The Opaque Dancer coaxed me toward a Persian meal, a cuisine I haven’t much experienced. Being more eurotrash than I would generally appear, my knowledge of middle eastern food is limited to Paramount, Arz bakery north-east in the city, and forays into Iranian bakeries that I wander past every so often. It was hard for me to go into this meal with more of a blind spot.
The Pomegranate makes an immediate warm impression, doubly so with the cool October drizzle hitting College’s sidewalk in waves outside its front windows. Its walls were decorated with colourful dresses and tapestries (they could be rugs), adding to the bare wood spars. Two goldfish swam in a tiled pool near the door. The Opaque Dancer and I were shown to our table, and we dove into the menu. It’s immediately apparent that she knows and loves this food while each attempt I make to pronounce any of the dishes leaves their syllables horribly butchered and abandoned. Despite their imposing names, each description appeals, hinting at delights to come upon return visits.
It’s a good menu that forks a good choice instead of forcing you to hunt for something of mild interest.
Dolmehs arrived first, sour and herbs rice wrapped in loose leaves; Greek dolmades are the closest equivalent. They tasted the same, though the casual wrapping of the leaves led to a falling apart on way to my mouth. The bread accompanying, cut in strips and sprinkled with salt, was that sweet spot of crisp shell hiding soft layers of flake. Not enough of it to carry through the meal though.
Our mains arrive as the Dancer gave a squee over each plate as they were set down. My fesenjaan was a dark, motley stew served next to a pile of saffron rice, pickled salsa (minced cucumber and tomato), and desultory, sagging leaves pretending to be a salad. Both the Dancer and I agreed that the salad was only present to give newbies like me something simple to grasp onto: us western folk are simple creatures after all, needing familiarity.
The sentiment was well deserved in this case. Fesenjaan presents the illusion of savoury flavours while punching one in the mouth with uncomfortable sweetness, like being suffocated by a fuzzy, heated blanket on a cold, rainy day. The stew’s deep burgundy comes from its reduction of walnuts and pomegranate, which gives the dish its sugar and its filling substance. While enjoyable mixed with rice and the presented yogurt scattered with mint and rose, its taste is unnerving, heady, and an utter gear shift.
Fesenjaan perplexes and subverts, which is why the Dancer so adored its complexities and flavours, each unfolding while hidden under its murky complexion.
What looks like a roast beef’s gravy tasted like a honey-grenadine slurry with no trace of salt, which would explain why the mystery drink we ordered, a glass of doogh (inconsistent yogurty drink swirled with crushed, dried mint and tarragon; awkwardly reminiscent of inappropriate substances) was so salty.
My companion’s morasa polo was incredible in its convention. A fall-off-the-bone lamb shank served with a glittering mix of saffron rice, Seville orange, barberries (I though they were tiny cranberries: they tasted as such), slivered almonds, and pistachio shards, was straightforward in its flavours and executed with remarkable grace. I can’t remember having lamb this good, though it has clearly been too long since I prepared or ate lamb. Maybe that’s why this dish sat better with me: it wasn’t a mystery for my tongue to unpack.
Dessert was ordered with a warning that the seating after us was coming up; we’d been eating and talking away the two hours since our reservation, though it had not felt nearly so long. There was only one finish to the meal, the Opaque Dancer winked, and that was the restaurant’s (apparently) famed saffron ice cream. How long will it take us to get through ice cream? we said, laughing as our plates were bustled away from our table.
How wrong we were.
What arrived looked like an upturned, half-litre container of smooth yellow ice cream, near rock-hard and topped with a pile of sliced pistachios and pomegranate seeds (I appreciated how the restaurant used its namesake in almost every dish, often in non-intrusive ways). I haven’t developed the palette to pick saffron out when it’s used, but this yellow mound was nothing but, powerful sweet and delicate spice without its seasoning becoming overwhelming. It was an impressive ending to an interesting meal.
The Opaque Dancer and I left into the dark and stormy night, arm in arm for warmth, happy and full, enriched with good food and a new experience. While Pomegranate brought me a pleasant memory, newcomers have to venture in open-minded to walk away satisfied. I can imagine only too many patrons leaving confused with this. experience of Persian fare.