Kryptonite and I were wandering about our hood hungry with bellies rumbling, but Kryptonite explained he was in the mood for something slightly different, something new. Unless you have a special fondness for sushi, croissants or dog biscuits, and can consider each new variety as something exciting, there is never anything new in our neighbourhood. So we hopped on the streetcar explore our options in the many exciting cafés and restaurants opening up in Leslieville - all of which were closed. We wandered the blank and desolate streets our tumbling stomachs getting tighter and more insistent. At one particularly barren corner beside the Duke's tavern where some poor soul got shot last year, we stopped to catch our bearings. Kryptonite made a comment about an ad in the bus stop, and I asked "What are you talking about?"
His eyes lit up. "You don't mean you've never been there?" he said.
"The Sultan's Tent? No, what is it?" I asked in interest.
"Let's get a taxi," said he, "I think we can make it in time for the belly dancing show."
So off we rushed to eat in Morrocan splendor, while a beautiful girl belly danced between the tables for our entertainment, with hips that could dance like sunlight on water, a stomach that could undulate like the waves, and a costume so lovely in the colours of pale sand, that I coveted one for myself.
She brought people up from the tables to dance with her. My favorites were a little girl, who stood and shook like a stick in a blender; her daddy, whose hips could really move; and some old arabic man who really let loose with his own style. I danced too.
For dessert we took the waiter's advice and dumped my pistachio dusted creme brulé on top of Kryptonite's chocolate oasis and ate them together. Creamy, rich, lovely.
It was an awesome time.
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