Sunshine: Falafel, Dara and Leather Lane

Falafel, Dara & Leather Lane

Falafel, for me, conjures up quickly caught lunches by Leather Lane market, in the centre of London, when temping back in the late 1980s.  It was cheap and tasty and, as a lover of hummus and hot sauce, this was a perfect break to a very conventional day.

I remember telling my immediate neighbour of this and Dara, who lived a few doors further down overheard and decided in her very pronounced French accent, to show me how to make it myself, "then it will be even cheaper".

It was just approaching summer when I first met Dara properly, she was always chatting outside the little greengrocers on the small parade of shops just a few hundred yards from our building.  It was a very friendly neighbourhood, and the parade also including a shop that acted as the local bakery at the back, but in the front was every kind of dried pulse, bean and herb you could ever imagine.  Dara was well known to them as often I would see her enthusiastically giving some advice or other to one of the assistants behind the counter.  Mr Elvi was the owner and would come out of the shop with a smile, a sigh and a shrug, light up a rolled up cigarette and let the chatter pass him by.  I caught his eye on one occasion and he laughed and rolled his eyes.  A few days later when I saw Dara struggle with her purchases I offered to help.  She was a lady, perhaps in her early to mid sixties, who was always cheerful.  She looked me up and down, “I’m not old yet you know”.  I remember laughing and saying it didn’t matter, I just wanted to help.  She had looked at me sideways at the time, who was this very young man offering to help, but she shrugged and gave me her bags… all of them.

So, back to the chickpeas and Dara was, true to form, insistent and after just a few days of resistance, I knocked on her door as arranged.  As usual, Dara was beaming but first she insisted on giving me a full history of her family before she started showing me her culinary expertise.

I was told that every Jewish and Middle Eastern household has a recipe for falafel.  Depending upon where the household is, the recipe will change.  In Dara's case, her family moved to Tangier in the early 1930's from a little town outside Paris.  So her recipe is based on her mother's and how she had adjusted from living in once city to another.   She, and her mother had been so distraught about the move but her father had wanted to take advantage of new opportunities there and the much cheaper raw materials.  Her father had been a jewellery maker and had worked silver and gold, and the house, at least to begin with, was also his workshop. 

When extended family started to arrive later that decade, he, being the oldest of his own siblings decided they needed a much larger house, and so they moved again, this time to Marrakech.  In this new city, although Dara was still very young, remembered it being much busier and much more alive.  The house, as promised, was indeed much larger and her father apprenticed a number of her cousins to the business.  The second world war didn't seem to affect them, their neighbourhood was friendly and supportive and as more family arrived, there were more aunties and cousins to help.  In later years, her mother confided in Dara that she had been so proud of him, he had been supporting more than a hundred family members during those years.   I asked about the uncles, Dara had just looked at me and tipped her head, "it was a bad time for them", and that was the beginning and end of the subject.

Her little one bedroomed flat was colourful.  We had all moved into this mansion block of flats after it had been refurbished and everyone had put a little or a lot of individuality on the magnolia standard that adorned the rooms.  In Dara's case, this meant a burnt umber living room, with panels of her art, silk and paper collages which she sold at different markets, and throws of a similar style thrown over two low settees. 

Her kitchen was a mirror image of my own but packed with so much more.  She had added shelves and cupboards to the walls, thankfully hiding the acidic green for the most part.  But she had beads in the window, which filled the room with stars on a sunny afternoon and she still had space on a bit of a wall, to hang an old photograph in a very ornate frame of her family.  Taken in the early 1950s and gleefully pointing out who was who, the three youngest of the family, sitting proudly on adults’ knees, the middle one so obviously Dara herself.

In Dara's recipe the chickpeas were soaked overnight with slivers of raw onion and a number of dried chillies, but she admitted this was her addition, her mother and aunts had insisted that the chickpeas be soaked on their own.

Dara obviously made falafel at least twice if not three times a week judging by the covered bowls on a wide shelf above the draining board and sink.  But she was also sprouting mung beans and other things. Falafel and hummus weren't the only regular visitors to this kitchen.

The following day the chickpeas are pounded into a rough paste along with the onions and chilli as well as two table spoons of chopped parsley and a clove of garlic for every 4 oz of pre-soaked peas.  A number of other spices and dried herbs were also added (which I found out later would change depending upon the mood, the time of year and what was in the cupboard) along with 4 or 5 tablespoons of olive or Argon oil and a little water.  Corn flour and a little baking soda is then added to the paste.  All of this was then placed in a covered bowl, in the fridge (if there was room) or left on the side (if not) for about an hour.  Patties were made and then deep fried for a few minutes.  The result was amazing, but Dara had warned me, they were spicy!

I was “supervised” the first time I made them and after, when I started making my own versions, Dara was happy to test the results.  She admitted on only a couple of occasions that a particular variation reminded her of one of her Aunts, who was “still alive” somewhere.  I asked if that was good or bad, she looked at me and smiled.