Definitely Not Just the Spices

It’s fitting that Isaac Peretz looks a little as though he could be a member of the Israeli mafia, given his incontestable domination of the Parisian falafel market. A stocky man with a gold chain around his neck, salt-and-pepper hairs sprouting up from under his collar, and a cigarette between his lips, Mr. Peretz was schmoozing with a friend on the cobblestone sidewalk outside his restaurant when I approached him. I had come to L’As du Fallafel, the best-known and most popular falafel joint in Paris, wanting to find out why Parisian falafel is different from all the falafel I’ve had in New York. When I posed my question to Mr. Peretz, he looked at me a little distrustfully, as though I might be a secret agent.

“It’s spices,” he said tersely in Hebrew-inflected French. “And know-how.”
With all due respect to Mr. Peretz’s spices and know-how, they’re not all that separates Parisian falafel from its New York cousin—or from its Israeli godfather, for that matter.

Most of the falafel sandwiches I’ve eaten in New York—everywhere from Morningside Heights favorite Amir’s to Mamoun’s in Greenwich Village, which holds the same reputation in New York that L’As du Fallafel does in Paris—have followed the same basic formula. A thin pita pocket, whose presence seems to have more to do with keeping the fillings from falling out than with providing texture or flavor. A few deep-fried chickpea or fava bean patties, slightly flattened, too big to be devoured in just one bite, with a somewhat grainy interior. A drizzle of tahini sauce, whose smooth blandness balances the falafel’s salt content. Shredded lettuce. Diced tomato. Maybe a spoonful of hummus, though you probably have to pay extra for it.

In Paris, this blueprint, which I’d always assumed to be the only way to do falafel, has been thrown out the window. The pita pocket is thick and doughy—it’s possible to bite into a Parisian falafel sandwich and get a mouthful of nothing but glorious, starchy bread. The falafel patties are spherical and small enough to pop into your mouth, and their interior is more velvety than that of any falafel I remember from New York. But the biggest difference between American and Parisian falafel is that the latter comes with a variety of fillings that I’d never seen in a falafel pita before coming here. In addition to the familiar tahini and diced tomato, Parisian falafel comes with shredded red and green cabbage, which lend the operation a slight bitter edge, warm, roasted eggplant, whose edges are slightly charred and chewy, refreshing grated cucumber, and a dribble of oily, deep red harissa for heat.

I wanted to know which of the two falafel varieties was more authentic. There’s some controversy about falafel’s true provenance, and it is a traditional dish in many Middle Eastern countries. However, as falafel has been called the national food of Israel, I figured the Jewish state probably knows its fried-chickpea balls pretty well. I asked my friend Jessica Guzik, Penn ’09, an American who studied in Paris with me last semester, how Parisian falafel compared to the falafel she ate during the summer she spent in Israel.

“Well, for one thing Israeli falafel is by far better than New York or Parisian falafel,” she wrote to me. Once we got past this particular opinion, Jessica told me that Israeli falafel balls closely resemble New York ones in terms of size and shape. She also said that falafel sandwiches in Israel involve a variety of pickles, including pickled turnips and pickled hot peppers, and that the hot sauce that goes on top is called schug and comes in both red and green. “Also, in Israel you usually get a choice between a pita ... or laffah, which is like a doughy wrap,” she added.

Apparently, neither Parisian nor New York falafel is exactly like Israeli falafel. However, when it comes to matching the homeland, according to Jessica, “New York comes much closer.”

So why is Parisian falafel so different? Mr. Peretz takes full credit for that. “There are different recipes, and here we have a recipe that we invented ourselves,” claimed Mr. Peretz, though he later admitted that he used a Yemeni recipe as a starting point and then made adjustments to tailor it to his palate.

There are other fast food vendors in the Marais, Paris’ traditionally Jewish neighborhood, and the falafel sandwiches that they sell closely resemble the ones from L’As du Fallafel. But Mr. Peretz dismisses his competitors with a wave of the arm. “You know, in this city, there are birds called parrots. They always do the same thing—that’s why I say, ‘Toujours imité, jamais égalé,’” he said, pointing to the sign on his storefront window that translates to “Always imitated, never equaled.”

L’As du Fallafel’s window is also plastered with enthusiastic reviews from newspapers and guidebooks from around the world—including both Israel and New York. The restaurant, which has existed since 1979, has become a veritable tourist attraction. Mr. Peretz’s falafel may not resemble what other countries call falafel, but he seems to have convinced many people of its authenticity anyway.