Well, it seems that they don't have enough material for disputes, arguments and accusations in the Middle East. Now we have the fight for the falafel--and the tabbouleh and the hummus too. Fadi Aboud, president of the Lebanese Industrialists Association is preparing to file an international lawsuit against Israel for manufacturing foods that he claims originated in Lebanon. "If we can prove that this is a Lebanese product, using Lebanese recipes," he explains, "the name of the food will belong to Lebanon. They won't be able to use that name."

This case actually does have a precedent: a 2002 EU ruling in favor of Greece upholding that nation's claim to be the "originator" of feta cheese. However, shouldn't recipes that are centuries--if not millennia old--fall under public domain? Does this mean China will sue Italy for the rights to spaghetti? Then Italy can pursue action against America for posession of fried chicken, but America will be busy trying to wrest control of French fries from France... after all, these international incicents do have a way of spreading.

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.