A camera affixed to the undulating midriff of Kasbah's belly dancer would reveal an exotic scene a world away from Crown Hill's insistent Scandinavi-tude: tapestried walls, low-slung ottomans around brass tables, and a back room bedecked in scarves like a bedouin tent—all under Alhambran lamps set to perpetual twilight. Welcome to dinner in the Maghreb, where your hands are washed at the table, you eat with your fingers, and you finish with sweet mint tea. (Bring the kids; they won't believe their good fortune.) In between you feast on five courses, from the flaky bastella appetizer enclosing minced almonds and chicken (as a stand-in for the traditional pigeon) in sweet phyllo to the lovely lamb and chicken preparations, many embellished with the golden raisins, apricots, and preserved lemons of Moroccan favor. If flavors sometimes lack the courage of their convictions, let the belly cam show: The dancer conveys no such reticence.
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