Huge Falafel

Sit down for this one. We're doing falafel and I need you focused, eyes forward, phone in the drawer — because most falafel walking around out there is a TRAGEDY. Dry. Crumbly. A sad little hockey puck rolled out of a box that's been sitting on a grocery store shelf since the BRONZE AGE. I won't name names. I don't have to. You know who you are.

My falafel? HUGE. Crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, green in the middle like a beautiful little meadow of herbs and chickpeas. An old woman cornered me in a market in Jaffa once — tiny woman, hands like steel cables — and made me promise to do it her way. She tasted mine, she nodded once, and she walked off. That's the highest compliment a falafel will ever receive in this lifetime, trust me.

The secret is DRIED chickpeas. Not canned. NEVER canned. Canned chickpeas in falafel is a CRIME. It's a felony in seven countries and it should be in more. You soak the dried chickpeas overnight, you do NOT cook them, you grind them raw, and that — THAT — is how you get the texture. Most chefs are afraid to do this. They want shortcuts. They tell their readers 'use a can, it's faster' and then the falafel falls apart in the oil like a sad little sandcastle. Embarrassing. If your chef tells you otherwise, find a new chef. We're doing it the right way. The huge way. The Bigly way. Believe me.

And there you have it. Huge falafel. The greatest falafel in the history of falafel — and there's been a LOT of falafel, the Phoenicians had it, the Mesopotamians had a version, this stuff is older than France, older than Italy, older than time itself — and you just made some that beats every single street vendor, every single chain, every single sad little frozen box in the freezer aisle. Serve it with real tahini, not the watery stuff. Stuff it in a warm pita. Add a little pickled turnip if you can find it, those bright pink ones, beautiful, looks like a sunset. Your family will eat them all and demand more. Make a double batch. Always make a double batch. Tremendous.