As dusk folded into night we drove across town to the banquet hall at the culinary school. S accompanied me, for which I am grateful; he provided the warm hand to hold and the ear for whispering comments and the baggage-carrying shoulder. The most prestigious word-of-mouth dinner, prepared by graduating students, had chosen a Middle Eastern theme for their semi-annual gala. And what is an essential element of a Middle Eastern theme? A belly dancer.

C’est moi.

Given the cost of admission, the excellent reputation of the meals prepared, and the chance to attend, when the event coordinator contacted me two weeks ago I had arranged to dance for our dinners rather than receive payment.

I knew it was A Big Deal, but knowing hadn’t prepared me for the size of the venue. Men and women wearing black and white made their way around the reception lobby carrying platters, and patrons were snacking on delectable stuffed pastries and pita and dolmadas. We used that time to meet the M.C. and the event coordinator, and scope out the banquet hall. We found a huge room, thirty tables set with sincere formality, eight seats per table, white linen tablecloths, alternating red and black cotton napkins, four forks, two spoons, and two knives.

I gave the cd to the DJ, and then clarified my methods of entrance and exit. Rather than use the main entrance, which seemed banal and expected, I discovered a way from the bathroom, through a “staff only” side hallway next to the kitchen, that came through a side door into the banquet hall. So sneaky, highly dramatic me.

We were seated at a table next to the small stage, where a young man played classical guitar during the entrance and seating of all guests. The M.C. made his speech and thanked people for their work and generosity. The older ladies and gentlemen seated at our table with us made note of the program, which included that tantalizing phrase “belly dancer.”

They talked about other times they had seen dancers perform, and then the woman seated next to Shawn gave me and my make-up a la Cleopatra a scrutinizing, curious look and asked, “…Are you, by chance, the dancer?” I feigned surprise that anyone could have guessed, and waved my hand for secrecy.

While we ate the appetizer of lamb kibbeh and crunchy green beans in a plum tomato sauce, the ladies talked about the crossword puzzle in the day’s paper. The clue was “a belly dancer’s clackers.”

I refrained from a derisive remark about “clackers” and I also withheld the tide of possible babble about how finger cymbals are called zills in Turkey and America, and sagat in Egypt. And about how the first known zills were dated from 500 BC in Greece. And the first known dance contract, on written on Greek papyri from 206 AD, hired a krotalystrya – a dancer who played zills, or krotala --- to travel from Greece to Egypt in order to perform at a week-long festival. And I refrained from explaining that while it’s a standard part of American and Turkish shows, modern Egyptian dancers don’t play finger cymbals, they hire a band member to play for them.

The music I had selected for the evening’s performance, from Jalilah’s Amar 14, was inappropriate for playing zills. It was too fast, too arrhythmic, and the break between the one upbeat song during which I could play zills and the following slow song during which I would not play, was meant for a dramatic pause.

I left the table before they served the Moroccan carrot soup, and changed into my bedlah costume in the bathroom. Hours spent making my costume, fitting and refitting, made the change a quick on, but all the folds of cloth, the hooks, the beads must be arranged just-so.

My dark gold harem pants provided a comfortable and demure layer beneath a sheer white drape of skirt, and the bead-encrusted belt had loops of beads draping down to my knees. The matching bra completely covers me, and the strap behind my neck frees my shoulders for all sorts of rolls and percussive motions. I topped it all off with a gauze-thin white silk veil.

While checking and double-checking my costume in the bathroom, a beautiful young woman came into the bathroom. I recognized her from years ago; we had been in dance class together! We hugged and she ogled my beaded fringe, and told me where she was seated.

With time to spare, I made my way to the banquet room, where the MC announced me, the music started, and off I danced. My white silk veil stuck to my lipstick on the first swirl, which was my first “Uh-oh!” moment, but I pulled it away and I doubt anybody noticed. I worked the tables, swirled amongst the hosts standing along the wall, shimmied for the girls serving coffee.

The more I dance the less I recall what I’ve done during an improvisational performance, but I know I made use of certain parts of the melody and the percussion for accents as I moved around the room.

At the beginning of the flourish signifying the end of the first song, I realized I was dallying too long, and there was no way to make it to the stage for the final spin. That was my second “Uh-oh!” moment. So I threw my hands up and behind my head like I wanted to take flight and ran full tilt, jumped onto the stage, and spun around with the song’s crescendo and end. S said later he thought it was intentional—it drew the crowd’s attention up with me to the stage.

The next song started while the audience was still clapping. I had chosen a slow melodic piece, with a heavy oud intro during which I did belly rolls and undulations, something I haven’t really tried before.

This last year I’ve become much more aware of the importance of slow songs—they’re harder to dance to than the quick tempo sets, but I find them much more rewarding. I failed to use the combo I’ve been practicing, but the timing was essential and I knew I had missed it as soon as the musical phrase started. I did lots of snakey arms and level changes and hip isolations, and really tried my best to smile, which is something I tend to forget.

The slow song ended, more applause, and the drum solo came in, and I am so please to report it went great! I hit all the points I wanted to hit, felt very aware of the crowd’s attention, and finished with a spin.

Boom boom, I say! I left the stage, went around the crowd one more time, grabbed the veil I had dropped earlier, and left to the sound of much applause.

Quick change in the bathroom, then back to the dining room, where S & I ate the exotic Moroccan carrot soup our server had been thoughtful to reheat. They also brought us the entrée of skate on squid-ink pasta, which was simply delicious, followed by baby green salad with pear slices, candied walnuts, and pomegranate dressing.

I wanted some red wine, but the wine steward was selling it by the glass and we had failed to bring cash. I even tried my most flirtatious smile, but to no avail. The dessert was my favorite of all, a crumbly cheese cake with candied orange peel on top, drenched with honey sauce.

We left after pleasantries and smiles and handshakes, walking through the brisk early spring night beneath cherry blossoms, feeling happy and sated. Both of us were exhausted, and bed felt like a delightful cocoon. It was well worth dancing for the dinner.