My mother expressed the desire to have dinner at a Moroccan restaurant for her one night stay in Madrid. She had expressed that same antojo last year and we had gone to the usual and expensive Al-Mounia, but as we had been disappointed we decided to try a new address this time. I therefore spent some time asking around and looking on the web for new unknown places and finally decided on one reviewed cheap and authentic.
As I called the restaurant yesterday to ask if a reservation was needed, I was pleasantly surprised when the person who answered the phone barely spoke any Spanish and replied ‘yes yes ok reservation 4 people 10pm’ to my ‘is a reservation necessary?’ question. I thought it was a good sign (it being his poor level of Spanish.)
So at ten last night, we entered a small empty and typically decorated Moroccan restaurant. The waiter was the person whom I had ‘spoken’ to on the phone so we spoke slowly and used a restricted vocabulary in order to try to make ourselves understood. The card was small but included all the specialties my dear mother desired. The place was certainly authentic. No wine. No alcohol. Authentic except for the KISS FM playing in the background.
We ordered cous-cous, pastela, taillin, and 3 alcohol free beers. The service was friendly and certainly fast, the food was ok, and the bill cheap as hell. I apologized a thousand times, my mother kept trying to find positive elements to the experience, and my mother’s boyfriend summarized the experience as ‘C’est pas mauvais, c’est rustique’ (read ‘It’s not bad it’s rustic.) Indeed.
As I called the restaurant yesterday to ask if a reservation was needed, I was pleasantly surprised when the person who answered the phone barely spoke any Spanish and replied ‘yes yes ok reservation 4 people 10pm’ to my ‘is a reservation necessary?’ question. I thought it was a good sign (it being his poor level of Spanish.)
So at ten last night, we entered a small empty and typically decorated Moroccan restaurant. The waiter was the person whom I had ‘spoken’ to on the phone so we spoke slowly and used a restricted vocabulary in order to try to make ourselves understood. The card was small but included all the specialties my dear mother desired. The place was certainly authentic. No wine. No alcohol. Authentic except for the KISS FM playing in the background.
We ordered cous-cous, pastela, taillin, and 3 alcohol free beers. The service was friendly and certainly fast, the food was ok, and the bill cheap as hell. I apologized a thousand times, my mother kept trying to find positive elements to the experience, and my mother’s boyfriend summarized the experience as ‘C’est pas mauvais, c’est rustique’ (read ‘It’s not bad it’s rustic.) Indeed.
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