Moroccan getaway

I must confess Moroccan cuisine has eluded me. I do remember going to a restaurant called Marrakesh in Washington, D.C. The exterior was hidden with no visible sign, while the interior was covered in colorful tapestries. A belly dancer hypnotized us during the meal with tantalizing gyrations. But inexplicably, my mind draws a blank on the food. Was it distinctly African, or was it more Middle Eastern?

Memory, it turns out, has not failed me. Morocco itself is a hybrid. A coastal country in North Africa, Morocco is at once Arabian, Islamic, African and Mediterranean. And the cuisine reflects the eclecticism of various regional influences.

Delicious though it is, the food itself may not be the star of Moroccan dining. It is often overshadowed by a splendid décor or a style of service fit for royalty. Twice, I have been most taken by the sheer experience itself—the feeling of being whisked away to some faraway place.

Such is the case at Casablanca. Tucked in a corner at Fair Oaks and Watt, you’d never know from the inside that you were at one of the busiest intersections in Sacramento. Rich-looking tapestries cover the windows. The sloped, fabric-laden ceiling creates a tent-like feel. On each wall are banquettes, low tables and cushions. The whole thing makes you want to recline and be fed grapes. The man creating such a romantic getaway is Mourhit Drissi, Casablanca’s chef and owner, who energetically bounds from table to table, calling young ladies “princess” and bantering good-naturedly with the clientele. You don’t feel so much like a diner as you do a guest in Mourhit’s establishment.

It starts with the washing of the hands. Mr. Drissi comes by with a giant metal-teapot-slash-wash-basin and pours water over your hands. He gives you your own personal hand towel, which will serve as your “napkin” for the rest of the meal. Ordering the meal seems incidental. No matter what you choose, there are three de rigueur courses that precede the meal. We were served harira, the national lentil soup that serves to break the fast during Ramadan. The small bowls held a tomato-lemon mixture, nicely spiced with parsley, cilantro and cumin. The soup was light (not a lot of lentils) and was drunk miso-style, sans spoon. Two modest appetizers followed, a hummus garnished with olive oil and paprika, and a delicious carrot salad, which was marinated in vinegar and flavored with cumin and coriander. Looking around, I figured out that the more numerous your party, the more appetizers you got. And I also surmised that when Mr. Drissi comes to your table with a basket of pita bread, take a lot. Oh, and I almost forgot! You must BYOFOB (bring your own form of booze).

After the cold appetizers came the b’stela (sometimes spelled bisteeya or pastilla). Think of a piece of baklava that has mated with a meat dumpling. The dish is made with a very thin dough, like phyllo, which covers a meat mixture (most often chicken) typically cooked with onions, eggs and lots of spices. The whole thing is dusted with powdered sugar, and somewhere mid-chew you can taste honey and almonds in the mix. Very messy, but delicious.

By this time, I was full. And we hadn’t yet gotten our Sultan’s Feast, the chef’s selection of entrées. I had spied some interesting fare on the menu: merguez, a Moroccan sausage; and kefta, spicy Moroccan meatballs. They even had rabbit, cooked with cumin, onions and garlic. For sure, I thought we’d get some sort of tajine, a spicy stew traditionally cooked in a clay-pot. But what appeared were three medium-sized entrées of beef in honey sauce, chicken kabobs, and a vegetable couscous dish.

Alas, none of our entrées was adventurous by design, and none took us to new Moroccan culinary heights. The beef was flavorful, but the pieces were inconsistently moist and dry. The honey did little, neither intensifying nor playing counterpoint to the flavor of the meat. The chicken kabob, served with rice, was nicely spiced and had a medium-charred flavor, but was not remarkable. I took refuge in the vegetable couscous, which was moist, fluffy, salty and buttery—a hard combination to beat.

As we waited for the check, my eyelids grew heavy and the furniture seemed to invite me to recline yet further. I was about to be whisked away into slumber, when a cheery Mr. Drissi emerged from a closet bearing an almond cookie plate with birthday candles. Suddenly, Neil Sedaka belted out Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen! while Mourhit, in celebrity sunglasses, danced with a girl of six. Distinctly un-Moroccan, but unmistakably Mourhit. With that final number, we walked out into the cold Sacramento night. Our dinner may not have been the culinary marvel I had hoped for, but I’d go back in a heartbeat if only to recapture the feeling of having been taken someplace special.