Every day people would come to Eddie’s cart and say to him: “This is the best falafel I’ve ever had. What’s your secret?” And every day Eddie would say to them: “That’s just it: it’s a secret. If I told you, I wouldn’t have the best falafels in the city.”
He wasn’t bragging, either; with Eddie’s falafels, it was just a statement of fact. Though he hardly had the busiest of the city’s carts, his customer base was loyal. After trying one of his falafels, almost no one would grab one from another cart, and if he did, he was back to Eddie with apologies the next day.
At the end of the day, when Eddie inevitably ran out of the necessary ingredients, he would pack up, hitch the cart to the back of his car, and head home. He would look around, open his garage, and back the cart in, careful not to hit the source of his food’s brilliance.
There, in the center of the garage, was his falafel tree. Not a tree composed of falafels, mind you, but a plant whose primary and only fruit or flower was, in fact, falafels. Eddie would close the garage, then pace around his plant, inspecting the hundreds of buds, seeing which were ripe for harvesting. Some grew ingredients he would need, but many falafels blossomed fully formed, and he picked and served them as is.
Should anyone see this miraculous feat of botany, difficult questions would be raised, so Eddie was careful to keep a cloth over the windows that allowed enough light in to keep the falafel tree flourishing but keep out unwanted, curious eyes.
Eddie rightly doubted the common man’s ability to understand the phenomenon, when he barely understood it himself. Surely no one else would believe him if he recounted that morning from his boyhood that Eddie saw the falafel he had rashly secreted under the soil of a flowerpot, afraid that his mother would catch him eating before dinner, had somehow sprouted.
But, believe it or not, it was there. Eddie thanked God for the falafel tree as he watered it and prepared for the next day, selling what it grew.