If I were in charge of writing a tourists’ guide for Bangalore, it might have a passage like this:

I went to a restaurant called the Noodle . . . Bowl . . . Noodle . . . House . . . Noodle Something. Who can keep track?

I didn’t know what to expect in the first place, but when the hostess asked if we wanted to sit in the Chinese/Thai section to the left or the Lebanese/Mexican/Italian section to the right I was a little taken aback.

First of all, when did the United Nations get involved in the restaurant business and secondly who ever heard of a Lebanese noodle?

I, for one, had to learn more. I said, “Left.”

The menu was like a freaking magazine; (complete with ads on every page) as you can imagine, there were many choices. I made a bee-line for the Lebanese noodles, but got totally distracted, and stopped in my magazine-menu-page-turning tacks by the “Mexican falafel.”

A Mexican falafel . . . I couldn’t wrap my brain around how a Mexican falafel in India might taste. I had to forgo the Lebanese noodles for the time being and satiate my hunger for a truly multinational falafel* EXTRAVAGANZA!

*Please note that falafels are my favorite-favorite things to eat, and Mexican food is my favorite-favorite kind of food. “How could this possibly go wrong?!” (You may be too smart to be asking yourself.)

And verily I say unto you, a Mexican falafel can only be described as a pita pocket full of weirdness. It was a Mediterranean burrito of sorts. It had cabbage and lettuce and refried beans and crushed tortilla chips and falafel patties and yogurt sauce and chutney (which I’m pretty darn sure isn’t Lebanese OR Mexican, it’s those crazy Indians sneaking the chutney in again.)

It wasn’t bad . . . but I wouldn’t go so far as to say that it was good. It was something I probably will not eat again, ever. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m going back for the Lebanese noodles . . . I won’t let you down in that bit of investigative reporting.)

Yeah, the Noodle place. Check it out when you come to Bangalore.