The Hammam

            As we continue farther, the atmosphere becomes dense and breathing becomes difficult.  The air is so thick with moisture that it seems as though we are walking through clouds.  Not the happy, white clouds that sit high up in the sky and impart upon their guests a cool, bright, tingling feeling, but rather the muggy, steamy clouds of the low lands, the type to be found in an uninhabited swamp in southern Louisiana, trapped between a canopy of old, damp limbs and leaves above and the muddy mire of the bog below.  The humidity threatens to break out in a full blown downpour at any moment.

            We reach the final room and the heat is stifling.  Wispy pillars of steam rise up from the giant blue buckets lining the walls and slowly climb higher until they reach the ceiling above.  There, large drops of condensation hang upside down, tempting gravity as they grow and stretch until finally they are too heavy to hold their footing and fall down towards the tiled floor, splashing quietly before they begin their slow descent down an unnoticed slope, into the gutter and out into the street.

Men and boys of all ages accompany the buckets.  They sit and they squat.  They stretch out upon the ground and they curl up into balls.  They splash the scorching hot water on their face, hair, and neck and let it run down the length of their almost naked bodies, reveling in the sweet burning sensation.  They focus their thoughts on this sensation alone, allowing all worry and apprehension to be washed away from their minds as the dirt is washed away from their skin.  Some are covered head to toe in soapy lather, scrubbing furiously at their arms and chests and legs.  They go on to elicit the help of a neighbor, whether friend or stranger, to wash the hard to reach places on the back and shoulders.  No one is refused.  Little boys wrestle and play in the corner, splashing water on each other and giggling loudly until an old man with sad eyes and thinning hair addresses them.  This is no place for games, he says.  This is a place for relaxation and quiet, for meditation and bonding, for cleansing the body and the mind.  Other patrons look on, nodding approvingly, and the boys cease with their games and lie out, face down on the warm, wet floor, still giggling softly to themselves.  But the giggles soon give way to smiles and the smiles, in turn, fade to nothing.  Before long, the only thing left on their young faces is the look of quiet contentment, a peaceful calm that is found only by surrendering to the heat.

Mrka

            “Tariq. Tariq!”

            “Eh?”

            “Aji takul.”

            “Waxxa.”

            It’s just past one in the afternoon; lunch is early today.  As I descend the stairs the aroma of simmering meat and vegetables grows stronger in my nostrils.  “Mrka,” I mumble.   As I enter the dining room I see that the table is already set; four small plates of tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and onions, salted and oiled; a basket of homemade bread, still steaming and wrapped in a well-worn dish towel; and three small bowls of olive oil, each boasting a few leftover bread crumbs that have sunk down to the bottom like the jagged fragments of a tiny ship that became lost and was broken apart upon the sea.  I greet my father with a quick “Salam” and take my customary seat on the far side of the table; just left of where two couch cushions meet.  Shortly thereafter my mother enters from the kitchen carrying a large plate with potatoes, carrots, and beef piled high, forming a sort of mountainous island surrounded by a murky, brown sea of watery, stew-like gravy, the result of a four hour cooking process.  My mother unwraps the bread, tears off sizeable chunks, and doles them out to the family.  My father accepts his piece, says “bismillah”, and pops an especially plump, black olive in his mouth.  I accept my bread, tear off a small portion, and mumble, “mrka.”

            If you plan on spending any considerable amount of time learning how to cook mrka like a Moroccan, I would encourage you to reconsider.  I don’t mean to say that this Moroccan dish isn’t delicious, it is; nor do I believe that you shouldn’t want to learn a new culinary style, you should; it’s just that one need not spend any time at all learning this particular skill.  If you have ever made stew or have ever used a pressure cooker then you are ten tenths of the way to becoming a Moroccan mrka chef.  It really is that simple.

            For those of you who like things in neat, ordered lists, the following steps provide a surefire way of creating a classic mrka dish:

1.      Pick your favorite red meat and vegetables.

2.      Pressure-cook them until they lose all semblance of original texture.

3.      Serve with bread.

That’s it.  Perhaps the incredulous among you don’t believe that capturing the essence of a national dish can be boiled down to three steps, especially when one step involves picking ingredients and another involves serving the meal.  However, I can assure you, as a lifelong consumer of food and current expert on all things Moroccan, that this time-tested method of preparation is sure to have you cooking mrka like the pros in no time.

A final piece of advice: if your vegetables crunch at all during the meal, consider yourself a failure; this is the most obvious sign of an amateur.  If the vegetables put up a brief, futile attempt at resistance against your teeth, take heart, you may yet become a great Moroccan chef.  And if the vegetables put up no fight; if instead they melt away as though they had been pureed and then reformed to look like the vegetables that they once were, then give yourself a well deserved pat on the back, for you have just created the perfect mrka dish.

Patio Café

            Cigarette smoke as thick as London fog hangs over the heads of patrons of Patio Café.  Miniature tea kettles rattle when poured and spoons clink-clink inside coffee mugs.  A steady hum of commentary flows from the two flat screen televisions bolted to the walls on either side of the front door.  The only other noises come from the men; the occasional ‘zwina’ or ‘willi willi willi’ are all that pass for conversation in this place.

            The café is dimly lit and prone to power outages.  These, however, never affect the mood of the crowd.  When they do occur the men sit silently and wait; they pour their tea and they stir their coffee in the darkness; they shuffle in their chairs and uncross their left leg in order to cross their right.  They are used to waiting, but they need not wait long; the game resumes and the silence is broken.  A quick glance at the score line indicates that they have missed a goal, but 5 replays and 3 angles are sufficient substitute.

            Kora is by far the most popular sport in Morocco.  On any given day one can find children playing it in the streets, in the alleys, and in the fields.  Any café worth its beans will have its televisions tuned to one of the many channels broadcasting local matches.  Throughout the day Moroccan men funnel into cafés in order to watch their favorite teams compete.  They say their salams and find a seat facing the TV, which is most assuredly playing a Moroccan league game.

The cafés are always most crowded at night; that’s when La Liga is broadcast.  Indeed, if there is one thing Moroccans prefer to Moroccan kora, it is Spanish futbol.  La Liga is followed with a passion rivaled only by that of bread and tea.  And the lines are clearly drawn: simply mentioning the words ‘Barcelona’ or ‘Real Madrid’ can turn strangers into instant friends or enemies.  Both teams are well represented at every game, regardless of who is playing, and a café during El Clasico, the bi-seasonal meeting of the two teams, can quickly turn to riot.

             Even at seemingly innocuous games, like the one playing at Patio Café between Barcelona’s B team and some soon-to-be-relegated, 4-15-7 team, there is potential for confrontation.  The relative silence of the crowded café is broken only by Barca fans cheering loudly at the goals and Real fans laughing loudly at the mistakes.  Then it happens.  Glances are exchanged, harsh words are spoken, and immediately the whole room is on its feet.  Friends hold each other back, fling curses, and dodge projectiles.   And amidst all the loud words, chest bumping, and water throwing, another goal is scored north of Gibraltar, but no one has noticed.