With the conflict in the Middle East hitting its fortnight stride, I sat thinking over the weekend about my first experience meeting someone from Lebanon. It was late in the summer of 1997 and I had been in New York a mere few months when one particularly sultry Saturday evening I found myself standing in line at the tiny hole-in-the-wall, just under the train tracks, a little place near my apartment that made the most incredible falafels. When it was my turn, I approached the counter, placed my order, and as though guided by some inexplicable and mystical force asked the guy if he was from Lebanon. "No," he said. So I paid for my falafel and left.
