moroccan doughnuts

I do not have a sweet tooth, but every so often I indulge in a sugary treat. For some time I had been curious about these so-called Moroccan doughnuts, which every now and then could be seen carried away down the street by men in djellabas, the fluffy rings strung like beads on a strip of palm frond. I had incorrectly assumed that they could be found in a café or bakery, and after many disappointing attempts to get my hands on some, I consulted my students. I learned that the doughnuts are called sfenj, and can only be acquired from a dedicated sfenj hole-in-the-wall.

On one of Baby's afternoon walks, I spied a man in a striped djellaba turning away from a little crowd of people with a string of golden rings. Could it be? As he walked past me, it was confirmed: sfenj. In a shop no bigger than a closet, sandwiched between the entrances of apartment buildings, sat a man and a vat of boiling oil. A steamy display case separated eager clientele from the man, who was diligently spooning the sfenj out from the bubbling pool of oil.

I got four plain sfenj on a palm frond, and one dusted with sugar in my hand for immediate devouring. The dough was delightfully crispy on the outside and fluffy inside— far better than your average American doughnut, with or without sugar— and there's something so wonderful about carrying your string of sfenj down the street. Now I just need a blue djellaba...

anchovy tajines and strawberry trees

One bright blue morning we drove off in search of the green of an Algerian Oak forest. The winding hilly roads twisted my stomach as I sat in the backseat attempting to entertain Baby with an owl puppet and renditions of Bowie songs. After passing through so many dry agricultural fields, we finally reached the forest— and my guts began to spin.



Pedro pulled over to the side of the road (which by now had become rather patchy), and took the opportunity to search for birds while I gathered my head and fed Baby. We were nearly surrounded by strawberry trees— their bright red fruit beautifully popping out from the green, so deliciously enticing. In fact, this was precisely what I needed: to get my legs moving and to eat something. I foraged a handful of ripe fruit that had been missed by the birds and Barbary macaques, and slowly crushed their thin spiky flesh between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, delighting in the sensation. Soon, the sugar did its magic, and I felt a little less green myself.



The oak forest was lush and expansive; a reminder of how there are so many Moroccos. We didn't stay too long though, as it was getting late and we had skipped lunch. On they way back to Chefchaouen we spied a troupe of macaques lurking in the trees off the side of the road, who vanished the second I pulled out my camera. We headed to the Uta el Hammam plaza, where we were certain to find food being served at such an odd hour.



I had heard that the goat cheese in the Rif is not to be missed, and I've had it on my mind ever since I saw the rounds of creamy goodness beautifully wrapped in palm fronds in Tangier. Though I'm not sure this is the same cheese, I enjoyed it on a fresh salad that came with olives and zaalouk, a cooked eggplant and tomato salad. This was followed by a tasty anchovy tajine, with a lemony tomato sauce.



Mid-meal, Baby scored us both a glass of tea from the neighbouring table. This sort of thing has been happening lately— the most unusual of which has been a gift of sole from the fishmonger on two separate occasions. In Morocco, men, women, and children run up to kiss a cheek or forehead— something that would horrify most Americans— a stranger kissing my baby?! I find it endearing (and cross my fingers that the kisser doesn't have a cold).

tajine and tea

As we wandered around Imlil in search of food, we were confronted with two options at that particular time of day: a touristy restaurant with a bunch of excited Europeans, or a local joint that seemed to be attached to a butcher shop. The latter had an enticing row of steaming tajine pots cooking their contents away on braziers, and a fair amount of locals dining away. Needless to say, we greeted the friendly gent manning the coals, and climbed upstairs to the terrace where we ordered a chicken tajine to share, mint tea, and a Coke for Pedro.

Chicken tajines from what I have experienced so far, are mainly composed of various chicken parts layered underneath a pile of potatoes and various vegetables, flavoured with preserved salted lemons and olives. The acid from the lemons is cut by the earthy potatoes, and overall, it's a pretty nice dish (though I prefer the meatball tajines). There's usually a good amount of drippings left behind for your bread to soak up— my favourite part.



I had to include this last photo— I love the way Coca-Cola is written in Arabic!

a feast unlike any other

There was one thing I was hellbent on experiencing in Tangier, and that was a meal at the Restaurant Populaire Le Saveur du Poisson, which was featured in an episode of Anthony Bourdain's Parts Unknown on Tangier. We arrived a bit early for lunch, only to discover a few people already waiting for the little restaurant to open.

Once inside we were greeted by gregarious chap who placed down a series of clay dishes that contained a spicy harissa, toasted nuts, and herbed olives. We were also given a bowl of fish soup ladled from a large clay amphora, and a basket of assorted breads and baghrir— a spongy pancake that I have become quite fond of.



Next came a tajine of greens with calamari and herbs, shark kebabs, and a most delicious John Dory, delicately flavoured with cumin. Our cups were abundantly refilled with the house juice of several unnamed fruit and herbs— a concoction unlike anything I have ever tasted— sweet and earthy.



Every morsel of that John Dory was devoured, and our dishes were cleaned to the clay. Then dessert came our way: one dish of fresh strawberries in honey with pomegranate seeds, walnuts and pine nuts, and another of warm nuts in honey and a hint of eucalyptus. My oh my, the memory of this feast is making my mouth water as I type!



The entire experience was so wonderful, from the divinely delicious food and juice, to our lovely waiter who gave me a clay mug as a souvenir at the end of the meal. I have a soft spot for wooden spoons and forks, and for the bees who joined us for dessert. Should you find yourself in Tangier, make sure you seek out Le Saveur du Poisson— it's a fixed seasonal menu, a bit pricey for Morocco at 200 Dirhams a person (about 20€), but well worth it!

dining in the oasis

Have you ever seen anything like this? This glorious feast for more than the just belly is simply called trid, after the thin, transparent sheets of dough that line the plate. Trid is a flour dough that is rolled into little balls, spread onto a flat surface until thinner than paper, then fried on a flat pan. The trid is then rolled and layered to create petals on a plate, topped with fragrant chicken, fried almonds and sultanas, with some hard-boiled eggs for good measure. The dish is communal, and eaten with the hands (always the right hand!) by pulling a petal of trid and rolling it toward the centre of the plate to fill it with a little bit of everything delicious. Not only is it ever so tasty, it's fun to eat too! We shared our trid with some fellow guests at the auberge we were staying at, and an older gentleman with quite the sense of humour.

As Figuig is an oasis of palm trees— once an important stopover for many Moroccans on pilgrimage to Mecca— there were of course, plenty of dates to delight in. I have had all sorts of dates from various parts of the world, but the ones I had this night were undoubtedly my favourite. I was told that they were "fresh", which I took to mean that they were in the early stage of ripening— hence their beautiful golden colour:

This was one of the most memorable dining experiences I have had in Morocco so far. I loved the sweet and savoury combination of the chicken and sultanas, with the soft trid and crunchy almonds— and of course, the dates were gorgeous! Sharing food with fellow travellers and locals alike made it all the better.

Figuig was turning out to be one of my favourite places in Morocco...

delicious things

While in Dakhla, we filled our bellies with boiled eggs and flatbread with olive oil and cumin for breakfast, the occasional fig, thyme and olive oil jam on crusty bread while on the road, and plenty of seafood and tajines for dinner. There was this wonderful little date-filled pastry (pictured above) that we bought one morning from a bakery that I had been stalking— it never seemed to be open when we we drove by. The pastry was a highlight of the trip as far as food was concerned!



Seafood in Dakhla was another highlight. We often found ourselves indulging in octopus and fish soup at a smokey little joint called Casa Luis.



Now I know this doesn't look very appetizing, but one of the ubiquitous Moroccan dishes that I have come to consider comfort food is the kefta tajine— a clay pot of meatballs simmered in a tomato sauce with an egg for good measure. It's delicious, and pretty much guaranteed to keep you away from any gastrointestinal distress, which is quite common in Morocco. Since tajines, which are dishes named after the distinct clay pot that they are cooked in (a shallow clay pot covered in a cone-shaped top— which you can see behind the tomatoes in this previous post), are simmered on a fire for a significant amount of time, I have found that they are pretty safe to eat. The only cases of horrific bowel distress that I have succumbed to in Morocco came from an accidentally eaten under-cooked shawarma, badly washed raspberries, and a rotisserie chicken. This kefta tajine was lovely, with a little bit of fresh cilantro sprinkled on top:

this one's for you, mom

Your favourites: fresh cannoli from a sweet Sicilian patisserie and tangy lemon gelato— not as good as your gelato, of course!



Love you.

meat and potatoes

I'd say that the portions in Portugal are overall rather generous, but up north it's a whole different story! You think you're just ordering a sausage with some potatoes on the side, but then there's eggs, cabbage, and some extra meat— you know, just in case— and it's all glistening golden with olive oil. Meat and potatoes are taken to the next level in Portugal.



...and it's all so, so good!

the juiciest steak

Yes, I ate a Barrosã steak— rather, I devoured it. It was the juiciest steak I can remember ever having, and I appreciated each savoury bite. This was not without some guilt, having deeply admired the beauty of the cows earlier, but truthfully I wanted to taste what was so special about it.

It was incredible.

salt tooth

I do not have a sweet tooth. While I do occasionally enjoy a dessert or some very dark chocolate, I much prefer salty things— give me a pickled herring over a slice of cake any day! Portugal has incredible sweets that usually involve dozens of egg yolks and loads of sugar. While in Aveiro, Pedro suggested that I try the local Ovos Moles, a traditional sweet originally concocted by nuns in the 19th century. Apparently the nuns ran laundries, and used egg whites to stiffen the collars of priests— this led to an abundance of yolks. Rather than waste these yolks, the resourceful nuns began to whip up belly-widening confections, many of which are still enjoyed today and have become a staple of Portuguese cuisine. Ovos Moles, are essentially crispy communion wafer crusts formed into the shapes of shells or barrels, and filled with a yolk and sugar paste.

Eager to try something new, I took a bite.



When it comes to food, there's very little that I don't like— I've enjoyed offal in Turkey, water rats in Vietnam... Unfortunately Ovos Moles has made my 'No Thank You' list, right next to lamprey and melon. They're so pretty and I wanted to like them, but my goodness the sugar made my head spin— I'm not kidding. We tried to walk it off, but I had to sit on a park bench for a little while lest they made a reappearance.

Later around lunch time, I figured the best way to rid myself of this unpleasantness was to counter the sweetness with some salt. And beer.



Dinner needed lemon and garlic— lots of garlic.

beer, clams, and cartoons

The simple pleasures in life!

a sidewalk feast on saint anthony's night

Pedro has been telling me about the madness and wonder that is Saint Anthony's night for years, but we haven't been able to experience it together until now (well June 12th, to be exact). I think I expected something along the lines of a block party with a lot more sardines, and something about basil plants? Little did I know that Lisbon's heart would be transformed into a torrent of food, drink, parades and wonderfully tacky music that would last for days, with people squeezing into every available space to eat, drink, and dance. I'm still not entirely sure what the basil plants have to do with it all, but there were countless stands of neatly potted bushes for sale, and people wearing curly green wigs that were meant to resemble the basil. Sardine hats, sponsored by the local beer company Sagres, were being sported too (as you can see above).



It was decided between Pedro and friends that heading to the Graça neighbourhood for food would be the best strategic move, as the likelihood of finding a space to sit while eating was greater. P and I claimed a slice of sidewalk while Pedro and Pedro battled the crowd for beer, grilled sardines, and pork. We made a fine table out of a backpack, and got down to business:



Between the grilled sardines, the morcela, and the accordion-filled Pimba music blasting through the streets, I felt a lightness bubbling up inside me that I hadn't known in quite some time...



...and it was only the beginning of the night!

to lisbon

This has felt like the fastest year of my life. I really cannot believe it was a year ago that Pedro and I packed up our belongings and looked toward our new life in Morocco with such optimism and excitement, unaware of the challenges that were awaiting us. As I have previously and so briefly mentioned, it was a difficult year— one that had me fighting hard against giving up and quitting my job. In the end however, my efforts seem to have paid off, as the feedback I received from many of my students was some of the most touching and rewarding in my teaching career.

When the last bell finally rang, I locked up the class room I had transformed from a drab, dusty, and cluttered mess into a bright, orderly space with colourful murals (which I hope will inspire my students' creativity). I walked home, and packed my bags for Lisbon.



Lisbon, the city that glows even on the greyest of days, where white limestone-cobbled pavements and tiled facades play catch with the Atlantic light— where I can indulge in the most exquisite of greasy pork sandwiches or fine seafood and beautiful wines— where I can wear what I want, walk where I want, and look at whomever I want in the eye.



I can chomp on a pork steak and sip green wine while sketching a man on a paper table cloth. I can hold my husband's hand and give him a kiss in public.



I can be me.