http://www.nytimes.com/2014/12/24/dining/hungry-city-the-halal-guys.html 2014-12-18 18:14:33 The Halal Guys in the East Village With four carts, a restaurant in the East Village and one set to open on the Upper West Side, Halal Guys patrons can’t get enough of the white sauce. === A little over two decades ago, a nameless food cart on the southwestern corner of The cart was run by three Egyptian immigrants — Mohamed Abouelenein, from Cairo, and Ahmed Elsaka and Abdelbaset Elsayed, from Alexandria — and open from evening until near dawn. Their plan was to cater to Muslim cabdrivers. They wound up feeding raccoon-eyed club kids, along with what seemed like half the city. Lines reeled Today the business, officially named The menu at the Halal Guys carts remains as brief as ever: lamb, roasted on a rotating spit and chopped to bits before a final crisping on a flat-top grill; chicken, simply grilled; falafel. The lamb is the draw, sharply seasoned, with just enough melting fat. The chicken is worthy, but next to the lamb, an eternal bridesmaid; the falafel, dry. (Enter white sauce.) You want that as a sandwich or over rice? I vote rice, the sleeper ingredient, loose Basmati stained bright orange, most likely from turmeric and paprika, because no one is using saffron at $7 a plate. An accompanying handful of cool iceberg lettuce nicely cuts the salt. Sandwiches are cheaper ($5), but the pita is too thick and never quite warm enough. At the East Village restaurant, which opened in June, the same heaping platters, still served in round aluminum bins, are slightly more expensive, at $8; smaller and arguably more reasonable portions are available for $7. Additions to the menu include kufta, an oniony beef sausage that is no challenger to the rule of lamb, and frankly sweet pastries like basbousa, a semolina cake exuding syrup. The space is utilitarian, with tables crowded up front, next to an empty stand intended to sell fresh juices, an idea that has been scrapped. The restaurant was designed before thought was given to franchising, said Ahmed Abouelenein, the chief executive and son of Mohamed, the founding partner. The new outpost on Amsterdam Avenue near 95th Street will have more character, with spry line drawings on the walls of customers — a muscly construction worker, a stooped old lady, an erstwhile master of the universe — queuing at the Midtown cart. There are still lines, but waits are shorter and, crucially, white sauce is available on demand, from giant squeeze bottles stocked in a bodega-like cold case. There are red bottles, too, filled with the cart’s almost equally legendary hot sauce, which throws flames down the throat but extinguishes itself so quickly, you immediately want more. But it’s the white sauce, always the white sauce, that draws everybody in, from uniformed cops to dainty girls whose palates otherwise incline to macarons. The recipe has never been divulged or properly decoded, although many have tried. Mr. Abouelenein allows that there’s mayo in it; the rest is silence. Get ready to taste it, America. It is tangy yet mellow, creamy yet deceptively light, with vague and probably spurious allusions to ranch dressing and tzatziki, a strong implication of garlic and lemon, and maybe even (wild card) tahini. But we will never know the truth, and that is half the thrill.