The Falafel King | ملك الفلافل
"He runs the best falafel shop in Brooklyn. She's the food critic who comes to review it. One taste changes everything—including what they're hungry for."
The Falafel King
ملك الفلافل
Hamza's Falafel has a three-hour wait.
No reservations. No apps. Just a line that wraps around Atlantic Avenue.
I'm here to find out why.
I'm Diana.
Forty-three, food critic for the New York Times. I've eaten everywhere. This is just another assignment.
Then I taste the falafel.
"Ya Allah."
It escapes before I can stop it. The man behind the counter—presumably Hamza—grins.
"Good?"
"That's not good. That's religious experience."
"High praise from a critic."
"You know who I am?"
"Everyone knows who you are, Ms. Torres. The question is whether you know what you're eating."
He shows me.
The chickpeas, soaked for twenty-four hours. The herbs, grown on his roof. The tahini, ground by hand.
"This is obsessive," I observe.
"This is love. There's a difference."
He's maybe fifty.
Syrian, arrived during the war. He built this empire from a food cart, he tells me. Now there are lines around the block.
"Why not expand? Franchise?"
"Because then it's business. This is still feeding people."
"Can I interview you? For the piece?"
"Will I get a good review?"
"That depends on the interview."
"Then let's make it a good interview."
He closes the shop for me.
After hours, just us. He makes mezze I didn't order—hummus, baba ganoush, things not on the menu.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because food critics review the food. I want you to understand the person."
"What should I understand about you?"
"That I lost everything in Aleppo. My restaurant, my wife, my whole life. I came here with nothing." He gestures at the shop. "I built this because cooking is the only way I know how to love."
"That's... incredibly personal."
"You asked."
We talk until midnight.
About food, about loss, about the strange alchemy that turns ingredients into comfort. He listens like he's taking notes on my soul.
"You don't seem happy," he observes.
"What makes you say that?"
"Sad people recognize sad people. It's a skill."
"My divorce finalized last month."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was wrong for me. I just didn't notice until it was over."
"What would right look like?"
"I don't know anymore."
"Would you like to find out?"
It's 2 AM. We've eaten everything. The shop is quiet around us.
"Hamza—"
"I'm not asking for anything complicated. Just... come back tomorrow. Not as a critic. As someone who wants to eat."
I come back tomorrow.
And the next day. And the next.
He feeds me things that aren't on any menu. I write a review that makes people cry.
"This is the best review I've ever read," he says. "But it's not about falafel."
"It's about everything. Food is just the vehicle."
"What's it really about?"
"Finding home in unexpected places."
The first kiss happens in his kitchen.
Between the deep fryer and the spice rack. He tastes like cumin and possibility.
"This is unprofessional," I say.
"You already published the review."
"Still."
"Still what?"
"Still worth it."
We make love surrounded by food.
On flour-dusted counters, in the walk-in cooler (briefly—too cold), finally on blankets in the back.
"Beautiful," he says.
"I'm not thin—"
"You're substantial. Like good bread. The kind that fills you up."
One year later
We're married now.
Small ceremony at the restaurant. Falafel at the reception.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Fed. Which might be the same thing."
"It definitely is."
I still review restaurants.
But I come home to his cooking every night. To a man who feeds people because he lost everything and decided to rebuild.
"What's for dinner?" I ask.
"Everything." He pulls me close. "Always everything."
Alhamdulillah.
For falafel that heals.
For critics who get personal.
For kings who serve love.
The End.