Falafel

The Levant's great street food: crisp, herb-green chickpea fritters fragrant with coriander seed and leaf

Origin: Levant (Egypt / Lebanon / Palestine / Israel)

From the journey of Coriander/Cilantro.

Falafel is one of the world's great street foods and arguably the most iconic Levantine dish, deep-fried patties or balls of soaked (never cooked) chickpeas or fava beans, ground with fresh coriander, fresh parsley, garlic, cumin, and coriander seeds. The origin is disputed with genuine passion: Egypt claims priority with ta'amiya, made from dried fava beans and still sold from carts in Cairo before dawn; Lebanon, Palestine, and Israel popularised and globalised the chickpea version. Both versions share the defining characteristic of abundant fresh coriander and ground coriander seeds, which give falafel its characteristic vibrant green interior and its herb-forward, citrusy, faintly spiced flavour, remove the coriander and you have a different dish entirely. Coriander seeds have been found in Egyptian tombs dating to c.1000 BCE; the fact that this single dish uses both the seed (as a spice) and the fresh leaf (as a herb) illustrates better than almost any other recipe the dual identity of the coriander plant. Falafel spread from the Middle East to become a global street food, adapted into pitta pockets with tahini sauce, pickled turnips, tomato, cucumber, and zhug or hot sauce.

Ingredients

Base

  • 400 g dried chickpeas (NOT canned: this is non-negotiable), soaked overnight in cold water
  • 1 small onion, roughly chopped
  • 5 garlic cloves, peeled

Herbs

  • 40 g fresh coriander (cilantro): leaves and tender stems
  • 30 g fresh flat-leaf parsley: leaves and tender stems

Spice

  • 2 tsp coriander seeds, lightly toasted and ground
  • 1.5 tsp ground cumin
  • 0.5 tsp cayenne pepper or hot chilli powder

Seasoning

  • 1 tsp fine salt
  • 0.5 tsp freshly ground black pepper

Leavening

  • 1 tsp baking powder

Binder

  • 2 tbsp plain flour or chickpea flour (besan), plus extra if needed to bind

Frying

  • 1 litre neutral oil (sunflower or vegetable), for deep frying

To serve

  • 6 pitta breads, to serve
  • 4 tbsp tahini sauce (tahini, lemon, garlic, water, salt whisked together)
  • 2 tomatoes, sliced
  • 0.5 cucumber, sliced
  • pickled turnips, to serve

Method

  1. The night before: drain the soaked chickpeas thoroughly and spread on a clean towel to dry as much as possible. Moisture is the enemy of good falafel: canned chickpeas contain too much water and will result in a paste that disintegrates during frying.
  2. Place the dried chickpeas in a food processor with the onion, garlic, fresh coriander, and parsley. Pulse in short bursts: you want a rough, slightly grainy texture, not a smooth paste. It should hold together when pressed but still have visible texture.
  3. Add the ground coriander seeds, cumin, cayenne, salt, pepper, baking powder, and flour. Pulse again briefly to combine. Transfer to a bowl.
  4. Refrigerate the mixture for at least 30 minutes (and up to 24 hours). This rest is important: it firms the mixture and allows the flavours to develop. If the mixture feels too loose after resting, add a little more flour, one tablespoon at a time.
  5. Heat the oil in a deep, heavy pan to 175–180°C. Use a thermometer: temperature control is critical. Too cool and the falafel absorbs oil and collapses; too hot and the outside burns before the inside sets.
  6. Form the mixture into balls or flat patties about 4cm across using wet hands or a falafel scoop. Do not pack them too tightly: a looser ball gives a lighter interior.
  7. Fry in batches of 5–6, turning once, for 3–4 minutes until deeply golden-brown all over. Do not crowd the pan. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on kitchen paper.
  8. Serve immediately inside warm pitta with tahini sauce, tomato, cucumber, and pickled turnips. Falafel must be eaten fresh: they lose their crisp exterior within minutes.

Notes

Falafel does not reheat well, the exterior softens and the interior dries out. Uncooked formed patties can be refrigerated for up to 24 hours or frozen for up to one month; fry from frozen, adding 1–2 minutes to the cooking time. For the Egyptian ta'amiya version, substitute the same weight of dried split fava beans (ful medames) for the chickpeas; add a handful of fresh dill alongside the coriander and parsley, and include a tablespoon of spring onion. For a baked version, brush with oil and bake at 200°C for 25 minutes, turning halfway, the texture is different but acceptable.

The Gastrographer

The Gastrographer

Mapping Culinary History

To explore — select an ingredient below.

Journey Point Map Key

Ingredient originTrade or transit route
Became a culinary stapleColonial / trade control
c. 1900 CE
Drag to explore journey
14 of 14 stops
1900 CE
5000 BCE100 BCE1300 CE1900 CE
Coriander/Cilantro

Coriander/Cilantro

Coriandrum sativum

Spices & AromaticsHerbsApiaceae

🌍Origin

Fertile Crescent, Levant — c. 5000 BCE

🌱Domestication

Coriander is one of the very oldest of all cultivated plants, and one of the strangest, for it is in truth two ingredients housed within a single species. Coriandrum sativum, a slender annual of the carrot and celery family, the Apiaceae, yields both the warm, citrus-scented dried seed that the English-speaking world calls coriander and the pungent, polarising fresh leaf that the Americas call cilantro, and these two forms, drawn from one plant, have such utterly different flavours that they belong to entirely separate culinary traditions and are seldom thought of as the same thing at all. The whole plant is edible, from the aromatic root that the Thai kitchen pounds into curry pastes, through the lacy fresh leaves, to the round ripe seeds, and this versatility has carried it into the cooking of almost every inhabited region of the earth. The plant's antiquity in human hands is documented across the ancient Near East. Seeds of C. sativum have been recovered from Neolithic deposits in the Levant dating to around 6000 BCE, amongst them the celebrated finds from the Nahal Hemar cave in the Judean Desert, and the plant is named in the ancient Egyptian Ebers Papyrus of around 1550 BCE, the oldest surviving medical compendium of the world. Coriander seeds were even laid in the tomb of Tutankhamun amongst the provisions intended to sustain the pharaoh through eternity, a mark of the value placed upon a plant that was at once food, medicine, and fragrance. Because the plant grows readily from seed and the dried fruits store and travel well, coriander spread early and far, and unlike many spices it was domesticated not in a single remote place but across the broad arc of the Fertile Crescent, where its wild ancestors grew. The dual use of the plant was present from the very beginning of its cultivation, and it is this that sets coriander apart from almost every other ancient culinary herb. In the Levantine cradle the seeds were ground into spice mixtures and steeped into medicinal and fermented drinks, whilst the fresh leaves were gathered as a green herb for the table, so that a single sowing yielded both a warm baking spice and a sharp, fresh garnish. That doubleness has shaped its entire history: the seed travelled west into Europe as a spice of bread and brewing and a medicine for the digestion, whilst the leaf travelled into the kitchens of Mexico, Vietnam, Thailand, India, and North Africa as one of the most essential, and most divisive, of all fresh herbs.

Global Voyage

From its Levantine cradle coriander travelled outward in every direction at once, for the Fertile Crescent sat at the crossroads of three continents, and the dried seed, light, durable, and easily carried, moved along every trade route that left the region. The southwestern path led into Egypt, where the plant was cultivated throughout the Nile Delta within centuries of its domestication and recorded in the Ebers Papyrus as both medicine and flavouring; from Egypt it passed westward along the North African shore and, in time, far south across the Sahara into West Africa, carried on the same caravan routes that bore gold and salt. The eastern path was the longest and the most consequential. Coriander moved along the Silk Road and the Indian Ocean trade into Persia, where it entered the great herb stews of the Iranian kitchen, and into India, where it became, in seed and leaf alike, the single most widely used flavouring of the subcontinent, the backbone of garam masala and the green finish of almost every dish. From India and Persia the plant continued eastward into China, reaching the Han court by way of the Silk Road and the diplomatic missions to Central Asia, where it became the fragrant herb xiangcai of the northern and Muslim kitchens. The western and northern path carried coriander into the classical Mediterranean. The Greeks received it through their trade with Egypt and the Levant and set down its medicinal virtues in the writings of Hippocrates and Dioscorides; the Romans cooked with it lavishly, Apicius calling for it in scores of recipes, and the Roman legions then carried the seed across the whole of the empire, planting it in the cold soils of Gaul, Britain, and the Rhine and Danube frontiers where it had never grown before. Archaeobotanists have recovered Roman-period coriander from sites as far apart as Wales and the Danube, and the Carolingian emperor Charlemagne ordered it grown on every royal estate, ensuring its unbroken survival through the early medieval centuries into the permanent repertoire of the European kitchen. The Arab expansion then carried coriander deep into the Maghreb, where it fused with the indigenous Berber herb traditions of Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia to produce the chermoula and the spice blends of the North African table. In Southeast Asia, reached by the maritime spice routes and the spread of Indian culinary influence, coriander took a wholly distinct path, for there it was the root rather than the seed or leaf that became prized, pounded into the curry pastes of Thailand and the broths of Vietnam. The final great dispersal came with the Spanish conquest of the Americas in the sixteenth century: Spanish colonisers carried the seed across the Atlantic, and the fresh leaf integrated so swiftly and so completely into the indigenous cooking of Mexico, already built upon chillies, tomatoes, tomatillos, and avocado, that within a single generation cilantro had become inseparable from Mexican food, and from there it spread down the Pacific coast of South America into the ceviche of Peru and northward, in the twentieth century, into the everyday cooking of the United States. No other plant has achieved so nearly universal a culinary adoption across every inhabited continent.

🍽Modern Culinary Role

Coriander is at once the most widely consumed fresh herb in the world and one of its most widely used spices, a double distinction that no other plant can claim, and it owes that reach to the fact that its seed and its leaf are, in flavour and in use, two separate ingredients drawn from a single plant. The dried seed, warm, citrus-scented, and gently sweet, is foundational to the spice blends of an entire hemisphere: it is a leading note in the garam masala and curry powders of India, in the dukkah and baharat of the Arab world, in the ras el hanout and chermoula of North Africa, and in the recados and adobos of Latin America, and it flavours the breads, sausages, pickles, and brewed drinks of Europe besides. The fresh leaf, pungent and bright and unmistakable, is essential to the cooking of Mexico, where it finishes nearly every salsa, taco, and pot of beans; to Vietnam and Thailand, where it crowns the herb plate and the noodle bowl; to India, where chopped dhania patta finishes almost every dish; and to the soups and stews of West Africa. Yet coriander is also the most divisive of all common herbs, for a significant minority of people, the proportion varying by population, perceive the fresh leaf not as fragrant but as harshly soapy or metallic, an aversion now traced to inherited variants of an olfactory receptor gene that change how its aldehydes are smelled. This genuine genetic divide gives coriander a notoriety no other herb shares, dividing tables and even whole regions, as in China, where the north embraces it and much of the Cantonese south avoids it. For all that, the plant remains indispensable across the greater part of the world, the rare ingredient that supplies both a warm baking spice and a sharp green garnish, and that finishes the everyday food of more people, on more continents, than almost any other plant in the kitchen.

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