Lisa H.
Google
After a long, frustrating search guided by a TripAdvisor review raving about authentic Moroccan cuisine, my husband Jeff and I finally found the so-called restaurant. It wasn’t a restaurant at all—just a lady’s home, hidden underground like some secret speakeasy. We descended a creaky staircase into a basement that was eclectically decorated with mismatched lamps, colorful tapestries, and a jumble of furniture that looked like it came from a thrift store’s clearance bin. We were the only ones there, seated at a wobbly table, feeling like we’d stumbled into someone’s quirky living room. For 45 minutes, it was just us, exchanging nervous glances, until another couple arrived, their confused faces mirroring ours and making us feel slightly less like we’d walked into a trap.
As soon as we sat, a scruffy cat, introduced by the owner Joanne as one that “hates everyone,” decided Jeff was its new obsession. This furry menace leaped onto his lap, kneading and sucking on his shirt with such enthusiasm that it was soaked in no time. “He never does this!” Joanne marveled, while Jeff, pinned under the cat’s relentless affection, whispered, “I’m being drowned in drool.” I tried not to laugh, but the sight of my husband as a cat’s personal chew toy was peak absurdity.
Joanne didn’t offer a menu—just asked about food allergies and if we wanted wine, which felt promising, like maybe we were in for a curated experience. The appetizer seemed to confirm it: a plate of Wagyu beef, fatty and salty, bursting with flavor that made us think the Moroccan feast was coming. We were wrong. The main course was a letdown of epic proportions: a boiled chicken quarter, bland as cardboard, served with plain white rice and a sad sprinkle of microgreens that looked like an afterthought. Jeff muttered, “Where’s the Morocco in this?” as we poked at the flavorless disaster, dreaming of the spices TripAdvisor had promised.
Thankfully, dessert saved the night. Joanne brought out a warm pumpkin pie mousse, silky and rich, paired with a scoop of vanilla ice cream that was pure comfort in a bowl. It was so good we almost forgot the cat drool and the chicken travesty. We savored every bite, paid the bill (scribbled on a napkin, naturally), and gently peeled the cat off Jeff’s soggy shirt before escaping up the stairs. As we emerged, unscathed but bewildered, Jeff said, “Well, the dessert was worth it… barely.” What an experience—TripAdvisor, you’ve got some explaining to do.
