Summer has revived college memories of the time I fell in with former Shah people. They were sophisticated, rich, beautifully dressed and generous. They owned a lavish restaurant plastered in marble and velvet where I carried on a love affair with escargot and fine wine. My Persian friends—code for Iranian—never presented me with a bill, and on weekends I went to their parties, nibbling on weird lumps of grape leaves and holding vigil near a honeyed pastry called baklava, a recipe they assured me the Arabs, Turks and Greeks had likely stolen from their culture over the centuries.

The restaurant mysteriously closed one August, and my Shah people took their money on an extended trip to parts unknown. I was left with nothing but the lingering scent of their cologne and the prospect of reviving my dorm meal ticket.

I’d been saving the Persian Room in North Scottsdale for a special occasion, but I shouldn’t have waited all these years. Online photos of a grand staircase, tapestries and stained glass had given me the impression I’d need to gear up for the kind of white tablecloth experience where the busboy never stops attacking the water glasses. But I found a warm, welcoming environment with nary a tablecloth in sight, and a spectrum of diners that included well-heeled retirees, scruffy college interns and Middle Eastern date-nighters.

The aroma of grilled meats and oven-blistered flatbread barely had a chance to drive us wild before the server dropped off a plate of the chewy house-made “pita” with fresh basil, butter and raw onion. The combo made for a simple and delicious starter that blows the pantaloons off typical bread baskets.

To sample as many dishes as possible (our sacred duty), trusty dining partner Lebo and I committed to the Persian Room appetizer platter ($14.95), a stunning presentation of dolmeh, hummus and eggplant, yogurt and cucumber dip, and a bowl of pungent vegetables.

At first I was thrilled with the huge portion of dolmeh—grape leaves stuffed with chopped onion and spiced rice—but these were unforgivably oily and mushy, so give them a miss. Rather than a Greek-type hummus, expect a sesame-thick version that tastes and looks a little like smoky peanut butter. Even if you’re the lightest eater in the world, though, don’t miss the tangy, mint-scented yogurt, which we ended up scooping on everything.

Stick It to Me

The Persian Room has got both shishing and kebobing down to a tender science, and every morsel of protein that comes out of that kitchen is butter soft and brazenly flavorful. Our lamb kebob was pink perfection with fire-licked vegetables. Everything is a star, even Chicken Filet ($17.95), a row of marinated tenders lined up like the yellow-brick road and served with roasted tomato and basmati rice so fluffy it flutters around your mouth.

A house favorite is the more traditional Barg Kebob ($21.95)—12 ounces of filet mignon sliced, skewered, marinated and broiled. The Persian Room also specializes in Koobideh ($13.95), a mixture of ground beef, minced onion and seasoning that’s shaped into long strips and subjected to the coals. It’s like an Iranian meatloaf you can skewer and grill, and you can opt for chicken!

Be sure to upgrade your standard basmati rice to one of the flavored “polos.” Try dill, or for a sweeter experience, the Adas with raisins, lentils, dates and saffron.

By the way, as a clueless American, I ignored the spice-filled dispenser on our table for much of the meal because I thought it was cinnamon. Finally, the server informed me that it’s filled with ground sumac, an extraordinary seasoning that somehow adds lemony sunshine to food. I commenced sprinkling this on everything except Lebo. There’s a container of it in my purse right now.

If you want to really get exotic, try a couple of Iranian stews served over Tah Dig ($10.95), the crispy, golden crust of rice left in the bottom of the pan. The stews resemble pans of mud, but fear not: below the surface of the Fessenjan, lurk sautéed chunks of chicken and ground walnuts, simmered in sweet and sour pomegranate sauce. Admittedly, a little goes a very long way.

Finale

At this point, dessert wasn’t an option considering I was doing the “thin mint” bit from Monty Python and Lebo had lost his vote after mistaking lamb for beef and beef for chicken. But the old college bakalava longing kicked in, and the server convinced us to try a duo tasting ($6) with Persian ice cream. Fluffy, papery, delicate, nutty heaven ensued. Then I plunged into the frozen stuff and forgot all about my old addiction to Mr. B. The house-made ice cream—infused with rose water, vanilla and pistachio—is a textural powerhouse; it seems to be embracing itself, tangling within in its own arms, each spoonful unwilling to leave the others.

Why hadn’t my old Shah people shared any of their ice cream? It’s an outrage and a betrayal of impressionable freeloaders everywhere. Thank goodness the young Turk serving me at Persian Room corrected this breach of international relations. Someday I may even forgive him for the 30-minute sumac delay.

Persian Room Restaurant
17040 N. Scottsdale Road, Scottsdale
480-614-1414