Dinner at the Armenian Club

'Sefarat France?' asks the man with a twitch of his moustache. 'You go sefarat France?'
'Yes,' I nod, although I have no intention of calling at the French embassy.
It is an unseasonably mild night. Somewhere in the distance, the Milad Tower glows an Ayatollah-approved shade of green.
The man confers with my taxi driver, and I am hopeful of getting directions. But no - 'sefarat France closed,' comes the reply.

In the end, I am deposited at the gates of the vast and rambling Russian embassy instead. The taxi driver demands several thousand tomans more than the agreed fare for driving around the block in search of French representation, but I manage to fob him off with the original amount and hot-foot it out of the cab.

The Armenian Club is not easy to find. Very few know of its existence, and even fewer have set foot within its premises. Located on a side street near a fortified bunker that turns out to be the French embassy, it sits within a nondescript walled compound and is policed by a slouching security guard whose job is to turn back anyone who shouldn't be there. By orders of the Government of the Islamic Republic, that includes all Muslims.

Inside, I find a subdued interior which must once have been handsome under the Pahlavis. The lady receptionist has no hijab - one of several liberties permitted within the Club. I explain my business and am ushered into a dining room which, like much of Tehran, has seen better days. Across the faded napery, I find my fellow diners to be a mixed and eclectic group: a gaggle of Western women (diplomatic wives?) on a night out; a table of rowdy Russians; and a group of Korean contractors who looked to be knocking back something rather stronger than the 0.0% Bavaria beer-substitute I have ordered. Iran is dry and the Club is prohibited from selling alcohol, but one of the Club's other concessions is that staff are allowed to uncap or uncork your beverage of choice - if you manage to find and bring your own.

The live entertainment begins after nine. I am halfway through a platter of slightly chewy sturgeon and winter greens, when a young woman with flowing dark hair streaked with blonde highlights enters the room. She takes up position behind a santur (Persian zither), accompanied by an ashen old man who climbs behind an electric keyboard. Their opening number is unexpected: a spirited rendition of that old salsa hall favourite, Quizás, Quizás, Quizás.