Not as bad, perhaps, as France, where they think vegetarians are perverts, or Russia, where I once dined on a meal of cabbage soup, cabbage salad and cabbage stew, but getting on that way.

At one Moroccan restaurant, down ever-narrower alleys deep in the souk and then a bit deeper, I was shown to a table in a courtyard so densely planted with palm trees and giant ferns that it was like a walled jungle. Tortoises grazed in the undergrowth, stray cats stalked, the table was scattered with crimson rose petals, and the owner, a tall woman with bangles up to her elbows and purple lipstick, listened as I explained that I didn't eat meat, just fish and vegetables.

"Seafood?" she asked. "No," I said. "No seafood. No starfish. Nothing that has a face." (Do starfish have faces?). She said she'd make me something that was "just vegetables". She was almost right. The resulting tomato soup had only a few pieces of beef in it.

At another restaurant, a waiter brought the house speciality: pigeon pie. I repeated that I didn't eat meat. "Sir, this is not meat," he said. "It is bird."

Such is the apprehensive background to a visit to Le Marrakech, a Moroccan restaurant that opened in central Sheffield last December. It's part of West One, a glitzy apartment block with a plaza of restaurants that didn't look over-busy on a cold Wednesday night.

Outside one of them the wind rustled the potted yukkas and a woman dressed as a flamenco dancer was deep in conversation with a man who may have been a matador. By, there are some cosmopolitan sights in Sheffield these days.

Le Marrakech used to be a coffee lounge and it shows. It's smart, high-ceilinged and airy, with swirling-curved windows and black tables and chairs. The most striking feature is the exposed pipes and air ducts. They add a hint of industrial chic, in a Pompidou-Centre sort of way, but, together with a row of spotlights, they militate against the exotic soukish atmosphere you might be expecting.

To achieve that, the place needs more than drapes at the windows, Moroccan music, a few ethnic ornaments and half a dozen brass-and-coloured-glass lamps from Iran. They were the idea, incidentally, of the restaurant's co-owner, Shadi Mazhari, a PhD married to a Sheffield doctor. She has joined forces with Hicham Boulguid, a Moroccan who ran the coffee lounge.

You can only wish them well. Their restaurant succeeds against the odds, mainly because it knows what's important. The more-than-ample portions represent food as a satisfying meal, not a style statement with starvation portions served with stilted affectation. No pretentious tom-foodery here.

The menu is manageable, with 10 starters (£3.50 to £4.50) and nine mains (£12.95 to £15.95). Harira broth, kefta meatballs, tagines (slow-cooked casseroles) and couscous dishes are all there, along with b'stila, a sweet-and-savoury pastry combining – unlikely as it sounds – chicken, eggs, almonds, powdered sugar and cinnamon. So far, so authentic.

After complimentary spicy olives and bread, the starters, attractively presented on colourful Moroccan plates, were a delight: admirably firm prawns in filo pastry (£4.50), a generous salad centring on chargrilled peppers, tomatoes and feta cheese (£3.50), and a hefty, if slightly bland, fishcake (£4.50). Good value here: less so, perhaps, with the mains.

Vegetable couscous (£12.95) offered well-cooked parsnips, carrots, courgettes and cauliflower with couscous fluffy enough to banish any tendency to dryness. Stuffed peppers with saffron rice and spicy tomato sauce (£12.95) managed to combine sturdy and delicate flavours. The £3.50 crème brulee (cold rather than warm) was rich and custardy.

The compact wine list is dominated by French, Italian and Spanish. We tried the geographically closest of them: a light and fruity Spanish white (£12.95), but were disappointed not to find the Tunisian red which a friend had told us about.

Why wasn't it on the list? "At the moment, you can only get it in Monastir," said the waiter. We talked a little about the joys of Tunisia before it dawned on us that we were at cross-purposes. What he'd actually said was: "You can only get it in Manchester."

The waiter, Adi, was a highlight of the evening, full of charm and good humour. In his big black, white and grey striped tie, he sketched in his background in Dalmatia, in "former Yugoslavia".

He had met his wife, he said, while working in Nuremberg. She came from Sheffield, they moved back here and what he can't tell you about the Balkans isn't Paddy Ashdown's business.

We asked for a jug of water. "Yorkshire tap water?" he said, disarmingly. "The best!" He was as prompt and attentive as you could wish, but, with only five tables occupied in the two hours we were there (including a trio of French-speaking lecturers from North Africa), he wasn't exactly rushed off his feet.

The main point was that everyone seemed to having a good time. It was all agreeably relaxed.

No rush. No hassle. No hint of Marrakech express.

Le Marrakech, Central Plaza, West One, Fitzwilliam Street, Sheffield S1 4JB, 0114 275 8495. Open daily 11am-midnight. Serves food noon-2.30pm and 5.30pm-11pm.
Tapas dishes also available.