What does Lenny Kravitz know about falafel?

Until I came to Paris, I wasn’t aware that anyone served, let alone ate, falafel outside the hours of 12am-6am on weekends. But here they do.

On a sunny mild Sunday in the Marais, the line for a small falafel kitchen stretched 30 long and three deep. It was testament to my craving for hommous that I joined at the back. I had reading material – the New York Times extract from Le Monde – and so settled in for a comfortable wait. I was three paragraphs into an analysis about the Lehman bankruptcy, when my ears uncontrollably tuned into an Australian accent.

Her conversation was much more interesting than my article. Whereas I was reading about economic meltdown, she was talking to her friend about wanting to walk around her flat in her undies more often.

A smirk, again uncontrollable, spread across my face.

“I think our conversation has ears,” I overheard her say to her friend, at which point I gave up the pretense over understanding anything about the economy and said hello.

“Are you from Melbourne?” she asked.

“What gave it away?”

“Your accent, and your clothes,” she said, in a broad West Australian drawl.

The funny thing was that I wasn’t wearing any clothes from Australia. Maybe that was the point.

We started talking falafel.  “I want to know where the best falafel places in the area are,” she said. With a line of 30 people, this place looked like it.

“My friend once showed me where Lenny Kravitz comes to eat his falafels when in Paris,” I said, adding unhelpfully, “it’s down there somewhere, but I don’t really know where.”

“I don’t know whether Lenny Kravitz is renowned for his palate for falafels…” she countered.

“Well, it couldn’t be worse than his taste in music.”


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