An Update on the Atlanta Food Scene...

I am actually kind of behind on a couple of posts (one of which is going to be really fun, wink, wink) but I just got back from the big ATL and I have to put fingers to keyboard while the taste of short ribs is still fresh in my memory.

My excuse this time was a networking event I had been invited to.  Those who know me well know how much I love networking (NOT), but I was actually pretty excited about this one.  Turned out to be worth the effort, too - spending a couple of hours chatting with young(ish), intelligent, interesting, well-traveled professionals, all of whom are out doing things, was really, really refreshing and inspiring.  Made me want to find a few like-minded individuals and try something similar in my own community.

Friday was a full-blown work day for both Katie and me, but we managed to slip in a donut run and a quick jaunt to meet "Deb", a feisty little 59-year-old engineer who padded about in her sock feet, touring us through her luxurious new digs, the trappings of moving still scattered about.  She was tired from moving and frazzled from getting ready to leave for Canada the following day, but she stood there in her foyer full of spit and vinegar, and lectured me on the importance of standing up for myself and demanding respect as a female professional in a world dominated by men.  I so admire women like her - smart and successful, yet unashamed of flyaway hair, a thick Southern accent, and loving her husband.  To be a woman equally at ease with a strong family life and the world as her stage; now that is something to be proud of.  (Reminds me of my friend Tori.)

Andrew was in charge of arranging dinner, and he got us dinner reservations at Il Giallo in Sandy Springs.  So bear with me, because I am now going to rhapsodize for a bit.

We started with the "giallo asse" salumi and cheese board - I'm not good with all of the various names of charcuterie, but that prosciutto was scrumptious, the white creamy cheese and the fig paste were delectable, and those olives were revelatory.  Seriously. (The soft, warm foccacia dipped in a good olive oil didn't hurt matters, either.)

I am a horrible photographer, in large part because I am so self-conscious when I take pictures that I just rush to get it over with.  But as you can see here, we ordered spaghetti and meatballs (decent), veal parmesan (Andrew said it was really good, which is high praise coming from Mr. Rocco) and roasted cauliflower - all gave solid performances (although my roasted cauliflower is just as good, if not better, thank you very much).  The agnolotti (the little raviolis in the middle) and the tagliatelle were pause-for-a-moment-of-silence wonderful, though.  The pasta was fresh-made, literally at a station right in front of the dining room, and it delivered great al dente chew.  The agnolotti were filled with roasted duck and fontina, doused in brown butter, and seasoned with sage and crunchy, toasty pecans - bliss in every bite.  The tagliatelle was served with braised short rib, and I seriously didn't even want to talk or think while I ate it - I was perfectly happy focusing every sense on soaking up the pure, glorious, beefy flavor of that pasta.  I resisted licking the bowl when I was done, but it was hard.  

Our dessert of bombolone (ricotta doughnuts) and croissant bread pudding made a decent showing, but was almost anti-climactic after that pasta.  I think if I were to summarize, I would say it's well worth a visit - nothing was bad, and a few choices were downright amazing.  Oddly, we were probably the youngest table in the place by a long shot; of course, we even found the token Hillary Clinton look-alike.

The pasta station in action.

Saturday, we met up with my good friends Justin and Aletta for lunch and animated conversation (always, always, with those two) at Muss & Turner's in Smyrna.  We were less focused on food than on catching up, but my Mo' Rock'n sandwich was solid - shredded chicken with ras el-hanout and cucumber yogurt on a good bun.  Cool pickle selection - you can choose between "Old", "New", Green Tomato, and Jalapeno - the "New" one had a nice, green crunch and relatively mild pickliness (how do you even spell that?), which is a good thing, in my book.  I would go back - I was actually pleased to find this place, as I haven't been overly impressed with the dining options on that side of town until now.

Whatever; hugs are where it's at!  But I took this in honor of my more personal-space-preferring family members... 

After lunch, we all went our separate ways - after a stop at Rev Coffee Roasters, Kate and I hit the Woodstock outlet malls, and I proceeded to spend a shockingly large amount of money in a shockingly short amount of time.  I'm still suffering from buyer's remorse, but it was sure fun while it lasted.  We met up with Andrew at Campania in Alpharetta for some solid (solid is my word of the day, if you can't tell) pizza and beard analysis, among other things, and then wrapped up the evening with a couple of episodes of The Great British Baking Show.  (This is the best reality TV show ever - everybody is super polite and normal, their accents are adorable, and it's all about baking, for Pete's sake.  What's not to love?)

I headed out relatively early, Sunday, but there was time for breakfast at Collet French Pastry in Alpharetta, and as far as I'm concerned, from now on, there will always be time for breakfast at Collet French Pastry in Alpharetta.  You know those moments a person gets, where you think, "yep, this is how I want to live"?  Yes, this.  I would be perfectly happy to sit every morning at a round marble table next to a sunny window, sipping on hot coffee topped with a thick layer of crema and enjoying custard-filled brioche, almond croissants, and perfectly executed quiche accompanied by the loveliest, delicate salad, little more than a garnish, dressed just exactly how salads are supposed to be dressed, but never are.  And Collet, herself?  A beautiful, slender, chic Corsican, who makes herself a big glass of vegetable juice every day, and then eats croissants but never gets fat because she's so active, and hey, paradisiacal croissants are just no big deal when you're around them all day.  

I really need to figure out how to go live in France for a year.  Put that on my list of resolutions.  

Thanksgiving

This last weekend was great.  Beautiful weather, four whole days of no alarm clocks, some kitchen therapy, loads of friend-time, and food.  So.  Much.  Food.  Here's a random sampling of what my Thanksgiving weekend looked like:

Pancakes.  Fried until crispy in pure, unadulterated butter.  I cockily told myself I had this food weekend thing under control.  One pancake and an egg, I said.  I think I stopped at three and a cheese-laden omelet.  An auspicious beginning.

 

Sweet potato with marshmallow meringue, and chocolate pecan.  I need meringue lessons, for what it's worth.

Notice, no photos of buckets and mops, or leaf rakes, or piles of bills and receipts.  What's the old saying? "Eh, don't sweat it; it'll still be there, waiting for you."  Yep, it is.

Anyway, a random list of things I am thankful for, in no particular order:

• Friends.  All of them.  They make life awesome, on so many levels.

• This:

Because they are mine and I wouldn't trade a one for all the gold in the world.  (Even that black-haired stinkpot in the back row.)

• The way that the smell of coffee makes everything better.

•  My aunt.  Because it is so awesome to have one person (aside from my mother, who is biologically obligated) who thinks I am totally cool, regardless of whether that fact is true or not.

• Music.  Ahhhh, music.  And great speakers.  And intense volume.  

• The person who figured out how to dig cocoa beans out of their pod, and then ferment them, dry them, roast them, grind them, press them, mix them with sugar and milk and stuff, all to create chocolate.  I am eternally grateful.  While we're on the subject, the people who invented cake and croissants are pretty huggable, too.

• Mountains and oceans.  Because there is nothing quite like nature at it's biggest and most dramatic to remind a human being just how puny and temporary and insignificant they and all of their "situations" are in the whole scheme of things.  

• Possibilities.  The fact that I haven't seen the Northern Lights yet doesn't mean I never will.  Not to mention all of the amazing things I haven't even imagined that are still yet to come.  (Hark! This applies to you, too, Dear Reader.)

• Freedom from fear.  Or, maybe more accurately, the ability to recognize fear, look it in the face, kick it square in the pants, and send it packing.

• The view from my front porch:

I know.

• Second chances.  It's a gift to know that even if I screwed up today, I can start over tomorrow and I never have to make that mistake again.  What a joy, to be able to mitigate shame with forgiveness and determination to be better.  (And such a comfort when I just stuck my foot in my mouth or grouched at a colleague.)

• Kids.  Because their joy and ability to love without reservation feeds my soul and takes my breath away.  Why do grown-ups have to outgrow that, anyway?  (I vote we just don't.)

• Books.  Because when you read, the world is your oyster, regardless of whether a plane ticket is in the budget or not.  Trust me, I know this.  

• A heavenly Father whose mercies are new, every single morning.  All I have needed, His hand has provided.  This, right here, is Everything.  (And it is His presence that gives meaning to all of the rest.)

What are you thankful for?

Girl's Night Out

Last night was an Out Night.  Now, believe you me, I am a pretty big fan of In Nights (you know, the kind where you shuffle around in sweats and bare feet, read a book or watch some Netflix, raid the pantry...that sort of thing).  In fact, I don't know if I should even admit this out loud, but you know how in romcoms, they always portray the sad loser girl going home to eat takeout alone at the counter and then curl up on the couch in ugly PJ's to watch a movie with nothing but a pint of Ben & Jerry's and maybe a goldfish to keep her company?  The whole scene is designed to project the depths of misery and loneliness and I always sit there and think gosh, that looks like my ideal Friday night!

Anyway, I totally digress.  Last night was an Out Night, and in spite of my love for In Nights, Out Nights are very beneficial from time to time.

Straight No Chaser was playing at the Florida Theatre (what a great, old-school glam little venue, by the way), so a few of us loaded up on a Tuesday night and headed to Jacksonville for burgers, milkshakes, girl talk and some great a cappella singing.

So, let's take this in order, starting with burgers and milkshakes.  Shockingly enough, I hadn't tried M Shack, even though one of their outlets is a block away from my office and burgers and fries would definitely be my last meal of choice.  Sadly, I was in more of a social than a serious burger-eating mode last night, so I didn't really do the place justice (I even forgot to take pictures, so the mouthwatering image below is a stock photo, tee-hee) but I can tell you that the Marshmallow Brulee milkshake and the Crab Fries (no seafood, just seasoning) are pretty darn good.

Photo courtesy of Unsplash.com, a totally awesome site introduced to me by my friend Aletta, full of gorgeous, totally free high-res photos.

Actually, let's do this out of order.  Next, let's talk about the music.  Straight No Chaser is a 10-member, all male group, in the great college a cappella tradition (what, you didn't know there was a great college a cappella tradition?).  They had their breakout moment a few years ago when their version of 12 Days of  Christmas went viral (it is pretty clever) and they've been at it, ever since.  If I were to be perfectly honest, they had a few painfully pitchy moments, and, let's face it, Take6 makes everybody else look like mere children, but it was a really fun show, anyway.  Among the highlights?  Their version of All About that Bass was adorable, they did some great Stevie Wonder covers, and Jerome Collins pretty much owned everything he touched (not to mention his racially inappropriate humor, which cracked me up, thanks to the corrupting influence of a racially inappropriate pretty good pal of mine).  I lost my heart on the last number of the night, though - Dylan's To Make You Feel My Love (which is already basically one of my favorite songs of all time, sucker that I am).  They did it unplugged, mics and in-ears on the ground, and my heart melted into a puddle around my feet.

The real highlight of my night, though, burgers, milkshakes and ten cute guys with good voices notwithstanding, was spending time with my friends.  We were a carful of girls ranging in age from sixteen to fifty, with interests and backgrounds as wide-ranging as our ages, and we enjoyed every minute we had together.  We talked about everything from school and careers to travel and music (and listened to Jasmine sing, which in and of itself is an event worth writing home about - that girl's talent is pure uncommon) to beards and bullying, to wanting to fall more in love with Jesus and find ways to touch lives and make a difference.

Let me tell you, I've done my share of female socializing.  We girls are talkative critters - we're wired to communicate and connect, so when we get together, we tend to cover some ground, conversationally speaking.  All of that verbal firepower has the potential to do some damage - everybody's heard (and probably witnessed) the gossip and cat-fests that can occur when a bunch of girls get going, and the results aren't pretty.  That being said, on the other hand, you just cannot beat what happens when a bunch of like-minded, big-hearted, Jesus-loving chicks get together.  Age, class, marital status, background...none of it matters.  What matters is that we lift up, encourage and inspire one another, and each of us walks away determined to do life better, whether it's screwing up the courage to take the plunge you know you need to take, being a better wife and mother, making a stand against bullying at school, or just handling life's hurdles with grace.  Sometimes, it's that little extra boost that motivates you to register for that art class or clean out that closet you've been meaning to tackle.

I saw and loved this on a friend's Facebook wall not too long ago. Let's face it - we have the power to be our own worst enemies, or we can be some of each other's most valuable cheering sections.  I know, speaking for myself and my own experience, I treasure more than I can express those of my girlfriends that fill and have filled that role in my life, and if I can turn around and provide that same sense of connection and joy to them, well...then we've set up a real winners' circle, haven't we?

Make it Count

I am going to go ahead and do something that I find really annoying. I'm going to write a post that contains an entire song's worth of lyrics, and probably even a link to the song itself.

I first heard Point of Grace's  How You Live a few years ago, at a time when my life looked very different from what it does now.  I fell in love with the song and lyrics then, but over time, I kind of forgot about it.

I spent a sobering evening with some dear friends recently, and as I was thinking about it this morning, those lyrics slowly started to resurface.  You'll see them below in just a minute, but I would like to go on record and say that the longer I live this life of mine, the more passionately I believe in the message that they convey.  

We get one chance at life.  I know for a fact that I want to live with my heart wide open.  I want to embrace the truth, love what is mine, and live in peace with my Creator and with myself.  No regrets, no looking back, no bottling things up.  I want to say what needs to be said and give without reservation.  In short, I want to make it count.  That, my friends, is a life well-lived.

So, enjoy.  And yes, I am going to link to the song at the bottom, because I don't know about you, but I tend to "get" stuff better when it's set to music.  (And yes, I know I am totally carbon-dating myself with this Point of Grace and Cindy Morgan business.  Loud and proud, loud and proud!)

How You Live [Turn Up the Music]

by Cindy Morgan

emphasis added by yours truly because I like those parts an extra lot

Wake up to the sunlight with your windows open

don't hold in your anger or leave things unspoken

wear your red dress, use your good dishes

make a big mess and make lots of wishes

and have what you want but want what you have

and don't spend your life looking back

Turn up the music

Turn it up loud

Take a few chances

Let it all out

'cause you won't regret it

Looking back from where you have been

'cause it's not who you knew

And it's not what you did

it's how you live

So go to the ball games and go to the ballet

go see your folks more than just on the holidays

kiss all your children, dance with your wife

tell your husband you love him every night

don't run from the truth, 'cause you can't get away

just face it and you'll be ok

Turn up the music

turn it up loud

take a few chances

let it all out

'cause you won't regret it

looking back from where you have been

'cause it's not who you knew

and it's not what you did

it's how you live

Wherever you are and wherever you've been

now is the time to begin

So give to the needy and pray for the grieving

even when you don't think that you can

'cause all that you do is about to come back to you

so think of your fellow man

make peace with God, make peace with yourself

'cause in the end, there's nobody else

Turn up the music

turn it up loud

take a few chances

let it all out

'cause you won't regret it

looking back from where you have been

'cause it's not who you knew

and it's not what you did

it's how you live

Watch here.  (Seriously, it's actually a pretty good video.  I'm kind of choked up now, having just watched it.)

Wanderings in DC

Today is a Cloud Niner.  School is done (for the time being), house is done (except for "finishing touches", which will never be done), and, for the first time in way too long, I am out on my own, exploring the nation's capital, just for fun.  I literally feel like a kid in a candy store (except for the really sore feet part).

I rented a condo through Airbnb, and what a win, even though it is in a...shall we say...gentrifying neighborhood (which probably explains the rip-roaring motorcycle parade that goes swashbuckling past my seventh-floor window every few minutes tonight).  My hostess is amazing - she actually drove out and picked me up from the Dulles airport at midnight last night, and hand-delivered me right to my front door.  On top of that, I am a five-minute walk from Union Market, which is where I ate breakfast this morning.

Union Market is a classic urban revitalization project - an old warehouse in a still gritty neighborhood filled with lots of small, local purveyors selling espresso, dosas, raw juices, charcuterie, hearth breads, soup, pastries and the like to young hipster families, single professionals, and a smattering of tourists.  Most everybody is skinny and fashionable, and the cappuccino comes in a real mug, meant to be taken out to one of the rainbow-hued picnic tables and enjoyed with a croissant and a newspaper while the babies run around and chase the pigeons.

 

It's terribly cliched; I feel like I've been to at least one of these spots in every city of respectable size I've visited, but I won't lie.  I absolutely love them, and every time I go, I wish my neighborhood had one.

So, fueled with a slice of quiche lorraine, a kouign amann, (oh my gosh, if you ever see this on the menu-board of an even halfway respectable French bakery, ORDER IT.  You'll thank me.) and a good cup of coffee, I took the Metro down to Arlington National Cemetery.

Sobering, isn't it?  Every one of those white stones (and I didn't photograph but a small fraction of them) represents someone's life.  As I walked the paths between row after row after row, as far as the eye could see, I thought over and over again about all of the human stories that lie buried there.  Were they happy?  Successful in business?  Were they kind and gentle, or were they harsh and angry?  Did they like to fix things?  Make music?  Were their wives and children as beloved as those tombstones would lead one to believe?  Did those wives and children feel beloved while they were still alive, or was a flowery tombstone the first anybody knew about it?

One thing is certain; for every white stone in that ground, somebody ran out of chances.  No matter where they came from, what they did, or what their intentions were, at some moment, their clock stopped, their story came to a close, and they stood in that one place that every man, woman and child who draws breath will stand - before the Great Creator who gave them life in the first place, and who demanded an accounting of every word and every choice that they made.  All one can hope, looking at all of those stones, is that, please, some of those stories included meeting and loving that Creator while there was still yet time, so that the final reunion was a glorious one instead of one filled with terror and eternal judgment.

One other thing is certain - I, as I write this, and you, as you read this, our story hasn't ended yet.  We still have time to get it right - to make absolutely sure that we say what we need to say and do what we need to do, and, most importantly of all... sitting here tonight, with the memory of all of those stones fresh on my mind, I can't stress it enough, most importantly of all, we still have time to look our Heavenly Father in the face, to grab ahold of His mighty hand and never let go, so that when it comes time for our own clocks to stop, we'll be ready to step into eternity and meet Him as a friend.

Anyway, as you can see, the experience definitely got me thinking.  Of course, along with that, it was an absolutely beautiful day and I got to see all sorts of cool stuff from the history books - JFK's grave with the little flame burning, and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, complete with its Honor Guard, and the famous statue of the flag-raising at Iwo Jima.

The changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier 

This is officially the first time I have ever seen a crowd of noisy American tourists fall silent.  It was kind of awe-inspiring, to be honest.

I rode over to the Pentagon for the heck of it, while I was on that side of town.  The place is humongous, and very forbidding - there are police officers and warning signs all over the place; I worried that if I snapped any photos, I'd be shot by a sniper hidden somewhere.  The 9-11 Memorial they have set up there is touching, though, and a little sad - some of the little reflecting pools still had flowers in them from the memorial ceremony a few days ago.

At this point, my feet hurt and I was dehydrated, so I decided to poke around in Georgetown and see if I could find some sustenance while I was at it.

If I could bottle the essence of this little neighborhood and bring it home with me...

 

Georgetown reminded me a lot of SoHo (and made me miss my little sister).  Historic neighborhood, retrofitted to host every retailer who is anybody at all (recognize any of these guys?).  My developer alter-ego can only salivate at the rents these guys are probably paying. 

 

So I found some sustenance.  Although, in my defense, I bought my slice of jumbleberry pie for tomorrow's breakfast.  And I only bought two macarons.  And I walked a lot today. 

Peanut butter burger and S'Mores milkshake from a place called Ted's Bulletin - what an absolute blast of a place.  I drew the line at the homemade Pop Tarts, although I wanted one really bad...

I also had a chance to wander some fantastic neighborhoods in the DuPont Circle area that served as a reminder that DC does have a few little claims to fame...  It's not everywhere you walk past old brownstones, full of character with charming front stoops and fenced yards, and then you notice a flag out front and a little sign affixed to the side, and it would say something like "Nicaraguan Consulate" or "Embassy of Granada".

Apparently this ambassador doesn't pick up his newspapers very often...

And now I'm resting my tired feet and watching the motorcycles roar by, and tomorrow morning I have an early date with the Capitol (after I eat my jumbleberry pie, of course).  Let the good times roll!

A Dash of the Exotic

I have to be honest, the fourth of July is my least favorite holiday of the year, bar none.  It's so stinking hot that a person seriously has three options when it comes to disposing of the day off:

1) Spend the day somewhere where there is water (i.e. beach, springs, pool).  

Issue: every other human being for miles around had the exact same idea, so think swarms of humanity, hot, sweaty, irritable and barely-clothed, in a tightly confined space.  Ew.

2) Go to a museum. 

Issue:  It's JULY.  Not museum season.  Next.

3)  Travel somewhere north, faaaarrrr north of the Mason-Dixon line, where maybe, just maybe, temperatures hover somewhere below the boiling point.  

Issue: monetary outlays tend to follow the northerly trajectory of the traveler.  Which may or may not be a priority, just saying.

Normally, this most awkward of holidays is made bearable by what has become a bit of a tradition: a gang of best pals, a pool-equipped backyard, mountains of good food (with some best pal's husband-grilled poultry and homemade ice cream, ideally), and dessert and fireworks on blankets in friends' parents' midtown parking lot to wrap up the day.  It's downright not bad, actually, when you think about it.

This year ended up being a tad different, though.  I just could. not. bear. the thought of staying put; I had to get out of Dodge or risk blowing a fuse (well, melting, might be a more appropriate verb).  Atlanta beckoned - while not really far north enough to be ideal, it did offer a few consolations - time with my sister and some dear friends, which is always, always a welcome diversion, slightly lower temperatures, the ever-present opportunity to eat and spend too much, and very necessary, a zip code different from the one I am normally found in.

  

Shopping and exploring-wise, the trip was a bit of a bust (though my wallet disagrees).  Kate and I found a ton of cool places, poking around Midtown, Intown, Inman Park, Five Points and the like, but we had to press our noses longingly against the glass in too many instances - so many shops were closed.  (I complain, but I understand - who wants to work on a holiday? Well, I do, in this case... But I digress.)  It ended up being ok, though - Paris on Ponce was open, and what a fabulous find that was...  We did get some really nice,cool temperatures, and the brother/sister/friend time was pretty wonderful and recharging... And, of course, the eating was terrific and nonstop, starting with a pimiento cheeseburger and Derby pie at the Rookery in Macon, moving to cheddar waffles and homemade donuts at Bantam and Biddy, to (mediocre) pizza and interesting methods of showing affection at Fellini's, to very good Italian (including the best pasta carbonara I've had) at Colletta, to a mouthwateringly delicious shawarma pita at Yalla! in the Krog Street Market, to the Grand Slam juice flight at Arden's Garden, to fresh, homemade cinnamon-swirl brioche (did I mention that my brother in law is an incredible baker?) to....

Well, what brings me to the point of this post.  What turned out to be an extremely pleasant and restful weekend was capped off most appropriately by a dinner experience that was, in a word, PURE AWESOME.  Kate and I were out shopping Sunday when Andrew texted to say he'd found a spot that had found its way onto Craziest Restaurants in America...  Needless to say, the answer was yes.  So we pull up to this little nondescript place on Peachtree Road.  We walk through the door, out of the heat and sun and traffic noise of Buckhead and into, literally, another world.  The place is dark, thanks to the fact that literally every surface, windows included, is covered with yard upon yard upon mile of fabric - riotously colored and luxuriantly textured fabric.  It's quiet, except for the exotic music playing over the sound system, music that brings camelherders silhouetted against the sunset to mind...  It smells amazing, because, duh, this is a Moroccan restaurant and have you ever eaten Moroccan food?  The place was just opening for the night and the chef/owner was in the vestibule hanging with the front of house staff.  We got to chatting; he ended up showing me his wall of fame, resplendent with photos of him with everybody from Jimmy Carter to Arnold Schwarzenegger, and sharing his philosophies on food and travel - how they realign the soul and open the cells in the body to new and wonderful growth (ideas that I share in a slightly less...spiritual sense).  But then, he was off to man his station in the kitchen, and we were whisked to a plush sofa and armchairs surrounding a round, low table.  We were given menus and advised to choose the full, five-course "experience", which we of course did...  This began with our waiter bringing a stack of towels and a silver basin and teapot.  We were instructed to place our towels over our left shoulder and our hands over the basin.  Our waiter then proceeded to pour warm water from the teapot over our hands, in a sort of group hand-washing.  (I won't lie, this was so cool.  It felt really cultural to this wannabe world-traveler who hasn't gotten near as far in her world-traveling as she would like.)  

We started with harrira, a Moroccan lentil soup, accompanied by harissa (a spicy pepper paste), whole wheat bread and fekkas, or Moroccan crackers.  A flight of about five different salads followed in short order; they were described so quickly I couldn't catch what they all were (and it was too dark to see them clearly), but the tastebuds investigated and approved.  Fava bean hummus and pickled vegetables in particular were standout.  Next on the agenda was b'stella, a signature dish consisting of phyllo pastry stuffed with ground Cornish hen, almonds and egg, redolent of cinnamon.  We chased this with a shredded carrot palate cleanser - I couldn't place the flavor profile, but it was intense and exotic and made me think of roses.

All of this led to the main course - Chicken Paprika, Roasted Lamb Shank, and Lamb with Sweet and Spicy Plums (the 42 spices in the description sold me), accompanied by a platter of some of the most delicious rice I've ever eaten.  The flavors were signature Middle-Eastern...explosively savory and liberally spiced.  Intense and complex, this is food that grips you by the throat and insists that you sit up and pay attention.  One can't help but admire the sheer skill required to coax that cacophony of flavors into a beautiful tapestry of taste.

This grand symphony was followed by another handwashing, and then our waiter brought us sweet, hot mint tea and a platter of fresh fruit and rosewater-scented pastries, all of which we enjoyed to the accompaniment of swirling colored lights, exotic music and a belly dancer.  (I type that with a straight face. But, seriously, imagine.  That was a lot of culture for three relatively straight-laced Midwesterners.  The reality is we kind of cracked up.)

All tongue-in-cheek aside, though, I thoroughly, thoroughly enjoyed the experience.  The staff was so warm and welcoming, the food was delicious, and the surroundings were beautifully out of the ordinary - I would gladly go back, and I would recommend the place without hesitation, at least to the more adventurous and open-minded of my acquaintance.

So, acquaintances, if you count yourselves among the adventurous and open-minded, run, don't walk, to Imperial Fez.  Feel free to bring me your leftovers.