Felafel Theft, Round 2

It's no secret to anyone who has frequented the centre of Jerusalem that Moshiko holds the crown in the arena of fabulous felafel and schwarma. While I am open to debate and have other favourites in the region, Moshiko's fried eggplant, incredible hummous, fresh lafas (flatbreads), and heavenly spiced schwarma definitely put them in the running for favourite. I, however, have a destiny with Moshiko that makes me think maybe I'm meant to find another local for the Israeli snack.

It all began two years ago, on my last visit to Jerusalem. I was on Ben Yehuda St, the famous promenade, or 'midrechov' in the centre of Jerusalem, where foreign tourists, street performers, ragtag beggars and American students are magnetically attracted on Thursday nights and Friday mornings. The particular corner where Moshiko holds court also boasts the famous "Fro Yo" icecream shop, and the outdoor tables are always full to bursting on a Friday morning. By Friday afternoon, however town begins to die down as everyone heads home to prepare for the traditional Shabbat evening dinner. We were town rats at the time, living in a rented apartment at a major intersection, and felt like we deserved to hang out while there was peace and quiet. After all, it was our front yard.

With my felafel in hand, I was busy discussing the secrets of the universe (I'd like to think it was nothing less than that) with my friends when a beggar approached. His skin was dark as a walnut and his hair grey and grizzly. His teeth were bright yellow to match the 'whites' of his eyes, which were rolling around in his head like a crazy person. Having already begged from us to no avail, he pounced upon our table, eyes alight and stared at my felafel in hand.

"ANI RE'EV!" he shrieked with the sound only a crazy man can make, and grabbed it from my hand. He squealed like the cats he used to hang with so often, and knocked my empty diet coke can off the table, letting it roll around near the garbage bins where his feline best friends stood watching.

He chomped on my felafel like it was his first meal in days, which I don't doubt it was. It became a story for me to tell, the felafel thief, outside Moshiko.

That's until Round 2 happened again last night.

I was counting the days until my next Moshiko visit, and last night headed over there with my cousin for the best felafel lafa I had eaten in a while. Halfway through my meal, I ventured back inside for a drink, leaving my paper bag with a half sandwich sitting on the table.

I returned moments later to find it was GONE! GONE WITH THE WIND.

The felafel thief had struck again. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it was the same man. I could've sworn I saw him wheeling around the garbage bins a little later. I reckon they've given him a promotion and he now eats all the leftover felafel he wants.

(There is a happy ending to the story. I found my felafel in the bin. There is no resolution to the mystery of how it got there, particularly since my cousin was sitting at the table the entire time. She was, however, momentarily distracted when a crowd of drunk kids were thrown out of the eating area. The half eaten felafel was found in the rubbish bin, and the lovely folk at Moshiko provided me with another one on the house.)