“I think we need to have a serious conversation about Maoz.”
“I think we need to have a sers converzashion about Mawowz.”
“I thinkh we needteh havr srsh converzashen abuet Mawoshz.”
This is just a cross-section of the colourful circumstances in which I’ve found myself chowing down on a falafel pitta from Maoz over the years. There are twelve – twelve! – of these veggie “kebab” houses dotted around the globe, and I’ve found myself dining in three: Soho, drunk. Amsterdam, never you mind. And Paris, Paris totally fucked up after a week-long cheese crepe bender.
Every branch in every country in Europe is the same: an eclectic salad bar promising couscous, pickled carrots, fried cauliflower, dill-covered cucumber, green olives, red cabbage, sweetcorn and all sorts of other shit like gherkins and tahini and coriander salsa.
For around a fiver, patrons load up either a wholemeal pitta bread or a salad box with falafel and a choice of toppings, from buttery avocado and crumbled feta to melt-in-the-mouth hummus, baba ganoush or grilled aubergine. Choose from a wide range of sides – chips, chips with ketchup, chips with mayo, chips with ketchup and mayo, or minty lemonade – and enjoy. Can’t go wrong with Maoz – especially on New Year’s Day when you’re struggling to function and you accidentally made your friend “trudge” (her word) around Soho looking for a vegetarian pub that you may have just dreamed about.* For example.
(*Coach and Horses on Greek Street. Not a dream, just hard to find in the midst of a hangover).