For a long time I have held a steadfast belief in a scientific principle called the Law of Culinary Equilibrium. It derives from Newton's Third Law, which states, "To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction."

I'm not sure where or when I first heard of the Law of Culinary Equilibrium. It's entirely possible that I made it up, er, discovered it. Origins aside, here's how it works: If I eat a horrible taco al pastor, one that is so bad as to be undeserving of the name and that should require the chef's compulsory deportation back to Puebla if that is in fact where the offending cook hails from, I must within 24 hours consume an exquisite taco al pastor. Bad Cubano, one that's not absolutely shatteringly thin, garlicky and filled with delicious roast pork and ham? Same deal. You get the idea. I've found that practicing the Law of Culinary Equilibrium not only restores order to the gastronomic universe, it restores my faith in humankind. That and it greatly reduces my urge to hurl a cinderblock through the window of the offending establishment.

Of course some might wonder how a veteran eater like me encounters a bad meal. To this I answer that since I often write about food in New York City I'm charged with a Star Trek-like mission: "To boldly eat where no man has eaten before." As much I'd like to stick to my favorite taquerias and dim sum joints, I simply can't, if only because the next great discovery often lies behind a new storefront.

Sometimes though, a bad meal stems from my own equally bad judgment. The other day I decided to check out a place in my neighborhood of Rego Park, Queens. I shall refer to it as Crunchy Earth Mother Café, if only because it's been open a scant three weeks and I wish the management no ill will. I truly don't what I was expecting when I ordered what the earth-toned menu refers to as "a falafel panini." After all I know what a falafel is and I know what paninis are. Perhaps, I hoped it would turn out to be something far greater than the sum of its parts.

Observant pedestrians in the environs of 74th Street and 37th Avenue in Jackson Heights, Queens, soon notice a common pattern. Abstract red splotches pepper the pavement. They tell the tale of paan chewing and the copious scarlet saliva it generates. The thousand-year-old tradition is alive and well in this bustling neighborhood of sari shops, Bengali kebab houses, greengrocers, paratha factories, and what seems like a blocklong store specializing in ornate Indian bridal jewelry.

Aphrodisiac, blood purifier, breath-freshener, digestive, stimulant ? yes the triangular betel-leaf wrapped bundle that is paan has it all, including the ability to stain your teeth red after years of habitual usage. Paan boasts a rich ceremonial history. Early Sanskrit texts mention its consumption as one of the enjoyments of royal life, which also include incenses, women, clothes, music, bed and food.