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Description: Decorated in extravagant North African style, a bubbly bar/restaurant basement near Liverpool Street; its handy location and its style -- suited to parties and, arguably, romance -- has already made it a popular City destination, but prices (and the noise level) are very high, and culinary standards are ordinary in the extreme.
Food: 
Service: 
Ambience: 
Phone: 020 7929 5533
Website: http://www.kenza-restaurant.com
Open: Monday - Wednesday 11.30 - 02.00 Thursday - Friday 11.30 - 03.30 Saturday 18.00 - 03.30
Dress code: Smart Casual
Good for: Good food, Ambience.
Payment options: All major cards accepted
City boys will love the belly dancing at Kenza
When you bring food back from a holiday, or try to recreate a dish enjoyed, it never tastes as good at home. The hiccup being that it is virtually impossible to evoke the mood you were in when you enjoyed that pasta in Venice, munched that squid in Corfu, devoured that burger in a Californian diner or slurped that tom kha soup in a Thai cafe.
You can’t pack smells, people, vibrancy and ambience into your suitcase.
The excitable press release for the newly opened Kenza in the City trumpets it as an 'oasis' (press
releases use words like that) ... 'evoking the energy and passion of the Maghreb'.
The definition of this Arabic word is ambiguous. Specifically it can mean 'sunset' or 'treasure' but collectively it’s Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia. It therefore describes a complex, geographically immense area with a bewildering number of cultural influences, not to mention foods.
So, if you can’t make a simple bowl of pasta taste the same in London as it does overlooking the Grand Canal, how on Earth can you shoehorn most of North Africa into a basement near Liverpool Street station?
Kenza, I decided cycling through the post apocalyptic eeriness that is the City at night, is nothing if not ambitious. Devonshire Square,
home to mini Maghreb, is a dull complex of office blocks. At night you would be hard pushed to find a location evoking less energy and passion.
A Kiwi girl checks our names at the door. During the day, she tells us, she is one of those sales girls at Abercrombie and Fitch selected for her blonde all-American looks. An odd hiring, perhaps.
We are led down a spiral staircase. Around us the pulsating oranges, purples and reds of North Africa sing from the walls and fabrics. There are ponds with floating red rose petals, candles and intricately carved wooden screens. I feel like James must have felt as he entered the giant peach.
The ornate hand-painted floor tiles, the lanterns, the screens and the vibrant fabrics were sourced by Tony Kitous, the owner. This is his second London restaurant, the other is Pasha in Kensington. (I never liked that one. The interiors were a little too gap year and the food repetitive.) Kenza, which seats about 140 and also has a bar, is more sophisticated and decadent.
We were shown to an alcove that accommodates about eight. It is advisable to request one when booking. The menu is Moroccan, with a dash of Lebanese, and the food domestic, rather than ceremonial. We were persuaded to have the special cocktail. It wasn’t. A disappointing thing with vodka, basil and too much ice.
Some raw vegetables arrived. The radishes were delicious, crisp and hot and the pickled turnip firm and tangy. Music played, Moroccan I think, and the waiting staff — attractive and young to attract the hoped-for City clientele — seemed efficient.
The sommelier (formerly at China Tang in the Dorchester) had an enthusiastic knowledge of North African and Lebanese wine.
Given that we were in the Maghreb — and I’ll admit that they have managed better than most to conjure a North African atmosphere — I ordered a glass of Château Ksara, a blancs de blancs from the Bekaa Valley in the Lebanon and a bottle of Riad Jamil from Beni M’Tir in Morocco.
You can order various 'Feasts', which are set menus in the manner of 1970s Chinese restaurants, but I’ve never understood the point. You wouldn’t let a clothes shop assistant tell you what to wear, would you?
Do order fattoush — the crisp salad of parsley, mint, tomato, radish and sumac. When eating what can be hot, spicy dishes and weighty tagine, fattoush is the culinary equivalent of a refreshing dash into the sea while sunbathing.
The menu is long and befuddling, so in the spirit of a restaurant review being something that simply tells you what you should eat, these are the best mezze: kreidis mekli (fried tiger prawn with crispy aubergines), firre (astoundingly
good chargrilled quail with pomegranate, garlic and thyme), merguez meshoue (spicy sausage), sawda dajaj (sautéed chicken liver with molasses) and jawaneh mekli (chicken wings with lemon, coriander and garlic).
A lamb tagine was dog-food poor. It had been cooked too quickly and the meat, which should dissolve when eaten, had more purchase than a hessian sack. Luckily the decent red wine softened the blow.
Sniffing the glass my friend said he got liquorice with Tarmac descending but then he was overexcited by Bella the belly dancer, who shill-yshallied at the end of our table.
City boys will love the belly dancers but I found them an unwelcome distraction while eating. They were slightly more lap dance than belly dance.
Anything else? Oh, it’s imperative you try the ludicrously zingy tangerine sorbet. If the fattoush is a dip in the sea then the sorbet is a high dive into powder snow. The sticky selection of real Syrian baklava (the world’s best) is excellent.
Zagat’s latest guide reveals London as the world’s most expensive place to eat out and our bill for two was an absurd £179.98 (the wine was just £29). The mint tea we were 'offered'
after the meal cost £9, there were the unreasonable £8.50 cocktails and the 15 per cent service charge on top.
It all adds up. It’s an ambitious job bringing the spirit of Maghreb to the City and they’ve had a fair stab at it. Shame they couldn’t have imported a little of the region’s good value, too.
Details are correct at the time of publication - please check with venue before booking.
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