As I exited my lower Manhattan office building and crossed the street to Zucotti Park, a whistle from the World Trade Center construction site keened. It was lunchtime. A rumble in my belly, along with an advancing army of hardhats and suits in search of sustenance, told me I’d better plan my lunch strategy quickly.
However, looking at the wall of colorful food carts that lined the far end of the park, I was unexpectedly flummoxed. I had never eaten in the park before and had no clue what was good. I did a quick scan. There were a bunch of Halal carts offering chicken and gyro platters, a few fruit vendors, a farm stand selling pies and bread, and another cart obscured by a line of at least twenty people. I peered past the line to the sign on the cart which read “Sam’s Falafel.” A spicy aroma wafted by, triggering a reflexive “mmmmm.” I quickly ran to the back of the growing line that snaked through the park.
Sharp-looking office workers, camera-toting tourists, and massive construction workers waited on line patiently. I, on the other hand, with my stomach growling and my lunch break ticking away, fidgeted and surveyed the other stalls. None of them had a line like this. Others were getting their food quickly and happily devouring it within my sight.
“Why is this line so long?” I asked the guy in front of me.
“Sam’s is the best falafel.” he said matter-of-factly.
I waited two minutes more and looked ahead. There were still at least fifteen people before me. With my senses swimming in heady falafel smoke, I bailed on pita-wrapped chickpea nirvana and ran like a madman across Broadway to some more carts clustered around Noguchi’s red cube.
Once again, there were a bunch of carts but only one with an enormous line. I approached a man on the line. “Can you get good falafel here?”
The man shook his head, “No my friend, this one is good for chicken. That is where you get the best falafel.” My eyes followed his outstretched arm to a cart with a line only about five deep, Alan’s Falafel. I gave my thanks, joined the line and soon a man whom I assumed was Alan poked his head out of the cart and asked for my order.
“Hey, I heard you had the best falafel.”
Alan beamed, “You better believe it. Seventeen years around here.”
I ordered a falafel sandwich with everything. Alan smiled as he worked, proudly showing me each item as he tossed it in the pita: hummus, baba ghanoush, tzatski, ripe tomato, a big juicy hot pepper, hot sauce, and of course lots of plump falafel patties.
He wrapped it in foil and put it in a brown bag along with a crispy homemade pita chip. “You’re gonna to be back,” he said with a wink as I handed him three dollars.
I walked back to the park, plopped down and hauled out my sandwich. It was colossal. I unwrapped it and breathed in all the falafel goodness. The falafel was pungent and crispy with the perfect amount of herbs and heat. The fresh pepper exploded. The tomatoes were sweet. The hummus was savory. The smoky baba ghanoush, which featured big chunks of eggplant rather than the familiar mush, was a delicious addition.
I looked over at the long line for Sam’s Falafel and noticed that the people were staring jealously at me. “Alan’s,” I said and dreamily took another bite.
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