Wednesday, June 17, 2020

I’m surprised to see this falafel joint here, one town over. The one just like it in my town is my favorite, though I rarely go there. It’s nearby as the crow flies, but I’m too heavy to hitch a ride on a crow, and I don’t often walk in that direction. Apparently it’s one of a chain. I don’t know if more than the two of them exist. The worker asks me what I want. I say “Falafel.” He asks me, in Hebrew, if I want him to speak Hebrew or English. Apparently, saying that one word gave me away. The “F” sound is the same in both languages, I think, but the vowels differ, as does the “L”, especially at the end of a word. I ask him to speak Hebrew. I can handle it. Over a dozen different items can go in the pita along with the falafel balls. He asks me if I want each one. I pause when he says the name of one of them. I don’t recognize the word. He says, in English, “it is a garlic and mint sauce with a bit of spiciness.” That sounds good. The shop is called either “Chayim’s Falafel” or “The Falafel of Life.” Names here are often still active as words. Translations get interesting. Google Translate once told me that someone on the office WhatsApp channel had said “An angel or tree might know that, but a deer would not.” It made sense at the time. The worker sticks a breaded slice of sweet potato at the top of the pita. I sit down with the falafel and a lemonade at a table far from the others, take off my mask, and eat.