On Tuesday night, I have a very Anthony Bourdain Experience™, so it's only fitting I rip off his style to tell you about it.



Ah, yes, Washington DC. Our nation's capital. The cradle of Liberty... or was that Philadelphia? No matter. Every spring, Washington comes to live in a bloom of white and pink cherry blossoms and meticulously cared-for lawns and parks. Unfortunately, I have arrived in the ides of November, where verdant greens have turned a staid gray, blending in well with the marble columns and masonic stonework that form the bedrock of this city.

I am exploring my hotel, the Club Quarters, and run into an old friend in the lobby, Jeff Greenberg. Jeff is a jovial fellow, gregarious and charismatic, who never fails to make everyone in the room feel like the center of attention. All this makes a fantastic instructor. Jeff is just checking in as well, and after catching up, he asks me, "So, are you coming out with Joel and Iva tonight?" I was unaware there were any plans, and I am a bit tired and should be preparing for the next day's tradeshow, but I can't resist that impish gleam in Jeff's eye. he is daring me to come adventure, and who am I to say no.

Joel and Iva have driven down from New York, and Iva made reservations on the way at some place downtown that she hears is pretty fantastic. I have learned to trust in Iva- in every city she manages to find the most interesting hotspots. (Flash back to footage of Salsa dancing in Miami, the B.B.King lounge in New York & just about everything we did in Las Vegas).



Unfortunately, they don't know where were going, only a name- Marrakesh. And the District of Columbia is not kind to tourists after dark- this city shuts down at 5 PM, and the only people you're likely to see are paralegals stumbling home after a 6 martini dinner. But Jeff's iPhone comes to the rescue, and we head to the Dupont Circle area- if you thought 17th street was bleak after dark, you haven't been to DuPont circle. I'm pretty sure I am going to be offered crack any minute now. But we stay in a pack and cross the street, where we discover a squat, beige building with undecipherable Arabic writing. no valet, no awning, no windows. Just a large, red door inset with iron rivets reminiscent of Jabba's palace. Joel knocks, and I tell jeff, if Bib Fortuna answers, I'm out of here.



Well, it's not bib, just a jovial Moroccan with a sash and a fez. If he was any more cliched, he would be telling Indy not to eat the dates. he greets us and brings us in to a palacially-sized room with low benches and tables, walls replete with tapestries and the sort of intricate tilework that is de regeur in northern Africa and causes migraines everywhere else. The level of detail is astonishing. Their web site claims they teat you like you're in a Moroccan home, but I feel like I'm in a Moroccan palace.
   
 
 
We sit on couches along a low round table, and Joel is the first to notice there isn't a fork or knife in sight. Just as he is saying "I'd better wash my hands", Jaffar returns with a bronze tray and pitcher of rosewater, and his assistant brings towels. We wash our hands, then dry, then more towels are daintily placed in our lap. We don't even mind that they're terry cloth. I am silently glad I wore clean socks- just in case they plan on anointing my feet with oil next.



Well, we dont have to bare our piggies after all, and Jaffar retreats with the water and returns in a flash with a drink menu. We decide on the Moroccan Red. When in Rome, after all. It's about this time we notice we are the only ones int he restaurant- it seems that the busy time is around 5, but now its after 8, so all the attention is being heaped on us. They've been expecting us, so the first dish comes out right away- oh yes, I forgot to mention there's no menu at Marrakesh, it's all pre fixe.

The first course is a large platter of cooked eggplant in tomato sauce, Medeterranean cucumbers and peppers, and carrots with corriander. Along with a large basket of bread to eat it with, thankfully. I'm not afraid of getting my hands dirty, but stewed tomatoes and eggplant just doesnt lend itself to digital extraction. The food is tasty, fresh, and I even eat a few carrots. but I draw the line at the cucumbers. What can I say.

We're told this is only the first course of 7, and the second round is up now- Layered filo dough pie with Chicken, assorted nuts, almonds, eggs, parsley, and onions. We all look at each other, and no one wants to be the first to dig in and ruin its perfect symmetry. We all go together, fingertips piercing the flaky pastry and releasing a fragrant aroma of the Mediterranean. Mmm, saffron and Jasmine, it doesn't get much better. its like a gentle caress from a mocha-skinned belly dancer while reclining ina  hammock on a warm spring day. Or something like that.

On the inside is rice, chicken and spices, contrasting nicely with the sweet sugar. I keep being told this is traditional Moroccan food, but I can't help feeling that the average Moroccan is only treated to such a feast once, maybe twice in a lifetime. Perhaps at a wedding, or a funeral, or maybe both would have to happen on the same day.

Every once in awhile I bite into something squishy amongst the pieces of chicken and lumps of sticky rice, and perhaps were I in Chinatown, this would elicit alarm, but here I feel safe, among friends, and I'm positive that although i only met jafar minutes ago, I already feel safe with him- he would not dare desecrate his establishment with sub-par ingredients. So I happily munch the glutinous masses without wondering what they are. mark would be proud.

Speaking of belly dancers, the music that has been playing throughout the restaurant all night has been a soft, melodious mix of traditional and African pop music. A nice, but unobtrusive accent, not loud enough to inhibit conversation. We only really take notice of it once it abruptly stops. Maybe they have to switch CDs? The meager remains of the chicken pie is taken away, and suddenly music starts blasting from the speakers overhead- this time loud, fast, and energetic. you almost want to get up and dance. Almost. The thing is, its a bit out of place, and we all look from one another, wondering whats up. I'm sure Jafar is rushing to the back room at this moment to turn down the CD player, but just then, the curtains part and it is not Jafar who bursts out from the kitchen but Samira Shurk, a lithe and lovely lady spangled with beads and wearing very little aside from a swirl of silken veils. He whorls and gyrates her way to our table, a smile and a wink given before she flies off into another dervish. If she notices we are the only patrons, she doesnt show it, dancing form here to there, always back to our table of course.

And then, she pulls a rapier off the wall, and, well, some things you just have to see for yourself. I look to Jeff, who has been enjoying the wine and looks like he could leap up at any moment and join the fray, but all too soon (although im sure far to long for Samira- im exhausted after one round of Dance Dance Revolution, I cant imagine how she keeps this up for 15 minutes), Samira is gone, and jafar returns with a chicken, covered in dates and olives.

We are quite satisfied by now, and if this were the last course we would be perfectly happy, but no, next is a coffee-table-sized platter of Tajine of lamb with honey and almonds. Oh, sweet merciful death. One bite of this dripy, sticky, gamey concoction and you would gladly sack Jerusaelm. Jafar, more wine please!

Iva is bemoaning the lack of any sort of vegetarian dishes- she was enjoying the lamb and chicken so it cant be a  dietary or moralistic concern, simply aesthetic? the waiters seem to read their mind, or eprhaps its just serendipiy, but the 5th course is a metric ton of steamy cous cous piled high with every vegetable to ever have grown in the middle east- dates, peppers, onions, olives, carrots, parsnips, chick peas, raisins and several I don't even care to identify. At this point we are so exhausted we barely pick at it, but what we do taste is warm, buttery and just delightful. This is a feast worthy of returning crusaders.

Okay, now we really are stuffed, so the final three courses are mercifully light- mint chamomille tea, a basket of fresh fruits and of course the requisite baklava. Is it a law they serve baklava at places like this? The only thing wrong with these lovely flaky honeyed triangles of pistachio goodness is that everyone insists on arguing where they originally come from- Arabia, Persia, Greece, Africa... of course we all know they're originally Armenian. but perhaps I'm biased.

People say that its Turkey and the soporific effects of tryptophane that causes the classic post-Thanksgiving coma, but I say any good mea can lower the blood pressure if its taken with enough quantity, enough wine, and enough good cheer. Its a miracle we could lift our bulk from the couches after such a feast, and all too soon its time to shuffle back to our cold hotel rooms to rest up for the week to come. But I will never forget Jafar, Samira... or Samira's abs. Thank you, Marrakesh, and next time you're in Boston, stop by my palace. I can't promise you 15 pounds of cous cous and I don't know how to work with filo dough, but I have a futon to lay on the floor, some locally made mead, and you can stay as long as you like.