Qom for a Felafel

Qom is the Las Vegas of Iran. It's brimming with neon, hedonism and it goes all night long. But there's only religious hedonism on offer here. Shia Muslims come from far and wide, well, from Afghanistan and the Arab nations, to visit the Shrine of Fatameh. Inside, there are tears and sobbing men, people pressing their faces and bodies to the tomb, some are writhing against it, trying to touch every part of their body to the glass and silver, there's much prostration and praying, kissing of door jambs, and pushing of money into the tomb. The tomb itself is an enclosure of silver and glass over a marble tombstone, lit green and draped in cloth and fake flowers. Through the narrow slots, pilgrims push money, so the tombstone is almost buried in drifts of banknotes.

And why all this? After the death of Mohammad, Shias believe the line of succession was passed to a series of descendents, 12 of them, known as Imams (translated loosely as leader or saint). Sunni Muslims do not follow the 12 Imams, and that is the major schism of Islam that remains today. The eighth Imam, Imam Reza, is interred at Mashhad, the holiest site in Iran for Shias. Fatameh is the Sister of Imam Reza, and her tomb forms the second most holy site in Iran.

The golden dome under which sits the tomb of Fatameh.

Anyway, that's all very interesting, but I was more interested in the felafel. I had heard that felafel was on offer here, catering to the Arab pilgrims, and as dedicated readers will know, food that does not involve an impaled carcass singed over coals, comes as a great relief. Felafel is not traditional Persian fare, but, being the middle east, I was hoping for good things. Disappointment, dear readers. Disappointment. Iranians do felafel the way they do all imported foods. In a word: not well.

Felafel is all I ate in Qom. Trying a different felafel stand at every meal, and at some meals, trying three different felafel stands. Of course they were all almost the same. The typical presentation is this: Three felafel balls mashed with a fork (why? why the mashing?) into a long white roll, topped with longways cut gherkins and tomato, wrapped in paper. I'm not certain that the felafel balls actually contained chick peas. Patrons would then stand crammed into the tiny store to sprinkle chilli powder or tip a brownish-yellow sauce on as they ate. The sauce came from a drum (I saw one shop refilling their containers) and resembled satay sauce, but without the peanuts or chillies.

I grew to appreciate the subtle differences. Paper wrap finished with a twisting flourish. Felafel balls fresh out of the oil, not sitting there cold for who knows how long. A more generous allocation of gherkin or tomato. A roll a little less stale. Occasionally I was shocked by a substandard delivery. Only two felafel balls. Charging 400 instead of 300 toman (that's 40 and 30 cents US. Looks like you get what you pay for sometimes eh?). The guy who pecked out the soft inside of the roll with his fingernails (I'm guessing this is what comprised the next batch of felafel).

But my highest salutation is reserved for the only true innovator. The guy who added lettuce.

Perhaps the Zionist regime has something going for it after all. Hell, at least it wasn't a skewered and charred dead thing.