The Pita's Hotter Than the Plot: A Review of Eli Falafel

We ventured to Eli Falafel Lebanese and Mediterranean restaurant, specifically the one on Jiu Jiang Road.

Now, upon arrival, I thought I'd stumbled onto an open casting call for Arabian Nights. The veranda sounded less like a restaurant and more like a particularly boisterous fish auction in Beirut. Women swathed in what I can only describe as "the full nine yards" of fabric, complete with niqabs, and men who looked suspiciously like they were planning something, were all vigorously shoveling down platters of what appeared to be various forms of deceased animals. A promising sight for a famished soul, mind you, one who yearns for the authentic culinary experience of the East, or at least a good reason to loosen his belt.

The main seating area, however, was as packed as a sardine can at a celebrity convention, and the outside air felt like a hot, wet blanket. So, what did they do with us? They ushered us into a peculiar staircase waiting limbo, a sort of gastronomic purgatory situated precariously between the restaurant and a revolving door — the exit, no less. I half expected to be told to spin myself out of there.

But then, just as I was contemplating a career as a human turnstile, we were led to our table. It was strategically placed between the waiting area and the restaurant's back entrance, offering a prime view of the unsung hero of the establishment: the pita baker. This poor soul was confined to a fenced-in cubicle that must have been an oven's idea of a vacation home, easily over a hundred degrees on his, shall we say, "posterior" or "anterior," depending on his current contortion. Jessie and I, being the empathetic souls we are, absolutely delighted in watching him sweat away, and our patience was rewarded with the first, still-steaming fruits of his labor. Nothing beats a fresh pita, especially when you've witnessed its arduous birth.

We started with matbucha, hummus, and labneh, which is the Middle Eastern equivalent of bread and butter, only with more exotic names. Then came the grilled meat platter, a collection of what I can only describe as the "typical tourist morsels": beef and chicken kebab, meatballs, and lamb. Now, in a country where "thin wet meat" (as in hotpot) is considered haute cuisine, I suppose this was a welcome, albeit chunky, change.

However, having spent some time in the Middle East, a place where the food has sustained the Arab race for millennia, I must confess, this was not quite the gastronomic epiphany I'd hoped for. The meat, bless its heart, suffered from a severe lack of flavor, and it fought me like a prizefighter. I wasn't sure if I was eating kebab or an extra-tough piece of jerky that had decided to stage a rebellion on my plate.

But then, like an apology note from the kitchen, came the Arabic coffee. Its characteristic fragrance of cardamom and cloves, after the aforementioned meat was, shall we say, "disposed of," truly redeemed the meal. And the baklava! Ah, the baklava had a life of its own – a crispy, not-too-sweet, not-too-syrupy papery crust with a distinctly buttery note. It was like a philosophy lesson in dessert form.

So, my dear friends, if you find yourself on Jiu Jiang Road, hankering for an after-dinner coffee and a philosophical baklava, by all means, stop by Eli Falafel. But as for the entrees, they need some time to develop, or perhaps to simply realize their true calling: obscurity. Turn it into a dessert store, I say! Bring in the knafeh! And maybe, just maybe, give that poor pita baker some air conditioning.