We had been walking for over an hour, arguing about whether the last place had actually been closed or whether we had simply failed to understand the door. By then, standards had slipped. A glowing menu board and the smell of fried chickpeas were enough. The man behind the counter watched us read every option before ordering exactly what everyone orders. He moved quickly, adding pickles, herbs, sauce, then more sauce. When I asked what he recommended, he tapped the red bottle.
That should have been the warning. The first bite was excellent. Crisp falafel, soft bread, lemon, garlic, something sharp and fresh. The second bite introduced the fire. By the third, nobody was talking. The man leaned through the window and gave us a thumbs-up. We gave one back because pride is a strange and persistent illness.
He eventually handed us two cups of something cold and sweet, apparently deciding we had suffered enough. We stood outside eating in silence while buses passed and the city carried on without concern for our condition. It wasn’t the meal we had been looking for. It was better: cheap, generous, slightly hostile, and impossible to forget.
