NOTES FROM LONDON
Many years ago, during the first uprisings, King Falafel was deposed from his tiny sheikdom. After a tearful farewell, he moved his young family and old mother to London’s Camden Town to begin a new life.
He built a thriving sandwich business and dreamt of the day he would pass it down to his teenage son. But Prince Falafel only wanted to dance.
Late at night, instead of baking pocket bread and preparing the frying oil, Prince Falafel would slip out into the night. Usually he could be found in the King’s Cross tube tunnels, dancing the Garbanzo Grind with a smile as wide as a coriander corridor.
The prince would return home in the wee hours, exhausted but satisfied. This perplexed the King. Why didn’t his son want to succeed him in all matters falafel?
It was the Dowager Empress who explained it to the confounded king. Empress Chick-Pea (Her maiden name was Tahini Chick but after she married her most-loving husband, Pita Pea, she hyphenated her last name.)
“My grandson just wishes to express himself the best way he knows how,” she reasoned. “That’s why you yourself set up your shop. It’s only natural to follow your dreams. It’s only cumin.”