Restaurant

Dinner is on the roof, level with the neighbouring terraces, once the city below has dropped a tone. The menu rests on two traditions — Morocco, and elsewhere — and makes no attempt to rank them: a slowly stewed tagine can follow a plate with nothing Moroccan about it, and neither is diminished by the other.

The room is small and lined with low banquettes, and you can hear that. There is music, there are voices, there is the sound of dishes being set down. This is not a table where people whisper — it is a table where people stay late.