I don't want to write restaurant reviews with my blog. David and I go out to eat once every week or two, and we generally go to some terrific places. If I wanted to, I'm sure I could turn other Seattleites on to some wonderful out-of-the-way places they have never been to. If I did that, though, I wouldn't have the energy or time to blog about more interesting food topics. Besides, after my griping about Yelp and Chowhound in my original post, I think I'd be a hypocrite to start devoting this space to doing such a thing. So, I must declare: this is not a restaurant review. No, it is a lament.  
    About a week ago, on a Sunday evening after I had spent the day cooking for a bridal shower brunch, I suggested that we go out to dinner. We had not dined out on Moroccan in a while, so I suggested the place near our house. I won't name this place; I'm not quite mean-spirited enough to maliciously damage their business. Let's just say, David and I live in the Capitol Hill neighborhood in Seattle, and this establishment is within walking distance from our condo. We had dined there twice before. The first time was on David's birthday, two or three years ago. The food on that occasion was decent, at least I thought so - I had a Chicken with Olives dish that I remember being tasty. David says he wasn't thrilled with the food on that occasion, but I don't really recall that. The second visit was about a year and a half ago. The first visit had a female belly dancer as the entertainment, as Moroccan places are wont to do, but I wanted to return to watch their male belly dancer. I remember three things about that second visit: 1) The male belly dancer was good, with a very different energy from the female belly dancer, and David hated the performance - he hates the forced cultural accoutrements that you often get in ethnic restaurants; 2) My accountant was there, sitting next to us, also there to watch the male belly dancer; 3) My dinner was awful. I had Couscous with Seven Vegetables, which is one of the quintessential Moroccan dishes. The couscous was steamed, as it should be, not the instant variety that most Americans are accustomed to eating. But the couscous had no flavor, the vegetables were overcooked and bland, and the rarest of rare happened - I left half my dinner on my plate. That, in itself, should have been a good reason not to go back.
    Yet, I often get a craving for Moroccan food, and when I found myself with this craving last weekend, without the energy to spend cooking some for myself, I found myself willing to give this place another chance. For me, a second chance; for David, a third chance. Mediocrity is such a downer. I had Zahlouk, which is a Moroccan eggplant dish, and a Chicken with Oranges dish. I also asked for some iced mint tea. The Zahlouk had decent flavor, but it was served hot, cooked to order, which is not how I am accustomed to eating it. My Zahlouk is more like a dip to be eaten with bread, served room temperature or cold. I could wrong about Zahlouk being served hot, but I've just never heard of it that way. My mint tea was hot with a few iced cubes thrown in, resulting in a tea that was neither hot and warming nor cold and refreshing - it was tepid and watered down. The most serious crime, however, from my order was the Chicken with Oranges. This was a 2 or 3 ounce piece of chicken served with canned mandarin segments and a lifeless sauce. Seriously? Canned manadarin segments? It wasn't an expensive entree, about $12 I think, but I think I was entitled to more than a couple of bites of meat with some processed food.
    David's items represented the more serious offense. His first course was a trio of salads - carrot, beet, and cucumber. Carrot and beet salads, at least, are classic Moroccan dishes, but these were thoroughly uninteresting. No flavor, no bite. Forgettable. His next course was chicken bastilla. It was ok, not bad, but not particularly great either. And that was the biggest sin of the evening. Mediocre chicken bastilla? It pains me to even write the words. Bastilla is one of the true glories of the culinary world. Bastilla is Beethoven's Ode to Joy. Bastilla is Kirk Gibson's hobbled pinch-hit home run against the A's. Bastilla is the Mona Lisa. I feel as though I have some cred in criticizing this bastilla, as I've made bastilla several times: Chicken Bastilla, Seafood Bastilla, and a version of Pigeon Bastilla that I proudly created myself. I know bastilla, and you - Mr. Chef of the Capitol Hill Moroccan restaurant - are no Bastilla-maker.
    A few good items, a few bad items, and mostly second-rate fare. We didn't spend a fortune in our three trips to this establishment, but I feel like I was raped and robbed anyway. I think it has something to do with my feelings about Moroccan cuisine in general. You see, I firmly believe Morocco has one of the world's great and underrated cuisines, so when I find a Moroccan cook bearing no passion or care in the preparation of this food, I feel personally insulted. I'm trying to bring the grandeur of a (relatively) unknown cuisine to the attention of the world at large, and you, sir, serve me canned manadarin segments. I know there are greater, more significant, crimes being committed in the world at large, but as the Moroccan Food Prosecutor of Capitol Hill, I condemn you sir.
    As we walked out of the restaurant, I turned to David and apologized for taking him there a third time, assuring him we would not be returning. He gave me one of those looks, the one that tells me I said something ridiculously apparent. I turned around as we walked away, giving the restaurant one last glance. I sighed and I missed a step.