Rain on Rue des Rosiers

The queue for tables fattens as patrons, lightly dusted with drizzle, clamber through the double doors. Steamy from the hustle of damp boots and umbrellas, the chaotic diner is a warm welcome from the sodden streets.

"Maman, j’ai fa-a-aim." The thump, thump, thump of a little girl’s red gumboot against the wall echoes the clatter of used dishes stacking up. A rotund hostess scans the floor from the large, fort-like counter as cheap plastic plates loaded with Middle Eastern fare slide atop gracefully. Swiftly collected by a crew of adolescent waiters, their spiced aromas promise patient customers an imminent luncheon.

Finally, we are seated.

It’s no surprise the wait is lengthy. Paris’ Jewish quarter – the renowned Le Marais – is especially popular on a Sunday; its laneways jostling with excitable families and boisterous restaurant hawkers in spite of the gloomy February weather.

Pondering the French menu to no avail, an intuitive waiter intervenes to order us the house specialty. Four vegetal accompaniments soon arrive, adorning the plate in colourful projections around the pièce de résistance – The Falafel. We tuck in hurriedly, primitively even, but ease the pace as our tastebuds work to grasp the intense flavours.

Is this what true falafel tastes like? A crunchy case, fluffy insides, and laced with a medley of herbs. Complemented perfectly by each condiment: rich tomato and parsley purée; smooth, salty eggplant relish; vinegary shredded cabbage; velvety paprika tahini.

Falafel had previously fallen into my ‘healthier’ category of late-night meal options; bland, dry and only edible post-garlic sauce smothering. “Every falafel we’ve eaten before today,” proclaims my lunch partner, “was definitely not falafel.” Our mutual wonderment confirms it’s a shared loss of falafel virginity.

The rain offers a brief reprieve. We linger a while longer, watching as the street-side sea of umbrellas folds one by one.