Take a Trip to Marrakesh

You enter a smoky, dimly-lit room, its walls graced with Arabic script. Exotic strains of guitar music twang in the background as you cross the tiled floor, and a fez-capped waiter in harem pants leads you through a maze of mosaic-patterned couches. You recline in a dark, cozy corner, surrounded by plump cushions, and your charming guide kneels tableside, instructing you in the customs of a far-off land. Your mind reels as he brings dish after dish -- seven sumptuous courses in all. Where are you? a sheik's royal banquet? a desert oasis? a Near Eastern opium den? Answer: All of the above -- Marrakesh, located at 517 S. Liethgow Street (just off South), has been offering far more than just a prix fixe meal since 1977. According to the restaurant's manager, Nina Frangieh, a family named Kouchacji, originally from Lebanon, opened their first Moroccan restaurant on the East Coast (there is also one in Washington, D.C.) with the goal of providing customers with an authentic, unique experience. · We visited Marrakesh on a crowded Saturday evening, and the waiter immediately bombarded us with friendly banter and knowing advice. "Is this your first time at Marrakesh? . . . Here we will serve a meal as you would experience it in a Moroccan home . . . First you will wash your hands, since you will eat with them." After pouring water over our hands, our waiter spread a towel-sized napkin across our laps, and the feast commenced. Course one was a pungent vegetable salad, served in a shallow ceramic bowl. The salad was served with a hunk of dense, floury bread, which we dipped into the pickled sliced carrots, tart eggplant and mildly spicy cucumbers and peppers. When we finished the bread, we scooped up the oily slaw with our fingers, a delightfully naughty sensation, and one which was to enhance the entire Marrakesh experience. My dinner companion and I ordered the reasonably-priced house red wine, available (as is the house white) by the carafe. We were informed matter-of-factly that it was a California brand. The couple next to us was enjoying a bottle of special Moroccan brew, which was on the more expensive side. A few sips of the full-bodied wine, and along came course two: a searing hot shredded chicken-and-egg mixture encased in filo dough, and sprinkled with powdered sugar and a touch of cinnamon. The room was so dark that it was difficult to discern exactly what it was that I tore apart with my fingers, but somehow that didn't seem to matter. While waiting for dish number three, I glanced around the room. Next to us sat a middle-aged woman sitting quite close to a rather young man. Across the room a group of six thirtysomethings cooed over a baby, and discussed kitchens and snakes. Farther down, a loving couple fed each other grapes. I wondered what course they were on. Dish three was "spicy chicken," a supernaturally tender meat doused in a fiery curry sauce and served with bitter green olives. I am not usually fond of spicy foods, but by now something -- the atmosphere or the wine or both -- dulled the effect to a near-pleasant tingle. Next, course four offered a choice of beef or lamb. We opted for beef shish kabob, blackened on the outside, salt-and-peppery inside, garnished with orange slices. While pulling the meat off the skewer with my fingers and tearing it with my teeth, the everpresent waiter popped by, bringing washcloths scented with rosewater for our hands. · With three courses still to come, I realized that I had forgotten my watch. This was fine with me; I had been in this Near-Eastern Oz for at least an hour and had no desire to click my ruby slippers. · At the couch next to us, a smiling foursome were diving into their cous-cous, course five. When ours arrived, we understood the smiles -- the curious mixture of cooked onions, grainy squash, burnt raisins and Moroccan grain, simmering in a lamb-tinged sauce, provided apt compliment to the heavier meat dishes. The gluttonous manner in which we shoveled this fare into our mouths seemed awfully humorous. And by now we certainly appreciated our mammoth "lapkins." While reclining into item number six, a huge bowl of fruit, I began to ask myself what exactly about this Marrakesh produced such a collective feeling of good will and camaraderie. My comfort and contentment certainly had something to do with the knowing, mischevious looks I received from patron and waiter alike. Eating with our hands in a warm, close room creates a curious feeling of intimacy. I also wondered why the Red Delicious apple I munched on was indeed the most delicious I had ever tasted, even after five other dishes. Perhaps it was the fluffy pillows I sank into, or the music which seemed to rise and fall erratically with my heartbeat. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that my shoes had slipped off, and were hiding somewhere among the couch cushions. · After the fruit, mint tea, served in a manner that one must see to believe, was a perfect palate cleanser, balancing out the meal. And the final course, sticky-sweet baklava, honey and chopped nuts wrapped in a triangle of flaky pastry dough, rested in a pool of rose-flavored syrup. I could only manage two bites of this dessert, for by this time my limits had been exceeded. I was astonished by the amount that I consumed; I felt leaden but light-headed. The room seemed darker than before. From all sides I heard whispered murmurs: " . . . I could fall asleep . . . Do I have to stand up? . . . " I resisted my own urge to doze off, and left the meal with honeyed hands. (With all the attention paid us by the staff, I had to question why we weren't honored with a final rinse. Perhaps so the check wouldn't slip out of our fingers?) · Dining at Marrakesh costs $20 per person, with 15 percent tip and tax tacked onto your bill, in case you're too overwhelmed to add properly. Make sure you call for reservations, because seating is limited and this joint is really popular. Above all, remember that Marrakesh is more than a restaurant, it is an experience; this is not a meal to be rushed through, or taken lightly. Visit Marrakesh with that person you want to get closer to -- feed him or her some grapes, and watch the patterns dance on the walls. Or bring five or seven close friends for some soul-searching. Don't wear a watch. After dinner you will walk out into the night air, spirit a bit lighter, and feel like you are missing something, as if some sort of home exists in that warm intimate den, and "real life" is a rather unwelcome prospect. This strange sensation wears off in an hour or so. But you'll be back. (CUT LINE) Please see DINING, page 9 DINING, from page 7

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