Where Dance Is a Main Course

“Bel-ly dan-cing,” Jan says slowly, reading from the paper. “Hmmm . . . I think not.” We are looking for ideas for someplace different to eat. Something a little farther afield than the pizza joint down the street, a little more exotic than In-N-Out.

“You love retsina,” I remind her.

“Oh, you bet,” she says sarcastically. “And licking telephone poles.”

“Well, you’re fond of lamb.”

“Only when they’re alive,” she reminds me. “Besides, what does belly dancing have to do with Greek food? It’s Persian or something, isn’t it?”

It is Friday night. We’re both too tired to cook. But as often happens when you’re too exhausted to even contemplate grilling some chops or throwing together a simple pasta, deciding on a restaurant is just as problematic.

Usually we fall back on the old standbys: Mongolian barbecue--cheap and good, but I just don’t feel like squashing down bean sprouts with my hands tonight--or a Chinese deli with tasty, if unspectacular, chow mein. Tonight we thought we’d try someplace different. Someplace we wouldn’t normally go.

Here’s what we’ve considered (and dismissed): Turkish delicacies. (“Is there such a thing?” Jan asks. “I mean really, name one Turkish delicacy.”)

Tapas. (“Nope. I’m too hungry for finger food.”)

A Polynesian dinner show. (“Drums. Angry gods. Sounds just like work.”)

Which leaves us with Cafe Plaka, whose ad mentions, in rather small print, a belly dancer. Just as Jan is about to dismiss the possibility, I notice another line of small print: Dancing waiters. I slyly mention this to her.

She stops painting her toenails. “Dancing waiters? Really?” “That’s what it says.” “Hmmmm,” she says, reconsidering. “How amusing. Will you buy me a Cosmopolitan?”

Our waiter, Jan points out, bears a striking resemblance to Nicolas Cage. He has that hound-dog look that made Cage look so “yummy,” as Jan puts it, in “Moonstruck.”

Dark, sorrowful eyes, a worried tilt to his uplifted eyebrows. She can’t take her eyes off him.

“I wonder where the belly dancer is?” I say, looking around the room. Jan ignores me.

Nicolas Cage, looking as if he’s just left a funeral, comes over to our table. He doesn’t speak. “Are you going to dance for us?” Jan says, opening her menu.

“Me?” asks Nic.

“Yes, sure, you. Aren’t you one of the dancing waiters? Hmmm?”

Nic blushes.

“Later,” he says. “Later I dance. But now . . . you want something to drink?”

*

Definitely something to drink. Something cool and numbing. Something served in stemware. And what about an appetizer? Yes, of course, an appetizer, Jan tells him. Many appetizers. Those things wrapped in grape leaves and something with filo, and what about that thick Greek yogurt with garlic and cucumber. . . . What’s it called?

“Tzatziki,” Nic tells her.

“That’s it! Love tzatziki!” she says.

“Then maybe Yianni’s pikilia?” intones Nic.

“God, I love the way you talk,” Jan says. “When did you say you’re dancing?” Nic--who like all Greek gods wears a thin, long-sleeved white shirt, arms partially rolled up midway between wrist and elbow, and black slacks--goes to get our drinks and appetizers, coming back with a huge plate of Greek pupus including those tart little black olives with the pits; feta cheese dripping in olive oil; octopus in some sort of wine and herbs and oil mixture; something rather savory and unidentifiable tucked into layers of filo; an eggplant spread to go on grilled pita bread; and, of course, the tzatziki.

We snack on the olives, down our drinks, start to relax, and then suddenly, there’s the belly dancer! “Oh god,” Jan groans. “I can’t believe this.”

“She’s good, isn’t she?” I say.

And she is good. She smiles and writhes and twists her hips and snaps her fingers, slinking from one table to another, accompanied by two little men up on the stage who play some sort of delightful music I couldn’t even begin to explain. At each table she tries to get one of the men to stand up and dance with her, and mostly they do, these silly middle-aged males in blue blazers or Hawaiian shirts who also writhe and twist and snap but look nowhere near as intoxicating as the red-haired belly dancer.

“You’re not going to make a fool out of yourself, are you?” Jan asks.

“Certainly not,” I tell her.

“Good.”

“Unless she comes over here.”

The belly dancer entices old men, young men, and even little boys, but she doesn’t make it over to our table before her set is over. Which is just as well. Even Elaine, from the old Seinfeld show, could dance better than I.

Neither of us is really very hungry after the giant appetizer plate, but we’ve already ordered mousaka and souvlaki, largely just because Jan enjoyed saying the names to Nic, and now that the belly dancer is taking a break, our plates are delivered by the hostess, which disappoints Jan immensely--until she is told that Nic (whose real name is Peter) didn’t bring our dinners because he’s getting ready to dance! With the dancing waiters!

And dance he does. With Costas and Louis, their arms entwined like grapevines, their eyes on the floor. The three Greek waiters step out like male Rockettes, kicking in unison one way and then the other, shuffling across the room. They dance and dance, the two little guys behind them picking up the tempo, and everyone in the audience claps along, the waiters nodding and smiling in approval, and then they start spinning in a circle, bringing up diners to join them, until the spinning, dancing circle is so large that it spills over the dance floor and turns into a conga line--a Greek conga line--and chugs through the restaurant like a freight train from Athens.

Then the dancing Greek train comes flying by our table, and Nic gets out of line, smiles at Jan and tells her to join him. And she does.

Kicking off her heels and locking arms with Nicolas Cage, she disappears into the bustling dining room. While I poke at her mousaka, which is getting cold. And wonder when the belly dancer is going to come back.

Cafe Plaka, 18633 Brookhurst St., Fountain Valley. Open daily 11:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., and 5 p.m. to 10 p.m. (714) 963-4999.

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David Lansing’s column is published on Fridays in Orange County Calendar. His e-mail address is occalendar@latimes.com.