PASSIONATE RATIONS

The last thing I anticipated from a trip to Vegas was an entrée to North African cuisine.  But, then, Vegas often dishes up the unexpected.

Attending a business conference one fall, we were invited to join a group of folks brave enough to venture off the Strip in search of good food.  We were to be well rewarded.

Amongst the group were two who had done their pre-trip homework.  They had become enamored of Moroccan cuisine some time before and had heard tell of a praise-worthy local establishment called the “Marrakech.”  They soon organized a caravan. I, in particular, was excited to fulfill a desire to try the culinary offerings of far-off Casablanca, engendered years earlier while passing a Moroccan restaurant in Seattle and thinking to myself “Moroccan food?  Moroccan food!”

And, so, we eagerly headed out.

It was good to leave the Strip, away from the gaudy lights and strident chatter of slot machines.  I have heard that the American southwest is not so far from Morocco in terms of topography and climate.  Vegas in October is clear and warm.  It is the best time of year to visit.

We pulled up to a building that really didn’t look like much—boxy and commercial, but we opened the door into another world.  Draperies hung from the ceiling and walls so you felt that you had entered a tent.  We were seated on plush, legless seats around a low wooden table.  The wait staff provided rose water and towels so that we might wash our hands.  Moroccan fare is eaten without utensils.

We ordered the traditional six-course meal, which would be punctuated every fifteen minutes or so with strains of Moroccan music and belly-dancing.  Of the food, I recall tender shrimp (with the odd appellation on the menu of “shrimp scampi”), a spiced soup, an exotic salad, luscious lamb shish kebob, and a Cornish game hen in a delicate lemon sauce.  These were simple dishes, but extraordinarily flavorful and, hence, memorable.  The crowning glory for me, however, was the one course of which I had never heard or even conceived of:  pastilla (or “b’stila” or “bastilla”; spellings vary.  I prefer “b’stila” since “pastilla” means something entirely different in Spanish).

As I freely admitted in a past post, I have a great bias towards dishes that exhibit both sweet and savory characteristics and b’stila is one of these.  It consists of layer upon layer of paper-thin pastry dough brushed with butter, alternating with layers of shredded chicken spiced with cilantro, tumeric, saffron, ginger, and cinnamon, and layers of blanched almonds mixed with cinnamon and powdered sugar.  It is truly divine. Through that dish, I became one with the angels.

Since that transformative dinner, my partner has taken on the task of learning how to prepare b’stila and I have had the great good fortune of being the beneficiary of the attempts.

We have also traveled to Morocco via other locales, including Los Angeles, were we ate in the extraordinary environs of Dar Maghreb.  Only in Hollywood can you eat your Moroccan fare deeply ensconced in a life-like reproduction of a Morrocan palace.  Perhaps, someday, we will experience the real thing….