Please stick with me while I spin a tale of woe traditionally reserved for those who see The Sixth Sense and then enter a theatre excitedly prepared for the next round of Shyamylanian magnificence.
With no chefs, customers or indeed light in sight we entered, emboldened by the reviews you are presently digesting. The (apparently) singular staff member greeted us and (to be honest) divulged the prices. 300 dirham for the grand and 200 for the petit. We then accepted, prepared for the feast to come. The young man (whose service was actually decent) then ducked out to the nearest shop to procure our hastily prepared meal.
The first course was Harira soup. Traditionally prepared with a spicy mix of local deliciousness but, in this case, approached by someone inspired by high culture a-la Campbell's first introduced by Warhol in the 60's. There was also chickpeas dumped in for good measure.
Then came the kefta (lamb) tagine that drew on the lessons of homeopathy in that our host had undoubtedly seen a tagine at some point in his life and then osmotically imputed that essence into it after pouring last nights leftovers into the hob. Cous cous was too much to ask and we instead dipped the semi-stale bread left from the soup du jour.
Sadly, we did not eat much of the banana and rockmellon desert and left swiftly. Our pride, and wallets, considerably lessened.
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