Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks we should stop wasting money on foreign aid and give it to British pensioners struggling to afford a Saga cruise.
I’VE never had much time for the Arabs. Wasting their time racing camels, living in tents in terrorist training camps in the desert and dicking around with magic lamps.
And before the wokeys start calling me ‘racist’, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen Lawrence of Arabia and I had a package holiday in Tunisia once. But we’re talking about food here, so you don’t want to hear about my explosive liquid shits.
Anyway, there’s a new Moroccan restaurant opened in town, and to prove how openminded I am, I’m trying it out. Plus I blagged a freebie by telling them I’m a leading food critic. I am. I don’t bother trying the veggie crap like Grace Dent does.
They’re friendly enough but I’m keeping a firm hand on my wallet. Their favourite book isn’t called Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves for nothing. The decor’s a bit gaudy, with carpets on the wall. I wittily ask if they put them there, or if they flew up of their own accord. Nothing. Aren’t they meant to like a laugh, like Omar Sharif?
I’m a bit nervous as they present me with the menu. I’m expecting camel’s eyes, fried snakes and 50 ways to cook sheep’s bollocks.
Luckily it’s flatbreads with dips for starters. Zaalouk, which is smoked aubergines stinking of garlic. Blended tomatoes and onions that’s not a patch on our ketchup. Why is everything the consistency of runny porridge? Probably because their teeth aren’t up to much else. Can’t be easy finding a dentist in the middle of the desert. Mind you, us Brits can talk.
Mains are mostly a selection of tagines, or in English, stews. I order lamb. It’s okay until I hit something sickly sweet and realise it’s got bloody apricots in it. Astonishing to think there are still countries so backward they don’t realise meat and fruit goes together like Prince Andrew and a Girl Guides convention.
It comes with Morocco’s ‘national dish’, couscous, which is semolina. It’s like eating f**king sand. Fair enough. Reminds them of the desert I suppose.
Pudding beckons and they proudly present me with ‘M’hanncha’, a pastry filled with almond paste. I ask what it means in English and it’s only bloody ‘snake cake’! They claim it’s because of the long, coiled shape, but I’m not taking any chances.
When the meal’s done they start asking awkward questions. ‘Which newspaper do you write for?’ and ‘When will we see the review?’. I tell them I’ll have to check with my editor and make a mental note to take a convoluted route home. Don’t want to risk them following me and finding out where I live. They’re stealthy buggers, like in Assassin’s Creed.
But, ever the professional, I lie that it was all delicious and make my escape. In one last attempt at humour, as I approach the door I wave my hands mystically in the air and cry, ‘Open Sesame!’ Then I fair shit myself as it opens by itself. I’d forgotten about the automatic doors.
