My hopes were not high. For anyone who has lived for any length of time in Los Angeles, the reason is obvious. Dar Magreb. Some people like Dar Magreb. These are the same people who enjoy office Christmas Parties, attending the nephew's little league game and who can't wait to hear Bernice play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on her hand whittled kazoo. To wit, not I.
Moroccan, in general, and therefore Dar Magreb in particular brings to my mind communal hand washing, picking at egg-y rice with your fingers - and worse your friend picking at your same rice with their unwashed digits, and, of course, the heavyset sweaty girl who clang clang clangs her finger cymbals as she belly dances around you - and you can only wonder why it doesn't make her lose some weight. Or, at the very least, why she doesn't shave her armpits daily if they are going to be up in the air like that.
My expectations set reasonably low, we set out last night. It was actually quite a great dinner. The spices were good and spicy, I finally figured who exactly cooks in those TeePee like things you saw EVERYWHERE last year and the chicken was tasty. Dinner was a little lengthy, but the neighbors enjoy appetizers, salad, main course and dessert - so that is to be expected. Unlike Ed and myself who live by the get in, get feed and get out rule.
The company was nice. The obligatory Belly Dance was handled well (by a well shaven woman of slight stature) albeit a little long. Belly Dancing is like a Saturday Night Live Skit, they start off great, but they never really know how to wrap it up. And dessert, which I do not like as a rule was muy tasty.
It was a fun evening with friends. If you ever want to go, come to New York and I will show you were it is.