On the eve of a dense, sapphire-skied day, a trail of flickering embers in bulbous glass jars buried in the ochre sands is spotted in the distance. Those invited behold the bedouin tent, swathed in silks of turquoise, gold and scarlet, dripping with jewels that twirl in the imposing breeze. Colours that fire a hedonism in a hungry belly. Frankincense, cinnamon and cardamon perfumes and calms the thick air, intoxicating even those who have beheld the same party in years past. Elders greet great friends with hearty kisses and slaps, the young attract. Robes graze tanned feet and sheer slips catch the creased eyes of men. The excitement is electric. The host of dark, Persian beauty addresses the crowd of old friends and family, to announce that it is time to eat.
Inside, heavy clay bowls and glistening platters bulge beneath the days labors. Tagines scattered with plump olives and preserved lemons are the main event, the predecessor of mezze - Baba Ganoush, herbs, charred flatbreads, parcels thick with aubergine and lamb. Piles of cous-cous punctuated with the fragrance of apricots and pistachios, no expense is to be spared on any of the senses. Candles and pillows ensure all invited understand the night will take its time. Strings are plucked by a turban'd musician, a harmony to the gossip, chatter, mischief. It would be disrespectful to remain dry - flagons of Burgundy are swapped between mouths, a toast to good health. The hours descend and the laughter is deafening. A tinkle introduces the belly dancer, rhythmic in her voluptuousness, the glisten from the coins is hypnotic.
