Pita Pit tried to kill me...

Tonight, we couldn't get around to supper until late. We decided to order Pita-Pit. It had been awhile since I've had a good gyro, so I ordered the gyro pita: lamb and beef, romaine lettuce, onions, feta, and tzatziki.

My mouth watered just ordering it. When it arrived, hefty in it's bag, I was very excited. I prepared my TV tray and settled in to watch some Game Show Network with my husband while enjoying a lovely dinner and laughs. (Game Show Network is surprisingly hilarious...) The first bite was not as good as I was hoping. The last gyro I had was two years ago, in OH, at a Pita-Pit, and it was good. I chalked it up to the different states, ingredients, time of night, etc. etc. Then, I took bite number two.

I chewed until I noticed something awkwardly tough. My first guess was that it was stale pita bread or a chunk of extra crispy meat... so I kept chewing. I started to notice it was a bit harder than just some old bread or meat, it was almost like a bone... but it couldn't be a bone... So, I spit it out.

It was exactly one half of a bread tie! A BREAD TIE It wasn't a twist-tie... no... it was a half-square, bright yellow, flat, hard, plastic bread tie. If it were a bit larger, I may have noticed it sooner. But, because it was only half... I nearly swallowed it! I could have choked to death. I could have ripped my esophagus. Not to mention what ungodly contamination could have touched it or whatever else was in the pans.

I am a bit of a germaphobe. I wash my hands quite frequently. I hold my breath when I walk past trash cans or big trucks with lots of exhaust. I began picturing the bread tie being removed, replaced, and removed again and again from a pack of pita shells by unclean hands. I felt like my trust was violated. I trust them to serve me food that won't harm me. It's an unwritten rule... right? Hell, it might be a written rule. Sure, accidents happen, but this was a bright yellow, plastic bread tie! How was this missed? Do they care so little about the pitas they are making? Do they even look at them as they make them? What other things lurk at the bottoms of their vegetable pans?

I am mortified from this experience. I know I certainly won't be eating at the Pita-Pit in Morgantown ever again. In fact, I probably won't eat at any Pita-Pit ever again.

I don't think I'm over-reacting. What if I choked?