Feast of the Middle East

Liverpool Street station is just a stagger away but we're sitting in a souk. Rose petals, not scattered but curiously neatly arranged, have led us downstairs to a large, underground windowless space. Every surface is covered with damasks and brocades in rich shades of scarlet and gold; there's a forest of intricately carved wood and the ceiling drips with ornate, jewelled lanterns. The air is heavy with a fug of incense and spices and a hint of mutton.

This verging-on-kitsch evocation of the Maghreb promises a night of fleshpotting. So where are the fleshpots? Er, not here. We are probably the most decadent-looking chaps in the joint; our few fellow diners look like a right bunch of sobersides, crying off exotic cocktails in favour of a fizzy water or maybe two. Welcome to the City.

We have arrived just before nine, ridiculously early by belly-dancing establishment standards. That intriguing form of entertainment is promised at Kenza, throwing my companion into a lather of nervous political correctness. The dancers, a ravishing sloe-eyed and toffee-hipped bunch glittering with silks and sequins are just finishing up their set, never to return. What the...?

The room, bifurcated into bar and restaurant, is sparsely populated but we are steered into the absolutely worst table in the house, on the corner by the exit, nudging the tills. This results in a fabulous display of passive aggression on our part: 'Well, I'm quite happy, but if you don't like it...' 'No, it'll do.' 'But if you're miserable it'll make me miserable.' Gritted teeth. 'It'll be fine.'

At which point, the manager sensibly decides to move us on. Installed in our booth, we're a lot happier. It's a mini-boudoir, squashy with cushions and framed with a dangerous-looking arch of dark carved wood. One of our waiters has a tooth missing; later in the evening he crashes his skull against the arch. Perhaps the two are connected?

The menu is a little proscriptive. There are set 'feasts', or a choice of two mezze and main course at fixed, quite steep prices. I like to graze on mezze of my own choosing in Middle Eastern restaurants; this doesn't seem to be an option here. We let wave after wave of food wash over us. It may not be cheap, but you can't fault Kenza for generosity. There's the inevitable Middle Eastern tray laden with pickles - sharp, vinegary chillies, dark-red-stained turnip - and raw vegetables. Who eats these? Who chows down pre-dinner on sour purple turnip? I never get beyond nibbling on a radish.

Then an avalanche of mezze, of uniformly reasonable quality. Some are stand-out: mana'eesh bil banadoura, teeny discs of bread topped with tomatoes and onion, fragrant with thyme and sour with sumac; chicken livers doused in a sharp-sweet sauce of pomegranate; a deeply smoky baba ghannouj (sic); thick, creamy strained yogurt and herb labné. Some are less successful, like the tough, greasy sambusac (little cheese and parsley pastries) and there's timidity in much of the spicing.

Mixed grill brings good quality meat, expertly grilled, especially some quail that has avoided the usual quail fate of dry stringiness. But the show-stopping dish is muhammar. A giant platter arrives, heaving with a whole slow-roast lamb shoulder. It's shredded as we watch, then doused in lamb stock and scattered with fat, juicy rosewatersoaked sultanas. This is great stuff: fluffy couscous, luscious dates, plump apricots and lightly spiced, tender meat. It's supposed to feed two but a family of four might find it uphill work.

And still it comes. We don't order pudding but are given a tiered stand groaning with pistachios, baklava and about a stone of Turkish Delight. And sweet, fresh mint tea. And a plate piled high with fresh fruit. We have asked for a doggy bag for the lamb and resort, like naughty children, to flinging in the Turkish Delight when no-one's looking. At this point, I'm immensely glad that the belly dancers have retired for the evening; I need to be confronted with those lithe creatures like I need to trepan my own skull. So, fun all round. But I still find its location odd. This part of town mostly shuts down early - as does Kenza, though they're loath to admit it. The website reads: 'And when you can't eat another bite,' - they got that right - relinquish yourself to the intensity of the night as belly dancers entice you to revel until dawn.'

Hmmm: booking appears to finish at ten. Maybe the revelling until dawn takes place elsewhere, such as the concourse of Liverpool Street station. But perhaps with a little tie-loosening, we could cavort till, ooh, maybe 11pm? Might work off some of that lamb.

A meal for two with wine, water and service costs about £120. 10 Devonshire Square EC2.

Tel: 020 7929 5533. www.kenza-restaurant.com Tube: Liverpool Street

Kenza
10 Devonshire Square, EC2 4YP