A smashed window here, a provocative sticker there. In an age when protest feels increasingly meaningless, it’s no wonder that acts of petty symbolism are on the rise

First comes the hummus: studded with chickpeas, anointed with a little reservoir of olive oil, greedily smeared up with hunks of pitta bread and messy fingers. Then the tabbouleh, then some homemade falafels, and then the lentil soup, and already the senses are overloaded, plates and bowls spilling off the edge of the table. But there shall be no reprieve, for the mains are coming.

Maqluba for the meat-eaters – traditional Palestinian upside-down chicken and rice, decorated with lightly browned cauliflower florets, topped with razor-fine almonds. Stuffed aubergine and courgette for the veggies. Before you ask: yes, there will be dessert, and it’s baklava and homemade chocolate. Home time, and slowly you winch yourself upright, stagger sideways towards the door and vow never to do something so gluttonous and decadent ever again.

A smashed window here, a provocative sticker there. In an age when protest feels increasingly meaningless, it’s no wonder that acts of petty symbolism are on the rise

First comes the hummus: studded with chickpeas, anointed with a little reservoir of olive oil, greedily smeared up with hunks of pitta bread and messy fingers. Then the tabbouleh, then some homemade falafels, and then the lentil soup, and already the senses are overloaded, plates and bowls spilling off the edge of the table. But there shall be no reprieve, for the mains are coming.

Maqluba for the meat-eaters – traditional Palestinian upside-down chicken and rice, decorated with lightly browned cauliflower florets, topped with razor-fine almonds. Stuffed aubergine and courgette for the veggies. Before you ask: yes, there will be dessert, and it’s baklava and homemade chocolate. Home time, and slowly you winch yourself upright, stagger sideways towards the door and vow never to do something so gluttonous and decadent ever again.

A smashed window here, a provocative sticker there. In an age when protest feels increasingly meaningless, it’s no wonder that acts of petty symbolism are on the rise

First comes the hummus: studded with chickpeas, anointed with a little reservoir of olive oil, greedily smeared up with hunks of pitta bread and messy fingers. Then the tabbouleh, then some homemade falafels, and then the lentil soup, and already the senses are overloaded, plates and bowls spilling off the edge of the table. But there shall be no reprieve, for the mains are coming.

Maqluba for the meat-eaters – traditional Palestinian upside-down chicken and rice, decorated with lightly browned cauliflower florets, topped with razor-fine almonds. Stuffed aubergine and courgette for the veggies. Before you ask: yes, there will be dessert, and it’s baklava and homemade chocolate. Home time, and slowly you winch yourself upright, stagger sideways towards the door and vow never to do something so gluttonous and decadent ever again.