Falafill: Restaurant as Marketing Concept, Me as IdiotMy oldest daughter, Abigail, who many of you have met at parties and picnics, as a infant evinced many signs of verbal precociousness. Her first phrase was “marketing concept” (pronounced “marking concet”) and her first sentence, spoken to directly to me, looking me in the eye, was “I don’t like you.” No kidding. You can ask her. All my children, when they’re children, have disliked me, thinking me an idiot, and not in the Dostoyevskyian sense; as they get older, they understand just what a wonderful human being I am. Abby and I are now good friends.
Anyway, last night The Wife and I went to Falafill, and the words “marketing concept” keep echoing in my head (along with other words like “Don’t listen to the dog – he’s crazy,” “Put that knife down!” and “Bad!Bad!Bad!”), because this place seemed so…concept-driven. Now, most restaurants --
even L2o, oops, sorry to bring that up -- have a controlling idea and a marketing plan, but others (the late, and nowhere-near-great Minnie’s comes to mind) seem like a highly manipulative effort to appeal to a certain tendency or “weakness” in the buying public. So, the buying public for this particular restaurant are the young and the lusty, the backpacked and the big bellied, with high metabolism and huge hunger. Check the demographic:


The Wife and I fit right in.
My backpack helped. The basic idea is, you buy yer falafel and you load it with condiments, some of which – like harissa and pickled turnips – were pretty good, if somewhat salty and not exactly tasty together. Here’s the huge bunch o’ condiments they laid out for us citizens to ladle over our fried chickpea balls:


Now, here’s why I am, indeed an idiot. Ecco, dinner:

The Wife, who saw me with my twenty-something body, younger than Abby is now, as I ate servings of food three times as huge as this, now said “Wow, you really piled it on.” And at Falafill last night, that was a huge mistake, because all that wet stuff loaded on top those six fried falafel balls made them, not surprisingly, very uncrisp, mushy, and almost indistinguishable from the chaos of condiments all around them.
But it’s called FalaFILL, and so I filled up. Idiotically. Because it’s what I do.
A more complete review of the food itself is coming in the
Reader.
Falafill
3202 N. Broadway Ave., Chicago
773.525.0052
"Don't you ever underestimate the power of a female." Bootsy Collins