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Dare I call him the
falafel nazi? No, that would be both ironic and offensive considering
the owner of this establishment is a kosher Israeli guy. Ordering
from him in this cramped little hole-in-the-wall is about as pleasant
as getting dressed down by a hare lipped drill sergeant, but once
you wade through the attitude and sideways glares, you're in for some
serious Middle Eastern grub. Now, this ain't your Americanized Aboud's
hummus-in-a-plastic-tub crap that you buy at Gristede's, and there
ain't no Mr. Thomas making your pita for you. No way, this is some
hearty, earthy shit. The guy behind the counter loads your bready
pocket down with the green stuff, the red stuff, the brown stuff,
and the stuff that smells like a camel's ass before throwing in your
tasty falafel balls and a teaspoon of hummus. The taste is like a
cacophony of delicious, shocking and mildly nasty foreign bombs that
vary from quadrant to quadrant. Man, fifteen years ago I wouldn't
have even tasted a fried chick-pea ball, so the fact that I've moved
on to the real stuff would make my Jewish mom very happy. [MF]
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