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After visiting my aunt and uncle in a nursing home way, way out in South Fayette last evening, Dad decided to treat us on the way back.
The dolmades are still divine, and the fries are twice-cooked, hot fat glory, but that gyro, which I had been itching to sample was a worthy challenger if not the very best I've ever eaten. The pita bread was fresh, plush, and studded with cornmeal, the meat was fall-apart luscious, but the ace in the shirt pocket was the tzatziki sauce which recalled ranch dressing with its union of lardy, tangy, and sweet.
And the baklava was yet again nutty, flaky, honey-drenched pleasure.
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