One day about a month ago, I came to find my trusted friend of five plus years had never experienced the sumptuous joys of falafel.
It wasn’t ignorance that had kept him from falafel, or pettiness. Kevin, unfortunately, spent most of his life confined to the deep south, geographically isolated from, well, everything.
Luckily, he and Cynthia happened to be moving to Chicago while I was on vacation. Despite the fact he was overwhelmingly busy, getting his house in order, compiling his portfolio, planning the rest of his life, I forced him on a date with me to Sultan’s. This falafelless sham of an existence had to end, for his sake, and for the sake of our friendship.
We each got a pita sandwich filled with falafel, Jerusalem salad, and ifrit magic, and sat outside to eat. He unwrapped it stoically, took a deep breath, had a few bites, and decided it tasted too much of pickles.
At least I got to eat two falafel sandwiches that day.