Let me set the record straight. It’s “YEER-oh,” not “JAI-roh”. Technically, in Greek it’s γύρος, pronounced sort of like “yeer-oh-ss”— and that’s singular. Whenever someone talks about how much they love eating “jai-rohs,” I’m transported back to seventh grade Spanish class where I would have to hear “quay-so” and “hole-ah” every day. Greek food, and gyros especially, is near and dear to my heart, so I would appreciate it if we could all be on the same page about its orthoepy, at the very least. 

Named for the way the meat is cooked on a vertical rotating spit, gyros is one of the most recognizable and popular icons of Greek cuisine. Plenty of approximations of Greek gyros and Middle Eastern variations, such as shawarma and doner kebab, can be found throughout the U.S. While I can’t speak to the authenticity of those interpretations, I can confidently say that American gyros is nowhere close to the real thing.

I grew up eating Greek gyros, probably consuming my weight in pita sandwiches every summer and didn’t try an American version until I was in middle school. I was absolutely appalled by the thick, chewy strips of roasted lamb thrown into a floppy flatbread and drowned in tzatziki to disguise the sandwich’s subpar flavor and texture. The gyros I know and love are usually pork or chicken meat, served as paper thin slices, shaved fresh off the rotisserie. Similar to the bark of a smoked brisket, these meat shavings are crispy and charred on one side, tender and juicy on the other. 

I love catching a gyros restaurant in the early afternoon when they start roasting new spits before lunch service. The meat cones are comically large next to the chefs scraping away at them, and if you’re first in line, you know you’re guaranteed the best bits from the fresh crust. Every day during lunch, the streets of Thessaloniki seem to spontaneously exude the scent of fatty, roasting meat; the smell is so strong that I’m shocked the thousands of stray dogs in the city don’t immediately come running. 

Traditionally, gyros is served in a pita with tomatoes, onions and fries. While many associate tzatziki sauce with gyros, its popularity is primarily seen in Athens, whereas in northern Greece, ketchup and mustard are the default condiments on most gyros sandwiches. Personally, I eschew all dressings and order my gyros simply with tomatoes and onions. Too many toppings gets messy and confusing, I prefer to get a clean bite where the sharp taste of the raw vegetables balances out the richness of the meat.

However, during my trip this year I noticed that many places are deviating from the traditional style of gyros. When I walked up to our favorite gyros spot, I was taken aback by the modernization that had occurred during my year away. There was a neon sign, online order kiosk and a new menu that included some unconventional sandwiches, including a tortilla wrap and a 40-centimeter sub.

At first, I mourned the loss of what I had come to consider the quintessential gyros experience, pure and uncorrupted by the influence of sensational food trends and Americanization. I didn’t want to go up to a kiosk like I was ordering at McDonald’s, I wanted to have to stand in line behind a Russian tour group as they all tried to communicate their orders to the one English-speaking member. I didn’t want a salad bowl-style gyros, I wanted a food coma-inducing pile of savory meat and fries.

But the person who I least expected to embrace this change came out with a surprising request. My grandfather, born and raised in Thessaloniki, has never explored any food outside of Greek cuisine, partially because the city doesn’t have many international restaurants and mostly because my grandfather doesn’t believe anything could be better than a traditional Greek meal. 

This nearly 80-year-old, hyper-orthodox man, who considers burritos an “abomination,” turned out to be taking full advantage of the emerging era of gyros customization. He sent us out to get him a gyros served in ciabatta bread, without tomatoes, onions, fries, ketchup or mustard — essentially, everything they usually put in the sandwich. Then, he wanted to add feta salad, which has tomatoes and onions, so let me ask, what was the point of removing them in the first place? 

I was shocked to see this adaptability from my grandfather of all people, but it made me reconsider my stance on the modernization of my beloved gyros. Perhaps it wasn’t a sign of American media invading Greek culture, but of Greek people taking inspiration from foreign foods that were previously inaccessible, but are now widespread and dominating online discussions. And that, ultimately, is a good thing, since fusion is how most new foods are formed.

I’ll admit that though I still haven’t come around to my grandfather’s feta salad creation, I have tried a ciabatta gyros sandwich, and it was pretty damn good. And whether I’m on board with it or not, it seems like this trend of custom and creative sandwiches is going to continue spreading through Greek cuisine.

Next year, I may have to start becoming more experimental with my gyros order. Lettuce wrap, anyone?