My last day in Morocco and it was a crazy one. I woke up in the middle of the night coughing and couldn’t stop. I ended up ordering some hot mint herb tea with honey and lemon to soothe my throat and finally made it back to sleep.
Morning came way too soon, but I was able to stagger out of bed and get myself ready. My throat was killing me and I could tell I had post nasal drip.
I had what had become my usual breakfast here- Olives, cheese, thin sliced smoked salmon, bread and the splendid Moroccan orange juice; though I added another hot mint tea to round it out, and by the time I left to work I was feeling much better and more alive.
The day was busy, trying to wrap up loose ends and get everything tied up correctly and making sense and before I knew it most of the day was gone and I hadn’t had lunch, finished up, or made it to the Souk.
I was starting to feel a hint of panic that I wasn’t going to finish before the Souk closed, when everything fell into place and I managed to tie it all up neatly and cleanly.
Salim had our usual driver Tiyeb meet us and we headed for the Souk. Sa wakas, as they say in The Philippines. Sometimes the best phrases for what we feel and want to express just can’t be handled with English alone.
Ah, the Souk… it was spilling over with people when we arrived. Crowds of cars and motorcycles and bicycles and people; old and young, black and white and tan and every other color on this great planet mingling together in the beautiful cornucopia of sight and sound and smell imaginable.
We Americans have no idea what we are missing by not having a bazaar or souk or palanke in our cities. We don’t haggle, we don’t barter, we don’t enjoy the triumph of feeling when you win or the unease of feeling like you may have just been had by a savvy and experienced merchant, but most of all we don’t get to become one with the world around us when we leave a stall with something we want happy and content because we feel like we just made another person’s day while letting the other person feel exactly the same way too.
I have been in so many open air markets and they all have something in common besides the cacophonous sound and sight. The Smell. It hangs in the air, a terrible miasma that sticks in the nostrils and the lungs. Overpowering for a while all of our other senses until we can grip it and push it down and pretend to ignore it.
That was not the case in Rabat. As we pushed and jostled our way through the crowd and stepped through the gate of the maybe 1000 year old wall that housed the souk, we were indeed meet with an over powering smell. The smell of food and spices and flowers and herbs, it took my breath away, mouth watering and nostrils trembling, it sent me into olfactory paradise. Cumin and oregano, and basil and cinnamon, turmeric and cardamom and who knows what else banging on my senses; demanding me to pay attention to them and only them. It was heaven. We walked by whole cow heads and lambs feel and slabs of meat and entrails but my nose could only smell the wonderful odiferous fantasy that wafted from the stalls of spices and herbs and flowers. I couldn’t believe that it was true. A market with all the noise and bustle and perfection of any true market, but with the smell of heaven instead of three month old rotting meat and worse. I was truly in haggling heaven.
Tiyeb had been given instructions to help us negotiate prices with the sellers, but I soon found that I couldn’t resist and in no time I was smiling and moaning and feigning disinterest, walking out of a stall only to be called back for one last round of negotiation. I think my companions though I was mad. I had so much fun, so much pent up desire to haggle that I couldn’t stop. Went from stall to stall looking and digging and testing and trying until finally, they dragged me kicking and screaming back to the car, bags in tow, Tiyeb straining with the weight, and me grinning like a madman before his execution.
My haul was large and bountiful. No buyer’s remorse here. I longed to stay but I had one more treat that I was looking equally as forward to: our farewell Moroccan feast.
We made our way back to the hotel dropped off our newly acquired possessions and met Salim out front of the hotel.
He took us by the King’s palace (closed for the night), past the Royal Mausoleum and into the heart of Rabat. We park and he leads us through a patio, up to a flight of narrow winding stairs into a dark and lush dining area with couches and low tables; tiled ceilings and terra cotta tiled floors.
We find a place in the corner and watch the little hideaway restaurant slowly fill up while we devour the delicious Moroccan olives and bread.
The waiter comes by and takes our order. Salim does most of it in a mix of Arabic and French then tells us we are going to love it so sit back and relax and enjoy.
First, they bring the soup and eggs and dates. The soup is a wonderful mix of lentils and chick peas and lamb and carrot and tomato into which we squeeze fresh lemon and sop with our bread.
Next, is the “salad” course which consists of six plates of pureed vegetables in unique blends, a plate of spiced cooked carrots, and a wonderfully fresh plate of cucumbers mixed with vinegar and some basil leaves.
Salim, showed us how to use our bread to pick up the vegetable puree and eat it, and then we set to devouring it all. It was wonderful, I could pick out an eggplant mix, a sweet potato mix, a tomato mix and three more that were delicious, but unidentifiable by me. It was immensely satisfying to relax and laugh and eat wonderful exotic and sumptuous food.
Our main course arrived well before we could polish off the salads, so reluctantly we said goodbye our new delicious friends and welcomed with open hearts and mouths the fare provided by our generous friend the tagine.
Here is where I write my “Ode to the Moroccan Tagine”, that wonderful domed and glazed orange clay pot that so succulently combines all the flavors introduced into to it for the culinary pleasure of those souls lucky as me to open the lid and consume the steaming symphony of taste contained within.
For me it was olives and tomato and lemon rind and lamb’s tongue. There was more, of course, but after my first look and whiff I found that I no longer cared WHAT it was, only that it made its happy way to my tingling taste buds.
Tender. Sweet. Tangy. Bitter. All perfectly meshed into the flavor of Heaven, bursting to glorified life in my mouth. At that moment no more perfect amalgam of flavors never had more filled a human’s mouth than that did at that time for me. It was… It was gone. It was gone and I wasn’t at all sure when it had fled to. My perfect meal had disappeared before I could understand what had happened. I looked from my fork to the bread in my hand, to the empty tagine and wondered who had stolen my bliss. I looked up forlorn at my companions and they smiled that sad smile; the one that says “I know my friend. I know. It is gone. Placed within the temporary confines of your belly and nothing you can do will un-eat it. Put down you fork, put down the bread and mourn the passing of a great meal.”
Slowly, with eyes downcast, I placed my fork reverently on the table and closed my eyes in soft silence until Salim asks, “Chris, my friend, are you ready for Moroccan dessert?”
No more welcome words have ever been spoken. How did he know I needed the solace of dessert to help me cope with the untimely demise of my meal?
It was a glorious re-awakening of my senses, it was perfectly timed.
Again he orders for us and again we fall into pleasant conversation and wait for the final portion of our culinary journey into Morocco.
As we wait, a band begins to play. Softly at first, the sounds of Moroccan guitar and fiddle begin to waft through the air, then drums and voice. It is exotic and captivating and mournful. The sound of it tears at my soul and I can feel the pain and love longing in the call of it.
Our dessert arrives; thin sliced oranges with cinnamon and a light dusting of sugar. I could not think of a more fitting end to a wonderful stay in a magnificent country. The sweet and succulent Moroccan Orange. Perfecto. Tres bien. C’bon and au revour.
Long past the time I need to be asleep I crawl into my hotel room and realize I still have to pack, but if I do it sufficiently and quickly, I may get 3 whole hours of sleep before we have to leave for Casablanca and our imminent departure back to Dallas.
Somehow I manage, somehow I sleep and somehow here I am on this plane two hours from Dallas and wondering how I’m still awake enough to write anything at all, I guess I will know for sure when I re-read this later, but until I do… I think I will try to sleep and dream of African beaches and Moroccan food, and the people I would love to share it all with.
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