On Sunday, I made tabbouleh. Hip cats eat tabbouleh, I thought. Many people aren't quite sure what to make of it. That's part of its flyness. And, once you do know the basic recipe, the bulgur wheat thing is still somewhat mysterious. So, I made it. I ate it. I felt totally boss. In fact, I ate it in front of Mike's cousin, thinking it would immediately up my cool points. Then, I tried eating it again on Tuesday.
Umm, sorry Fertile Crescent friends. Bleeccccch.
Unless you're a hardcore Middle Easterner who knows 3,000 ways to use cacık, I'm going to have to call bullshit on your love of tabbouleh. Chicken shawarma? Sure. Falafel? Fuhgeddaboudit. Hummus. Heaven. I'll even grant you your fattoush fetish. But, the bulgur bolus? For the love of all my gods, no. Now, I'm not going to call you a big, fat lying liar if you profess undying love for tabbouleh. That's a little harsh. I'm just saying maybe you don't love it as much as you think you should. Or maybe you need to turn your little taste buddies onto the next taste sensation. Bon appetit!
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