Falaffel and the Oral Orgasm.

I realized earlier today that my readership is either much higher than I'd originally thought or bit.ly is inaccurate. Perhaps it's deathly accurate, and I'm only talking to each of the individuals in person or elsewhere. It's good to know. Whichever the case, feedback is always amazing. Please reader(s), feel inclined to leave some in some way. You won't be trolling if you go off tangent, nor will you be ignored. I reply to just about everything anyone ever says to me (until the natural end of the conversation, naturally), and I try not to just say "Thanks for commenting!" which would be pointless.

Now that that bit's over, a quick attempt at a long ago promised post. Names have been changed.

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We walked through St. Mark's Place in Manhattan, the seven of us. Myself, John, Ivan, Calvin, Sylvia, Caitlin and my love had made our way from the ferry, getting off the train near NYU. I've never been a very good New Yorker, despite living here my whole life. I only recently discovered St. Mark's (as both a street and location) the week before, going to SingSing for a friend's birthday party. On the way there I'd been thoroughly lost, wandering half a mile in the wrong direction, into the heart of NYU. John and Ivan came to this area frequently though, effectively saving my sense of direction.

Our quest was simple: Mamoun's Falaffel. Another friend - who ironically was unable to make it - wanted to try them in an effort to get back to middle-eastern heritage through the stomach. I'd never tried falaffel before, though I'd heard amazing things about it. I knew it somehow involved chick-peas, but that was about it.

The busy street was apparently the center of Grenwich Village, though I'd never been able to go when I was younger. My parents were thoroughly terrified of The Village from when they were younger. They remembered the 70's and 80's, and remembered this area as a den of homosexuality and stabbings. I don't think they realized that thirty years is a long time for an area to change. I saw very little of either while there.

We passed a sex shop and a bar to our right, shortly there after hitting Mamoun's. The restaurant was literally half a basement, with a short set of stairs leading down to the two store fronts that sat under the building. In front was a small patio area with two tables under an awning with a plate-glass window backdrop. If one wasn't paying attention, one could completely pass it without ever knowing its existence.

The ladies in our group almost stereotypically splintered off to hunt a rest room at one of the local places, so the four remaining went inside.

It was narrow and poorly lit. The smell of fresh hummus and oil assaulted us as we opened the door. At the far end of the shaft of a room was the kitchen, counter, and the start of a very long line. The air was much warmer than the winter-bite outside, and music written in sliding keys created an authentic atmosphere. There were three very full tables to the side, almost taunting the line with the promise of deliciousness.

After a surprisingly short wait we were all loaded up with inexpensive chick-pea variants and sliced bits of lamb and pita with no place besides the patio free.

I got a shawarma (similar to a gyro, but the sauce is creamier and lacks the sweetness of a cucumber) and a side order of falaffel. Apparently they're meatballs made of chick-pea instead of beef. A mango juice eventually found its way to my side as well. Shawarma was quite tasty, but very different from how it was described to me ("It's a Middle-Eastern gyro," someone said). Should you ever have one, know that it is nothing like a gyro outside of being a flat bread with lamb.

Then I finally tried falaffel.

I went in for another order after the three in the side order were finished. I also got some to bring home and eat the next day for lunch.

I'm not fully sold on Middle Eastern food, but I went back again the next week. I've often contemplated going back on a more regular basis, but the commute probably isn't worth it from my house. I have found myself making excuses whenever I'm in Manhattan to try to go there though.

The group fully met up again and went home, none of the ladies really liking chick-peas and finding themselves far more interested in the street merchants. It's almost a bad joke how the stereotypes were embraced that night.

I'm sure this probably reads like an advertisement now. I don't care, the amazing that this evening was had to be shared. If you ever go to The Village, try them. They're probably considerably more healthy than all the terrible food you could've got elsewhere for twice the cost.