Almaz by Momo

And so, we tiptoed through Harvey Nichols, and the leprechauns behaved impeccably. I cannot say the same for Hambone, who kept on looking at the prices on the menswear, and exclaiming altogether too loudly, "Nine-Hundred Dirhams for a T-SHIRT? Are you KIDDING me?" Embarrasing. Even the children were unimpressed, and walked faster in an "I'm not with him..." kind of way. We had to ask where Momo was - it is tucked away, in the far right corner of the very top floor - just past the gold-plated hand towels and diamond-encrusted soap dishes. We arrive at Almaz, fittingly, the arabic word for 'diamond', but for me, it is always Momo - because the name reminds me of Greg Malouf's Melbourne restaurant - and my introduction to a love affair with Moroccan food.

On a Friday at 1pm, it's quiet - blissfully so. The cavernous interior is dimly lit with trios of large baubles encased in Saracenic star-patterned crochet. All chairs are plush - the children want to sit on the stage area, which is in the shape of a majlis, and has circular tin tabletops patterned in reflection of the lights. But they are for drinking only, says the waitress - the seats are too low. Instead we are led over the painted floor to a couch and armchairs, and Goldilocks proceeds to erect a cushion-castle while we order fruit mocktails and lemon and mint juice.

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