The flavor of the week was Moroccan – an exotic spicy blend of Europe and North Africa. No, no, not my visitor; a Moroccan dinner. Besides, different flavors of that sort are only monthly here ;) Chameau was too far away, so Café Momo, billed as “modern Moroccan cuisine,” on Westwood Boulevard it would be. When we walked in at 9 pm, the place was a deserted darkness.
flailing bare flesh and finger cymbals - retreat!
The hostess asked us, instead, to take a table in attached Koutoubia. We walked through the connecting doorway, were visually assaulted by flailing flesh and crystal beads, and we immediately spun on our heels to retreat. We’ll take a seat back in the wasteland. A pajama’d older man with a smiley, glowing face whom I believe is Monsieur Michel, bolted through the doorway after us and insisted that the kitchen is the same for both restaurants, and it would be easier to sit in Koutoubia's dining room. I was very reluctant, but said okay. But you better get me a citron and soda if we’re sitting in that Moroccan Disneyland.
cushioned, just like the loony bin
Everything you’d ever think about a stereotypical Moroccan restaurant is right up in your face at Koutoubia, even from the uber-bleached Casablanca white front with carved window openings, sculptured trim around the roof, and fancy gold Arabic-ized roman letters spelling out the name over the door (which we saw on the way out at the end of the evening). Interior walls are covered, here with opulent silk and velvet tasseled drapes; there with shimmering ivory, red and green patterned fabric that looks puffed and cushioned. The ceiling, dripping crystal chandeliers, is covered and cushioned like the walls, so I felt like we had broken into the holding cell of some palatial insanity ward. Low tables that look like giant ornate metal trays on low nightstands and cushioned/pillowed bench/couch-style seating with colorful, intricately patterned upholstery, are pushed to the perimeter of the room. That’s done to leave plenty of space in the center of the main dining area for the entertainment – a creamy white belly with gyrating hips and flailing arms attached to it. If you didn’t already know you were in Westwood, then you’d be almost certain that you were in the Morocco section of the Epcot Center.
Our host showed us one of the low tables between a couple of ladies in the corner and a foursome. Monsieur pushed aside a few of the pillows, all in different patterns that would make for Moroccan Shabby Chic, to make space for both of us on the seating against the wall. Instead, I strategically took one of the stools, small velvet cubes, with my back to the belly dancer. ;) A quick look again around the room, and between the flashes of flesh and swinging beads, I could make out a few other tables – it didn’t appear that anyone was Moroccan, but what do I know? I have no idea what Moroccan people look like. I guess I was ignorantly looking for a fez or two.
sensory assault numbed by martini
always wash your hands before you eat
Because we had waited until almost 9:30 pm for dinner, what I would normally have thought to be too-sweet icky sticky specialty cocktails (pomegranate martini?) tasted as amazingly refreshing as ice cold water after a trek through the Sahara. Did I down suck down the whole thing before a bow-tied noodle of a man came by with an ornate metal basin and silver pitcher of water to ceremoniously wash our hands? Yes, yes I most certainly did. And bring me another martini before the belly dancer ting-tings those fingers cymbals my way again!
We found out through casual conversation that both our dining neighbors were first-timers to Moroccan food, which certainly made it feel even more like a tourist trip through Morocco. The foursome next to us had light, non-American-English accents, and were visiting LA. Both they and the two ladies to our right had ordered the Celebration Dinner – a preset menu that offers a good taste of typical Moroccan dishes. I took a peek at their tables, and decided to brave the menu on our own. In the end, though, we ended up basically with the same things, only sans the starters and dessert. The dessert was a small white puff with an almond sliver poked into the top, that I caught glimpse of later on. The visitors even offered a taste of it to me (but I politely declined and instead, did a happy *cheers!* with our cocktail glasses).
b'stia au poulet, akin to baklava with chicken filling
B’stia Au Poulet is a dinner dish made with a flaky pastry, similar to phyllo, though not quite as fine. The pastry is stuffed with chicken, egg, and almonds, and though it is a savory dish, it has powdered sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on top, like a dessert. At Chameau, I remember tasting this for the first time and thinking it was a flavor that I would have to get used to. This time around at Koutoubia, the pastry was certainly flaky, but still I am not wild about eating something akin to baklava with chicken filling instead of pistachios. I probably need a few more cycles before I can fully appreciate the flavor combination. The chicken filling on its own, however, was very good. I don’t know where the eggs came in, but I definitely got the texture of nuts and tender, frag
rantly spiced chicken.
On the regular dinner menu, all of the tagines are lamb, and though he likes lamb, I prefer not to eat the result of slaughtering soft, cuddly cute cottony baby animals (but big fat juicy beef sure is okay, LOL!). Our server said we could select a chicken tagine from the celebration menu, so we ordered the Tagine de Poulet aux Pruneaux et Miel, fresh roasted chicken with prunes and honey. Like everything about Koutoubia, there was quite a flamboyant show of presenting the tagine to the table, removing the conical shaped lid with a sweeping flourish and a *ta-dah* Vanna White hand motion at the tagine’s base. After three, four, by golly it might have been five pomegranate cocktails that I kept insisting were “not that strong,” we were *ooh*ing at all the spectacle.
*ta-dah!* chicken tagine
cover the tagine, here she comes again!
The chicken meat itself was flavorful and tender, but slightly difficult to remove from the bones. Using our hands would have been easier, for is that not why we splashed around with that metallic basin not twenty minutes ago? The Colonel’s original recipe is messy but do-able, but poulet that has been stew-roasting with sticky prunes and honey is a syrupy disaster for hands, so we stuck with a fork and knife. We did the best we could, but even the belly dancer with those damned nimble cymbals on could have done a better job than we.
The tagine also had simple cous cous and vegetables, both which stood out brightly against the dark reddish orange earthenware. The vegetables were crisp tender, but as expected of plain vegetables, didn’t offer much taste excitement. The cous cous is a more difficult read. Ever since a bout with a stomach virus that was not resultant of Houston’s preparation of cous cous, but will always be psychologically and subconsciously associated with the stuff that I saw on its way our of my body, I have weird anxieties about eating cous cous. The granules, which don’t know whether they want to be pasta or grain, are too big to be smooth like mashed potatoes, but too small to be like rice. For me, cous cous is stuck in a very undesirable carb-limbo. I tasted it, and it wasn’t inedible. Almost all of the cous cous went home in a styrofoam box with half the b’stia and a tiny piece of chicken from the tagine.
sneaky photo of neighbors' dessert
We skipped dessert. The food was good, but all of our other senses had now become too numb to take in anymore. Even the cocktails had set our sensibilities wonky. It had been a sensory overload from the moment Monsieur Michel coaxed us into the extravagantly decorated pseudo-tent – brightly colorful visuals, music and cymbals for the ears, and exotic spice and flavor combinations. For a full immersion in the Moroccan experience, I might go back to Koutoubia, especially since it’s so nearby in Westwood, but for a Moroccan meal that is focused on the food alone, I’d rather go back to Chameau. Or maybe come back early enough to try Café Momo.
Koutoubia Restaurant
2116 Westwood Boulevard (@ Mississippi)
Westwood, CA 90025
310.475.0729
www.koutoubiarestaurant.com
tags :: food : and drink : moroccan : restaurants : reviews : los angeles
Anonymous says
You should also try Dar Maghreb in Hollywood - sounds like the same sort of thing, with belly dancers, etc., but the food is TOTALLY fabulous!
Rebecca says
Ever notice how belly dancers all have a tummy pooch and it's their job to shake it like they're proud of it. I don't get that. I have spent the last year and a half trying to get rid of mine!
Doran says
One of the great myths is that men like skinny women.
sarah says
oh, i try and try to tell myself that, especially when inhaling french fries at turbo speed, lol!
but yes, skinny, maybe not. but not jiggling and un-toned. whatever size and frame you are, as long as you're tight ;)
Doran says
I was thinking more zaftig than corpulent.
sarah says
thank you doran! you have taught me a new word today!! :)
did you know zaftig comes from a word that means "juicy?" i am going to use it, thanks to doran (and dictionary.com) ;)
Anonymous says
I think you're missing the point of the b'stilla if you only focus on the dusting of sugar as something negative.
sarah says
well, i didn't say i didn't enjoy the b'stia at all...i am a huge fan of flaky pastry of any nationality, and the filling was good. i wasn't necessarily focusing on the powdered sugar as a negative, i was just commenting that it's something to which i am not accustomed. yet. who knows. tastebuds dissolve and grow back every few weeks or so, and perhaps mine will grow back with a new love for powdered sugar on chicken pastry. :)
Anonymous says
Do any of the people writing here have a French and/or Middle Eastern descent?
It's amazing how people criticize the body of Middle Eastern women (having a flabby belly) and the food as not being that good. You guys have probably not even been outside the U.S.!!!!
sarah says
anonymous: i am not of french nor middle eastern descent - though i am not quite sure how that relates to having an opinion about how something tastes to me.
can you further elaborate about your comment about bodies and flabby bellies? are you implying that outside the u.s., a large belly is considered beautiful ( if so, i am living in the wrong country!)
also, i have been outside the u.s., and again, not quite sure how that relates to not loving the food at koutoubia.
Ari Gold says
I have several points to make. And as I have been going to Koutubia for 16 years and have eaten at every other Moroccan restaurant in Los Angeles, as well as abouit 2 dozen Moroccan restaurants in Europe, I think my opinion to be worthy of consideration.
A) Morrocan food is excellent almost everywhere, and Koutubia is my favorite. Anywhere.
B) The writers clear animosity for cous-cous disqualifies her from making an unbiased judgement of how good it is relative to other cous-cous. For this I think it is the best anywhere. (same for the b'styia)
C) The writer has two fundamental problems with her approach to writing the article. First she is trying to be witty and urbane with a touch of self-deprecating humor, but comes off
as bitchy, uncultured, and overly prepared to criticise. Second is that the writer seems to be a bit boring. She has no sense of something new and adventurous as fun but instead views it with the reflexive dislike so often shown by the ignorant towards the unknown.
That being said, if she relaxed her style and refined her wit the review might have been both funnier and more useful as a discussion of the merits of this particular restaurant. As it is, however, it seems to portray an excellent restaurant with a great atmosphere and superb cuisine with traditional, hand-made Moroccan decor (hand-made by Moroccans, I might add) as a Disneyland-like experience with mediocre food and useless kitsch. So I urge you to disregard this review when considering this place when you want good food and instead listen to Zagat, which loves this place year after year.
And on a side note girls that can dance, even with a little belly, are sexy everywhere else in the world.
Kevin says
Ari Gold --
So she's not allowed her own opinion? Last time I checked, this was still a free country. You're free to start your own blog and talk about how you love everything Zagat's says and being a corporate drone and enjoying picking out a new cornflower blue necktie once every year.
Thanks, I look forward to reading it.
sarah says
"ari": first off, thank you, both for reading my blog as well as putting so much thought into a comment. also, i am the only person who writes this blog, so you can reply to me directly. you don't have to refer to "she" and "her," unless you are speaking to my readers.
now i am responding to your points.
A) i am nowhere near as experienced as you are with moroccan food, but i agree that it is excellent. there are some flavors, textures, and combinations to which i am not quite accustomed, but i will be eventually.
B) this is a blog. it is a recounting of my experience. it is highly opinionated. if i were writing a professional review, i'd be much more careful. i am not trying to make an unbiased judgment, and that is exactly why i explained my previous history with cous cous. it is a "disclaimer," if you will, so that people who do read will know that any of my comments about koutoubia's cous cous ARE biased.
C) you said that i am "trying to be witty and urbane with a touch of self-deprecating humor, but comes off as bitchy, uncultured, and overly prepared to criticise." thank you, and you are correct on all counts. i AM bitchy (that's why i blog it out). as far as being prepared to criticize - i am not sure what you are emphasizing with that statement. i am definitely prepared to criticize when i need to. i am also prepared to gush or shrug my shoulder with indifference. it all depends on how i am moved.
though you talked about it as part of the first fundamental problem that i have, i am grouping "uncultured" with "boring," which you are pointing out as my second fundamental problem in my approach to writing the article. uncultured? if you are talking about experience in other cultures, then yes, totally. i was born in the midwest, grew up in the south, have lived in california, and have only stepped foot outside of this country to go to korea (family) and canada (and windsor, niagra falls, and the stratford-on-avon for the shakespeare festivals every year hardly count as "out of this country.") however, if you are referring to my openness to new cuisines, i am disturbed that it "seems" this way to you, as i make it a point in my life to try new cuisines, ESPECIALLY since i am unable to travel much. your point has me thinking, though, so thank you.
however, this brings me to a separate point, which is the fact that you also are making judgments about MY writing style, MY approach, and my seeming uncultured, boring personality/life based only on reading one post out of close to a thousand. you can hold any opinion you wish, you can even state them out loud, but only when you have read through my entire blog, will your statements about me and my approach be qualified.
but in the end, any "review," statement, criticism, etc. no matter how educated/experienced/knowledgable/etc. a person is, will always be an opinion. you are entitled to yours, as i am to mine.
i put up my impression of koutoubia, but neither you nor i have any real power over what a reader will do. he or she will read what i wrote, will read your comments, might look at zagat and other "reviews," and will make a decision to go there. or not.