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The man-boy has a funny giggle and foppish attitude that makes Johnny Depp's performance in "Pirates of the Caribbean" seem tame. He is part of an entourage of servers, all dressed in black, who parade back and forth from the kitchen all night, until the very last uneaten crumb of b'stella has been whisked away.

The Imperial Fez isn't really a restaurant. It is a wrapped-up-with-a-bow experience that screams "special occasion." Most people unfamiliar with Morocco come with a curious eye toward the lovely belly dancers. Few realize upon leaving that they have witnessed an actual "diffa," the lavish Moroccan feast that boasts many courses of the country's most celebrated dishes. They have indulged in sugary alcoholic beverages, swooned over the belly dancers and oohed and ahhed over the earthiness of eating with their hands.

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Lamb shank.
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Kabobs, their most popular dish.
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The evening is meticulously manipulated by the wait staff, who do everything but wipe your mouth for you. When the last belly dancer blows out the candle on her flame dance, everyone is subtly, politely ushered to leave. It's an all-inclusive trip to Morocco without the airfare.

The master of ceremonies is chef-owner Rafih Benjelloun, a self-promotor who doesn't mind coming out from behind his kitchen tongs and settling in with guests at a table to discuss how much he loves Moroccan food. An imperial-looking gentleman in a caftan is always on hand to take souvenir pictures, if you want to cough up $8 for them.

The belly dancers begin around 8 p.m., starting with a subdued performance that quickly moves to lots of gyrating fun. By the end of the evening, she will insist that the audience dance with her, for a seemingly impromptu lesson that is actually all part of a master plan to get diners to loosen up.

With so many distractions, it may slip your taste buds that the food is exceptionally good. There are few choices — while a true diffa can have as many as 12 courses, the Fez's dinner and show have been timed perfectly to five.

The meal always starts with a cleansing of the hands, done at the table over an elaborate vessel that collects tepid water poured from a pitcher resembling a genie lamp. Large towels, to be put over the left shoulder, serve as napkins.

They're needed, since everything is eaten with fingers and hands (the thumb, index and middle finger of the right hand, to be precise). Lentil soup, called harira, is supped up with a hardy honey-wheat bread. The soup melds together classic Moroccan spices of cumin and coriander with fava and garbanzo beans, lentils, tomatoes and onions. It is heady and aromatic, with a romantically warming effect.

The next course is an arrangement of colorful, textured salads called sh'ladda. These are a mini-smorgasbord deftly set out on one platter; the salads range from a cucumber, tomato and bell pepper concoction dressed lightly with cumin, vinegar, lemon juice and olive oil to spicy carrots laced with flavors of cinnamon, chili and orange. Yes, there is harissa, and yes, things get a little sloppy. That's what the big towel is for.

The one course that everyone saves room for is the b'stella, a large round phyllo pastry filled with layers of sweet and savory — cornish hen with crushed almonds, sugar and cinnamon.

The entrees are the only course where an actual selection is involved, which is a good thing since by this point you won't care anymore. Lamb, especially a roasted shank swimming in a luxuriant sauce with mushrooms, is a specialty of the house, as are richly layered tagines (stews) of fish and vegetables.

After a hand (or hip) at belly dancing, everyone retreats back to the table to refresh themselves with another hand-washing, followed by über-sweet mint tea in miniature glasses. With it comes a fawakih of fresh fruit (usually peaches with sugar and cinnamon) and a bite-sized phyllo pastry filled with a smooth paste of chocolate, almonds and coconut French-speaking Moroccans call briouat.

The man-boy waiter, who has intermittently served as percussion during the dancing, will giggle quietly as he brings you the bill, which is a bracing reminder that Imperial Fez is not the kind of thing to do more than once or twice a year. If you do, the game is up. You soberingly realize that the belly dancers are probably all ex-cheerleaders from South Florida and that the waiters drive SUVs and talk on cellphones just like the rest of us.

But for one night, it's an awfully giggly, fun romp.