Gyros Kotopoulo merída is the chicken gyros served as a plate rather than a wrap. Merída means a portion or serving, and ordering it this way changes the dish at a structural level: the bread stops being the vessel and becomes one element among several, arranged on a plate so each component stands on its own. The angle here is composition, not handheld compression.
The plate is built from the same parts but laid out separately. A mound of shaved chicken off the rotating cone takes the center, ribbons crisp at the edges where the cone's outer face cooked. Around it go a folded or quartered round of soft bread, often lightly grilled; a quenelle or pool of tzatziki; sliced tomato; raw onion, sometimes rings; and a heap of fries as their own portion rather than packed inside. A good merída is generous and distinct, each element holding its texture, the chicken still hot and the tzatziki still cold. The way it goes wrong is a stingy mound, fries gone soft from sitting under the meat, or tzatziki spooned over everything so the plate collapses into the same wet uniformity a bad wrap has, just without the paper.
What the plate format buys you is control. You assemble each bite yourself, deciding the ratio of meat to sauce to bread instead of accepting whatever the roll committed to, and you get more chicken than a wrap holds. That only pays off if the kitchen treats the components as a composed dish rather than a wrap's contents tipped onto a plate; the difference shows in whether the fries are crisp and the meat properly shaved.
This is the plated branch of the chicken family. The wrap, the everything build, the lemon-oregano seasoning, the tzatziki-forward version, and the pita-specific assembly each lead from a different variable, and each deserves its own article rather than being crowded in here. The defining trait of the merída is that the components arrive separated and generous, a portion to assemble rather than a sandwich to unwrap.