DC ‘Wich Hunt: An Ode to Amsterdam Falafel

It’s 2­­­ AM and the bar is announcing final call. There’s a group of PhD students on your right debating the patriarchal undercurrents of Drake lyrics (conclusion: Hotline Bling is a “highly misogynistic, though overall catchy musical narrative that adeptly depicts the dynamics of modern romance”) and a lone chick on your left duckfacing selfie Snapchats to her boyfriend. All of your friends are in various states of drunken display (hugging, tearing, “YAAAAS QUEEN”-ing to strangers) and you’re pretty sure you just saw a guy you matched with on Hinge on your way back from the bathroom making out with a girl wearing a Hello Kitty tube top.

Prospects are slim. The night is old and graying. It’s time to pull your Irish exit and salvage what remains of the evening the best way you know how: FOOD. 

For the well-seasoned set of after hours District dwellers, the choice to swing by Amsterdam Falafel is made without hesitation. The pita bread palace holds MVP ranking in the late night eats hall of fame and hardly needs another wannabe food blogger to sing its praises.

Sure, I could preach about the pita and spin some prose about the warm, doughy pocket it creates for its fillings.

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I could regale you with stories of my journey through the self-serve toppings bar, where I discovered in a yikes moment of sorry-but-not-sorry double dipping that babaganoush is in fact as delicious to eat as it is fun to say.

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I could parade around some puns about hummus I love their selection of sauces (where the peanut paste, curry ketchup, and garlic parsley mash rank high) and falafelize for days on the divine art form that is their crispy chickpea deep-fry.

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I could post pictures illustrating the perfect pickling of the veggies (see below) and ignite a trend of  #TabboulehTuesdays and #GarnishGram hashtags to send the Twitterverse spiraling. 

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I could even get into some real talk and wax poetic about all the memories Amsterdam Falafel and I have made in just five short months since my move District-side – reminiscing about the long walks home, hand-in-hummus, and the cozy companionship of crumbs to snuggle with as the pixelated glow of another My So Called Life rerun drifts me off to sleep.

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Thinking big, I could make some bold claims about my growing favor for the vegetarian appeal in general – a shocking revelation for a girl who’s father considers porterhouse steak with a side of chicken parm a commonplace nutritional norm.

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But I wouldn’t want to bore you. These are all things you already know. 

Suffice it to say my falafel fandom is forever.

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