As if people in the Middle East didn't have enough to fight about, nearly every country in that embattled region claims to be home to the world's only authentic falafel. That culinary controversy was fodder for West Bank Story, an Oscar-winning short musical about the rivalry between two fast-food falafel and hummus stands in the West Bank, one owned by an Israeli and the other by a Palestinian.

The movie was meant as satire, but fighting over falafel makes sense to me. Especially after decades of eating inferior fare and two long years of research and experimentation to find a recipe I could make at home.

I blame my picky taste buds on the cooks at two Middle Eastern restaurants in Seattle; their falafel sandwiches sustained me during my college years from the mid- to late 1970s.

Had I known how hard it would be to find falafel that met the standard set by these cooks, I would have volunteered to work at either restaurant for one night in exchange for the in-house recipe.

After graduation, falafel was impossible to find in the places where I lived and worked, so I fed my addiction whenever I visited a big, multicultural city. Even then, most of the falafel I found fell far short of my expectations.

In all, my quest would cover innumerable miles of highway and end in cyberspace.

Food with fans

Though all the nations of the Middle East assert that theirs is the world's best falafel, the Egyptians can prove that theirs was the first. From Egypt, falafel spread west to Morocco and east to what is now Saudi Arabia, following traditional routes of trade and migration.

As it traveled, falafel changed according to the tastes and resources of the people who consumed it.

The Egyptians used fava beans in their falafel, while most other cultures made it with garbanzo beans (aka chickpeas). Both beans were relatively inexpensive and readily available sources of protein and other nutrients.

Soaked, mashed and mixed with various spices and binders, the beans of choice were shaped into balls or patties and fried to a crisp. They were served with a salad of cucumber, tomato and onion and a dressing of tahini, a paste made of sesame seeds. Stuffed in pita bread, the falafel, sauce and salad made for a portable, nutritious meal.

Immigration brought falafel to the United States in the 20th century, but I didn't discover it until I moved to Seattle and struggled to survive on a vegan diet back in the days when we just called ourselves vegetarians and were lucky to find anything to eat. Falafel was one of the most appetizing meatless foods I ever tasted, and I refused to live without it, even decades later when I moved to the sagebrush wilds of southeast Utah.

God's country, unholy cuisine

Utah's a good place to find names like Moab and Zion and Eden that proclaim the biblical visions of the state's original Mormon settlers. But good luck trying to find food from the Holy Land anywhere outside Salt Lake City.

Two years ago, shortly after sinking all my money into an 80-acre parcel and the shell of a house northeast of Monticello, Utah, I realized how far I lived from the nearest restaurant that served falafel — the Cyprus Café in Durango, Colo., 100 miles east of my home.

Unable to afford the gas or time I would spend on frequent trips to Colorado, I began a collection of falafel recipes but lost heart when my first homemade falafel balls, made with canned garbanzos, dissolved in the deep-fat fryer like snowballs in a bucket of boiling water.

From there, I turned to the cupboards where I had stashed a variety of falafel mixes I had found at big-city supermarkets.

Even though every mix I had ever tried in the past was as inedible as sawdust, I continued to hope, with naivete born of desperation, that advances in culinary science had led to a falafel breakthrough. In truth, I was seduced by packaging: Every box sported mouthwatering pictures of fried chickpea balls grouped like little eggs in a protective pita pocket or nestled amid tomatoes, cucumbers and parsley.

I tasted three brands in a side-by-side test: Telma Falafel, from Israel; Fantastic Falafel, from Napa, Calif.; and Casbah, from Uniondale, N.Y. The Israeli mix was the best of the three, but it was a poor substitute for the real thing, and the Telma balls joined the other experimental orbs in the garbage can.

It was time to get serious — or move to Beirut.

A tribulation, a tribal treasure

I returned to the Internet, determined to narrow my search to recipes that avoided shortcuts such as canned garbanzo beans. Lebanese blends were heavily favored, but candidates from all countries were considered.

I pored over instructions to determine the right size and shape of the balls and the optimum oil temperature, cooking time and condiments. I experimented with several tahini-based dressings before finding one that best complemented the falafel. Not to be ignored was the salad that kept the falafel company on a plate or inside a pita pocket.

I even tried a blend of fava beans and garbanzos before deciding I liked garbanzos best.

In the end, my vote went to a variation that originated with the author of a number of Jewish cookbooks. The recipe that follows was adapted from a recipe by Joan Nathan, published in 2004 in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, and other recipes of uncertain provenance found on the Internet.

You can experience the result of my research for yourself — minus years of trial, tribulation and sawdust aftertaste.

FALAFEL
(Makes about 20-24 balls)

1 cup dried chickpeas (substitute fava beans for Egyptian style)
1/2 large onion, roughly chopped (about 1 cup)
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh parsley
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh cilantro (omit for Egyptian style)
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 to 1 teaspoon dried hot red pepper
4 cloves of garlic
1 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon baking powder
4-6 tablespoons flour
Soybean or vegetable oil for frying

Put the chickpeas in a large bowl and add enough cold water to cover them by at least 2 inches. Let soak overnight, then drain. To test whether the beans are fully hydrated, cut one open. If the color is even, they' re ready; if the center is white, soak them some more.

Place the drained, uncooked chickpeas and the onions in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Add the parsley, cilantro, salt, hot pepper, garlic, and cumin. Process until blended but not puréed.

Sprinkle in the baking powder and 4 tablespoons of the flour, and pulse. You want to add enough flour (or bulgar) so the dough forms a small ball and no longer sticks to your hands. Turn into a bowl and refrigerate, covered, for several hours.

Form chickpea mixture into balls about the size of walnuts.

Heat 3 inches of oil to 375 degrees in a deep pot or wok and fry one ball to test. If it falls apart, add a little flour. Fry about 6 balls at once for a few minutes on each side until golden brown. Drain on paper towels. Stuff half a pita pocket with falafel balls, a salad (recipe below) and tahini-yogurt dressing.

TAHINI-YOGURT DRESSING
(Makes about a cup)

1/2 cup yogurt
1/2 cup tahini
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 clove garlic, minced
1/2 teaspoon cumin powder
Salt to taste

Place all ingredients in a blender and purée, adding water sparingly to thin.

SALAD
(Makes enough for 6 sandwiches or 4 side servings)

1 cucumber
3 Roma tomatoes (when ban is lifted) or about 12 grape tomatoes
1/2 medium onion
1 bell pepper, if desired
Salt and pepper to taste
2 tablespoons parsley, minced
2 tablespoons cilantro, minced
Dash lemon juice

Dice all vegetables and toss with herbs and lemon juice. Stuff into lightly toasted (or briefly microwaved, e.g., 10 seconds) pita pocket.