—and tasted like the bastard child of Miracle Whip and Frank’s RedHot. It overwhelmed the meat, which already tasted old and was served on the colder side—thinly sliced, browned at some point, but not recently. The sauce lingered in my mouth for at least an hour, coating my teeth, numbing my lips, and leaving behind the kind of foul aftertaste you get after dental work when your mouth is full of fluoride.

The wrap job was garbage. They used a Mediterranean Pita Bakery pita and insulted it with incompetence: big, chunky, pointy pieces of iceberg lettuce, thick, soggy tomato wedges, barely any cheese, and so much moisture that everything collapsed toward the end like Drew Barrymore’s guts in Scream.

It was an ugly mess—and it wasn’t good-looking to begin with. Light orange sauce streaked the cold pita, while a piece of tomato and a chunk of lettuce protruded from the wrap like antennae.

There’s no donair love here. Maybe the Indo-Chinese menu is where they shine, but the donair side of the business feels like an afterthought. This is no dream; it’s a nightmare—and one I hope never to experience again. I’d rather run into Freddy Krueger in my dreams than this donair.

My Rating: 0.7 / 5

06/19/2026

Dream is the next stop on my Donair Odyssey.

How do you feel about this joint?

06/16/2026

Ram’s Donair Odyssey, Chapter 11
Olympus Donair
5639 Riverbend Road

Regular Cheese Donair $13.50

In high school, I didn’t like the Punjabi kids from Riverbend.

They were often snooty, born with a silver spoon, and usually didn’t know how to speak Punjabi. Their parents had integrated decades ago. Some of them had even drifted away from the mother tongue and Punjabi culture, and they looked down on Mill Woods.

And Riverbend got away with things we couldn’t get away with. They were hit by drive-by shootings, but their reputation was never tarnished the way Mill Woods’s was. Because Mill Woods was browner, more blue collar, and home to less-established immigrant families.

The Riverbend kids didn’t struggle like we did. Their parents were educated, established, and often well-off. Those kids weren’t getting beaten after every mistake because their parents understood the concept of negative punishment. Our parents just knew the wooden spoon. The Riverbend kids had palatial two-storey homes with fully developed basements. I was raised in a bilevel with an unfinished basement and the smallest bedroom.

There was a cultural and financial divide between us and them, and I experienced it firsthand in the IB program at Harry Ainlay. They were the Socs to our Greasers. They had physicians and dentists for parents; my father bent steel for a living. And that’s not a shot at my dad—but we were coming of age in the shiny suit era of hip hop, when everything was materialistic. They had German cars, Sega Dreamcasts, rec rooms in the basement, and other things I didn’t. I despised them for that.

I don’t carry the same disdain or jealousy these days, but I still detect a touch of smugness in Riverbend. There are realtors who specialize in Riverbend properties—Riverbend Rickys who know neighbourhoods like Rhatigan Ridge, Bulyea Heights, and Brander Gardens inside out. But you’ll never find a Mill Woods Malkit specializing in Satoo, Ekota, and Menisa.

I was afraid my old feelings would be reawakened when I visited Olympus Donair, the one recommendation I received from Riverbend.

I expected a white-tiled, spotless operation surrounded by luxurious homes.

Instead, I found a modest shop tucked into an aging strip mall surrounded by low-rise apartments—a far cry from the Riverbend I expected. It felt working class, much like Mill Woods.

I didn’t feel out of place—or inferior.

Inside, things were plain. The ceiling was mostly black with some orange. Stock images of burgers, chicken fingers, and fries hung on the walls. A Canadian flag. Gold-framed Arabic calligraphy. Two black banquettes with brown tables and black chairs. A Samsung TV in the corner played FIFA while the Quran echoed through the speakers, creating a tranquil vibe.

While I ordered my donair, a beam of afternoon sunlight cut through the large windows and landed on my four-year-old daughter, making her look like a farishta. For a moment, I nearly got teary-eyed.

I bought her a bottle of Minute Maid orange juice, which the server, Mohammed, shook before handing it to me. It was hard to decide on a drink because they had a solid selection, including Dr Pepper, A&W Root Beer, Gatorade, and SunRype juice boxes.

Mohammed, a bearded Syrian-Canadian in his twenties, has owned Olympus with his family for 13 years. He showed none of the now-stereotypical surliness I’ve come to expect from donair shops. There was a warmth to his voice, as if he understood the value of being kind to the customers who support his family’s business. He answered all my questions and let me be as inquisitive as I wanted.

The beef comes from Aladdin. The chicken is homemade. The pita comes from the Mediterranean Pita Bakery in Glengarry—Mohammed even showed me the branding on the bag. Nobody has been that transparent with me, so far.

He used an electric slicer on the spit—which I’m not a fan of because it produces such uniform cuts. I prefer a machete-like blade, which usually gives you a mix of thick and thin slices that makes each bite a little different. The meat at Olympus was shaved pretty thin, slightly spicy, and tasted almost identical—albeit a bit warmer—to the Aladdin beef I had at Eddie’s Donair & Pizza.

I was distracted by my daughter for a minute or two and didn’t notice whether Mohammed cooked the meat a second time on the flat top, but I detected no char or crispness.

He wrapped the beef with mozzarella, tomatoes, pickles, banana peppers, and sweet sauce inside the lightly toasted pita. The donair was packed snugly in foil, with a small plastic bag underneath to catch excess sauce, then placed inside a paper bag with three napkins.

The vegetables all held their composure. Nothing was wet or wilted, and everything was evenly distributed. Mohammed seemed to understand that the veggies were supporting characters, allowing the beef to remain the protagonist. The bottom of the pita eventually turned orange from the sweet sauce and banana peppers, but it never became soggy, and every bite remained fantastic—the creamy sauce was present throughout, coating the meat.

Although the vegetables played their supporting roles well, the mozzarella refused to stay in the background. It attached itself to nearly every bite and occasionally overpowered the donair like Diddy ad-libs on a Biggie song—but in a good way. I really like cheesy donairs.

After finishing, I was tempted to buy some Sour Patch Kids from Mohammed—Olympus sells Sour Patch Kids in four flavours, including grape and strawberry—and munch on them with my daughter while wandering around Brander Gardens to get a better feel for the Riverbend I once envied, despised, and avoided.

But my four-year-old had other plans and insisted we head home to use the potty.

Like me, she doesn’t like public washrooms.

Ram’s Rating: 4.3 / 5

06/14/2026

Did you know I wrote a play? It premieres in August.

So, over the next two months, it’s going to be a lot of memorization, rehearsals, anxiety, and self-doubt. As a result, the donair reviews will be a little more sporadic. They’ll still come, just not at the pace of 10 in a month like I recently did.

Partly because I’ll be busy with the play—and partly because reviewing 10 donairs in a month at 41 is kinda unhinged and bordering on self-destruction.

06/13/2026

A reader sent me this yesterday. According to ChatGPT (i.e. Skynet), I’m the 8th best food writer in Edmonton.

That’s not bad.

I’ll take it.

06/13/2026

I was ambushed with an interview on my own podcast by the two other Brown Dads. If you want to hear a deep-dive conversation with me, check it out. We talk origin stories, butter chicken in London, the upcoming Fringe play, and more.

Hosted by Pavan, Ramneek, and Patwant. 3 Brown Dads is where cult...

06/12/2026

This Haligonian snapped on me the other day. I didn’t know how to respond to his lengthy, difficult-to-follow message, so I replied, “Sounds like the plot of Oliver Stone’s JFK.” His response: “Enjoy your crap donairs.”

Why do donairs make people so unhinged?

06/11/2026

Edit: This is not a top 10 list—it’s simply a ranking of the 10 donair shops I’ve tried so far.

A local realtor asked if I could provide an updated ranking list every 5 or 10 entries in the Donair Odyssey.

So, here’s the first one.

Remember: this list is entirely subjective and indicative of my tastes, my experiences, and my opinions. There’s genuinely no need to lose your cool and explode over it.

1. High Voltage (4.6—for the Super Hog)
2. Amean Pizza, Donair & Sub (4.5)
3. Magma Donair (4.2)
4. Eddie’s Donair & Pizza (4.15)
5. Firezone Pizza & Donair (4.1)
6. Donair Bros (4.1)
7. Swiss Donair (4)
8. Mike’s Famous (3.1)
9. Columbus Pizza & Donair (1.2)
10. Donair Station (0.5)

06/11/2026

Ram’s Donair Odyssey, Chapter 10:
Eddie’s Donair & Pizza
9520 163 Street NW

Regular Donair with Cheese $12.79

A year ago, Eddie’s Donair & Pizza in Glenwood used to be Tastii Donair & Pizza.

I taste-tested the latter for a house party I was throwing a week later and they failed miserably—they made terrible pizza: uncooked cheese, soggy veggies, and dough harder than my Astronomy 122 final exam.

The only redeeming thing about Tastii was that they had WrestleFest: my favourite arcade game from childhood.

Before my birthday parties in the early 90s, my dad would always buy Crown Royal, Black Label, and Labatt Blue from the government-owned liquor store in Millbourne Mall. He knew I’d get bored waiting around, so he’d give me coins for the arcade—and I’d always play WrestleFest.

I was good, but never knew how to pin opponents. Once I faced this older white dude—handsome, could’ve passed for a New Kid on the Block. I destroyed him with Earthquake, hit him with two finishers—he was playing as the Big Boss Man—and I kept asking him how to pin.

The bastard wouldn’t tell me.

Then he beat me.

I sulked a little, but Dad came back with his bag of booze and took me to Dairy Queen for burgers, which made me happy—I was a fat fast-food kid and forever remain one.

WrestleFest nostalgia aside, Tastii still made an awful pizza, and I’m not surprised to see them replaced by Eddie’s.

It’s in the Westgate Plaza, next to a halal meat shop, a Rexall drugstore, a Medicentre, and Eddie’s Barbershop (I wonder if the donair-maker doubles as a barber, like Brutus Beefcake doubled as a barber and wrestler).

The plaza faces modest 1950s bungalows, many now being demolished and replaced by those ugly box-like infill duplexes and triplexes that tower over the remaining original homes, block their sunlight, and completely ruin the look of an established neighbourhood.

Inside Eddie’s, it still looks much like Tastii did: bright and clean, with black tables and chairs, a tall drink cooler stocked with the usual suspects (Pepsi, Coke, 7UP), four screens displaying the menu, and another large TV showing some travel program. I wish it had been showing the NBA Finals instead.

I haven’t followed basketball closely since 2004, but I want the Knicks to win because I want die-hard Knicks fan Spike Lee to be happy. He’s one of my heroes. His films shaped me as a young adult. They taught me about race relations, navigating your marginalized status, turning it into a strength, and fighting the power.

On a much less important note, Eddie’s is a party pooper and got rid of WrestleFest, so I couldn’t enjoy a game… and I even brought quarters to play. In its place now: the trash and recycle.

All three spits were naked and still.

There was a frying pan with a K2-sized mountain of pre-sliced meat—short, thick chunks, some of them leaning over the edge.

The server—who resembled Taylor Negron, but with glasses, a Lebanese accent, and a surlier disposition—fried a hefty amount on the flat top and packed it into a soft, slightly toasted pita. A tight foil cover job helped it hold everything together, resulting in only minor spillage.

The melted cheese had fully assimilated. The lettuce was slightly wilted—and for a second I understood why Haligonians hate it—but the rest of the veggies—tomatoes, banana peppers, and pickles—were fresh and gave the donair an acidic jolt.

The thing was absolutely loaded with beef and surprisingly filling—usually a regular-sized donair leaves me hungry for more.

And it was Aladdin meat, which I like. It has more of a peppery kick than its major rival and pinches your throat after each swallow. A nice masochistic burn.

But it could’ve used more sweet sauce. Eddie’s version is smooth, not too runny and not too goopy. There just wasn’t enough of it. A lot of the bites tasted almost entirely of meat, making you feel like a caveman on a carnivorous tear and resulting in some meat sweats in my wife’s Toyota.

Although I was content eating my donair in the car, I saved half of it for home so I could watch the Knicks mount the most miraculous comeback, erasing a 29-point deficit against the Spurs.

Like I said, I’m no longer invested in basketball. I was heavily invested when the Knicks lost to the Rockets in ’94 and when they lost to the Spurs in 2000, but now I just don’t really care too much. I’m mostly a hockey guy in my 40s.

Still, it was so nice to see Spike Lee—covered in blue and orange, like always—celebrating like he just won an Oscar for BlacKkKlansman. He’s exactly my dad’s age and was like a surrogate pop culture father to me.

And he gave us classics: Do the Right Thing, Malcolm X, Clockers, Bamboozled, and more. He deserves all the happiness in his golden years.

And I’m here for it—donair in hand.

Ram’s Rating: 4.15 / 5

06/09/2026

How do you even respond to this?

Like seriously, I don’t even think my Donair Station review was mean-spirited. I praised their drink selection, the dining room layout, and the spring breeze flowing through the restaurant.

Also… since we’re all family—according to this guy—I’ll see you at Hardeep’s wedding this Saturday.