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in the mug. This lets out the gasses the yeast creates and gives you a satisfied feeling deep down in what passes for your soul. Preheat the oven for about an hour at 450 degrees F, and if you have a pizza stone, well la-de-da.

On a floured surface, stretch or roll the dough out to a thin, circular size, about sixteen inches in diameter, or whatever will fit on your pizza stone or cookie sheet. If you are using a pizza stone, put the crust on a peel that has been liberally dusted with cornmeal. If you are putting the dough on a cookie sheet, for the love of Pete please put some parchment paper down or something. After all, are we not civilized?
     
Top the crust with your favorite sauce, a goodly amount of cheese, and whatever toppings tickle your fancy. Paint what’s left of the crust (the mythical Cornicione) with a little of the left over sauce. Gently place your creation into the oven for ten minutes, and remove carefully.
     
When your pie is out, let it rest for ten minutes and enjoy. Now, you might be tempted to cut down on some of the wait time on the first part of the recipe. Don’t do it! Remember, men have died for this.

THE CASE OF THE UNHAPPY CHICKPEA
    When life deals you falafels, make a pita.
     
    In my line of work, it helps if you can keep your eyes open and your ear to the ground, or something like that. You make friends, or what passes for friends, with everyone from mob men to choir boys, hoping that they’ll feed you whatever scraps of info you need to get by. I do my best to keep ahead of the comings and the goings around this burg, hoping that when things break my way it results in a payday. The first rule of business is that if you stand in line waiting for clients to come to you, more often than not you go hungry. Today I was in pursuit of both knowledge and lunch, and Lady Luck was my dining partner.
                  “The McDermott’s were in court this morning,” Manny told me as he handed me a steaming hot falafel pita wrapped up in yesterday’s newsprint. Manny runs the falafel wagon outside of the city courthouse, and was as permanent a fixture there as a hotdog cart at a Saturday baseball game or a gang boss at Sunday service. Everyone from Superior Court Justices to the court stenographers made at least one meal a week from Manny’s cart, and because of that Manny was a fixture at the court. He knew every case that was open in every courtroom in the building, and every Joe that set foot inside. Manny was so much an everyday part of courthouse life that the only way you would notice him would be when he wasn’t there.
                  Manny was never not there.
                  “The McDermotts,” I mumbled through a mouthful of deep-fried heaven. Manny, to his credit, was fluent in the language of gluttony and had no problem keeping up. “I hear that they’re pretty big money.”
                  “The biggest,” Manny said, handing me a much needed napkin. I took it because I figured I would end up wearing more of the falafel than eating it, and noticed that Manny kept his hand stretched out. Forgetting to collect payment for a sandwich is not how a guy like Manny kept his spot front-and-center at the courthouse since Moses was in diapers. I fished into my anemic-looking wallet and handed the street gourmand a sawbuck. He slipped the dirty, wrinkled bill into his pocket and didn’t bother coming back to me with any change.
                  I first made the cook’s acquaintance about a dozen years ago or so. He had already been at his spot long enough to attract dust, but a new operator in the area had tried to squeeze Manny for protection. When you make a steady paycheck in this burg, there’s always a new operator who wants a taste. Manny employed yours truly to have a small chat with said operator, and I came out on top. In return, Manny kept me in falafels and hummus for a whole year, but the meter had expired on our