Scream of the Week: L'As du Fallafel
L'As du Fallafel is located on a street in Paris that should rightly be called Rue du Fallafel. My mother and I ate there last Wednesday, which was a French national holiday, the Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin. We figured that museums would at least be open for the holiday and struck out for the Musee d'Orsay. Everyone else, that is
many, many tourists and the Parisians left in the city after it empties out in August, had the same idea. We rapidly dispatched the idea, sending it sailing into the Seine, which is across the street from the museum. Instead, we determined to amble along the river to a new museum, what is locally known as the "MQB," or the Musee du quai Branly. On the Eiffel Tower the prior evening we could easily make out the green and blue lights that illuminate the museum's 
garden and the sight whetted our desire to see the place in daylight. Our day time visit revealed some so-so architecture, in my estimation, by Jean Nouvel and a beautiful, wildly landscaped garden by Gilles Clement. (The museum also has a vertical garden, affixed to
the side of a wall, really a brilliant bit of landscaping. It was one of two I saw in Paris. The other was affixed to the side of the men's store for BHV, a local department store.)
I'm sure you're wondering why I'm prattling on about museums when this is supposed to be about falafel. It's just that Paris amazes me with its fecund museum culture. There's a museum there for everything and every time a collection grows too large or a new one is acquired, a new museum is born in another corner of the city. I have to say it outstrips New York's assortment of museums. Plus they go ga-ga with the gardens there. And I thought the Brits loved their gardening!
Prattling again. Back to L'As du Fallafel. After the Musee Branly we got hungry and decided to have a roaming lunch. My mother had lived in the Marais for several years and told me that's where you went on Sunday afternoons, when most Parisians were having a ritualistic lunch, because things were open. She figured it would still be bustling on this very Catholic holiday. When we entered the Rue des Rosiers what greeted us was the sight of throngs of people cradling falafel sandwiches wrapped in forest 
green paper napkins. When I found L'As du Fallafel I found the source of all the sandwiches as well as the distinct green napkins. Both were being handed through a window, in front of which a long queue of people waited impatiently. My mother had lived around the corner for years and never knew that Rue du Fallafel had been right there, under her nose and also under her radar. That's because the falafel universe, as it ought to be known, is relegated to a handful of blocks. L'As is the sun in this system, around which all the other falafel joints turn. Whoo, and they're darn good falafel! Rather than the large patties one finds in the US, these are mini-meatball sized falafel. More crunch per sandwich
because of all that surface area to crisp up in boiling oil. The bread is squishy and fresh and they load the pita with sliced cabbage and roasted slices of eggplant and then douse the whole with a tahini that has, get this, bits of sliced chive in it. Mm, mm, mm. We ate our falafel standing up and idly milling around like everybody else, dodging the odd car that was dumb enough to come down the clotted street.
You'd think that'd be enough to sate me, both experience wise and tastebud wise, but it just got me revved up for more, more Paris (which I spent the week trying to devour, it's so good). On the way out of the Rue des Rosiers, we couldn't help but stick our noses up against the window, or leche vitrine as the French say (literally translated, window licking), of a Jewish bakery called Korcarz et Fils. They had these insane looking gigantic rugelach in the window and a noisette 
(hazelnut, yum) strudel. We waltzed in and emerged a few minutes later with one of those gargantuan rugelach thingies and something called a makroud, which delivered to me a flavor that instantly recalled my childhood in Tunisia. (Madeleine anyone?) I can't say that the flavor would be for everyone as the cookie was comprised of a sweetened semolina dough, rolled densely around a slick of date paste and then fried, or maybe baked. There was a hint of olive oil in there too. Like I said, perhaps not to everybody's liking, but I sure dug it.
Being a gluttonous type, I pressed my mother to visit an Italian gelateria after our pastry course. The gelato
at Pozzetto is the real magilla: unctuous, dense and deeply flavored. My mother opted for a small scoop of watermelon sorbetto. I went all out and got a medium scoop of a combination of hazelnut, pistachio and gianduia. The ingredients for my gelato were all Italian and the pistachio was spectacular, its flavor new to me and not at all like the Californian and Turkish pistachios I'm used to.
Did I mention that this all took place on our last day? Despite the fact that my appetite had been well sated, I felt melancholic. Everything my eyes beheld would be different the next day. It's been nearly twenty years since my last visit to Paris. Geez, I hope it's not going to be another twenty before I visit again.
I must thank David Lebovitz and Dorie Greenspan, without whom my trip could have turned out as grey, culinarily speaking, as the weather we had in Paris. I must also curse them for rendering me a subject of my family's ridicule every time "David" or "Dorie" slipped out of my mouth. Although I do admit I uttered their names often.
L'As du Fallafel is located at 34, Rue des Rosiers, 75004, Paris. 01.42.77.89.94
Korcarz et Fils is located at 29, Rue des Rosiers, 75004, Paris. 01.42.77.39.47
Pozzetto is located at 39, Rue du Roi de Sicile, 75004, Paris. 01.42.77.08.64
