Poor Taeem. Back in January I was so excited to discover you. Plodding along in the wasteland of Melrose Ave. Quietly serving up a falafel sandwich on that deliciously elusive pita bread of all pita breads: the laffa. Yours wasn’t baked fresh in house, but I didn’t care. When a dehydrated traveler stumbling through the desert happens upon an oasis, they don’t question how the water was filtered. But sadly, our love affair has come to and end. Because fresh baked laffa does exist in Los Angeles, at a place called Joe’s. I don’t normally venture to North Hollywood to lunch, but when giant discs of freshly baked pita bread are involved my boundaries tend to become a bit less rigid.