I first visited Morocco 5 years ago, and ever since a small part of me has been roaming the narrow streets of medinas, bartering at the ancient souks, looking at the ocean and feasting on the finest dishes. Every winter I get in the mood for Morocco and feel an itch to come back and reunite with the chipped off part of my heart.
My first stay kicked off in Casablanca, with the breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice, bright egg yolks soaked in the tomato sauce of the Moroccan shakshuka and my first glass of mint tea. I remember drinking it and thinking how on earth I would be surviving on this sugar bomb for three weeks. I did not take long to learn that you could ask for the mint tea without sugar or, even better, order what became my favorite morning beverage drink in Morocco - vervain au lait - dried leaves of lemon balm steeped in hot milk.
You can ask or order anything in Morocco if you have at least a bare command of French and Darija, Moroccan dialect of Arabic, none of which I mastered. Thankfully during the first days my friend and Casablanca-native, Aala-eddine who also lived and worked in Delhi as I did, took good care of me. I will not forget our day trip to Rabat when two traffic police officers stopped Aala-eddine to treat him to the most expensive breakfast in his life: my friend was served the tea and pastry as the officers were writing a massive speed ticket for him. The same day as we went for lunch I realized I left my money belt in the hotel bed back in Casablanca (are not Russians famous for traveling with cash?) and spent the rest of the day wondering whether my money were still there. How is that for the glorious beginning of my Morocco trip?
As my Casablanca weekend along with the custody of Aala-eddine was over I ventured out on my own and bought a ticket to Kenitra where I was going to change for a bus to Souk el Arba and from there take a shared taxi (old Mercedes accommodating 6 passengers) to Moulay Bousselham, a bird watcher’s destination. I was never interested in birds and still not sure why I went to this bird watchers paradise, let alone took a bird watching tour.
For 3 nights I stayed at the ground-flour room of a white washed mansion that smelled smoked wood from the large fireplace in the living room and humid air settled in the books and furniture of the house. High ceilings, touch of spider-net here and there, ancient Roman statues and paintings on the walls, large framed mirrors standing on the old wooden chest of drawers – everything conveyed the old European colonial feel. My room had a huge glass sliding door adorned with a dreamy organza curtain. The door opened into terrace, and I loved closing the massive wooden stutter doors before going to bed, solid cast iron covered with the hand-embroiled silky linens.
I was sleeping to the sound of crashing waves that emerged miles away from the shore and brought the tales from the faraway lands. Mornings smelled fresh oranges, warm bread and just-brewed coffee. Days were about long strolls along the empty sandy beaches. Evenings were spent at the communal dinners of the fireplace-roasted fresh catch with the other guests none of whom spoke a word of English. What a safe heaven for a lone overworked Moscow professional!
I found myself back to the urban life as I got to Meknes, a lovely town with captivating medina and a lot to experience. Unfortunately, in my memory all those experiences fade as I remember the awkward ones. First, I did not buy a pair of beautiful enamel ear-rings as I thought the jeweler was taking advantage of me. I discovered later that I passed on an excellent deal on the unique pair of ear-rings I never saw again. Second, still a language novice, I confused poisson (fish) with poulet (chicken) and ordered the bird tagine. Quite a trauma being a pescetarian. Third, the owner of the riad where I stayed was keenly asking me out. I would have filed a complain to all the websites and guidebooks that rave about the riad, but did not want to hurt the feelings of the owner’s wife also involved in managing the property. It was the first day of the new year and here I was crying to the sounds of the muezzin, cocks and wind in my colorful rooftop room feeling like an oriental princess in exile. My name was Laila, and the new year that has come was 1345. I decided to flee, quick.
For my escape I picked the nearby town of Moulay Idriss located on the tagine-shaped hill, a significant pilgrimage sight for the Muslims. Packed and ready to go, I called a pension in Moulay Idriss. No one spoke English and our communication did not go well. After a few moments of despair, I got a call back: they had a room and someone spoke decent English. At the bus station in Moulay Idriss a charming and certainly blond young woman picked me up and brought to the pension that appeared to be a large family house with some rooms rented out. The blond young woman who came to my rescue and mediated the communication between me and the female pension owner was a guest, just like me. We spent two days with her, walking to the nearby ruin of Volubilis, exploring Moulay Idriss and chatting about everything. She was instantly a soulmate. She taught me to communicate even if you don’t know the language, not to be afraid to say yes to the unknown, but also trust yourself to say no if your boundaries are threatened. Finding courage to leave the place where I felt uncomfortable and meeting this brave generous young woman was empowering and there, after a week in Morocco my travel started for real.
Then there was Fez with its ancient medina that took me back to the Medieval ages with its crafts and trades. When not lost in the lanes of medina, I was hanging out at a cafe under the shady tree where I would bring a snack from the nearby stall, order cafe au lait and spent the rest of the day watching people.
I remember meeting an American financier traveling with his son. Slightly worried by my potential connections with KGB, the financier thought that running into each other three times makes us kind of acquaintances and offered to join them for a private guided tour. The guide was first rate: after the father left for the airport and the young man inquired about homosexuality in Islam, our knowledgeable guide never failed to quote Quran to prove that it is natural for a man to have a desire only for a woman. We then went for dinner with the financier’s son to a local buzzing hub, Clock Cafe where we stumbled upon a mind-blowing performance of a talented 17 year old Moroccan flamenco player, by the way, having an affair with a foreign woman close to her 40s. Along with the tanneries, medreses and its endless medina, Fez was surely as much about the people that came to experience the city, each in their own way.
I continued to Marrakech domesticated by the foreigners coming for a comfortable doze of the oriental dream. I liked this city least. Legendary Djemaa el Fna was the biggest scam I have ever seen even though I partook in the “rich oral and intangible tradition”: for a few dirhams someone entrusted me a pair of castanet-like krakebs and I joined the folk musicians on the square for the improvised performance. I still remember the stall I ate, probably attracted by the pitchline: “77 takes you to heaven”. The most lasting impressions of Marrakech though were the cooking class where I got to help Moroccan wedding chefs to cook a monstrous feast and the ethnography museum showcasing the life and customs of Sahara berbers, insanely rich private collection of a Dutch researcher.
I soon ventured to Essaouira, the port town with most photogenic doors, prettiest cats and nastiest teenagers in the whole country. In Essaouira I indulged. I stayed at the eco-hotel with chatty female staff and enjoyed their organic breakfasts. I visited top restaurants, drank local white wines and looked at the sea often. I bought stunning filigree ear-rings that the blacksmith made right in front of me.
On the way back to Casablanca I stopped for a night in Rabat. There was one place I wanted to revisit, National Jewellery Museum I spotted in the Kasbah when we visited it with Aala-eddine. I did not mind paying a fortune to stay at a characterless business hotel near the Parliament as long as I had the following day to spend among the information stands in French (that somehow started making sense after 3 weeks in Morocco) and the exquisite exhibits samples of which I saw in the jewelry stores throughout Morocco. For a moment, career of a Moroccan jewelry dealer seemed like a very close possibility. I still don’t fully reject the idea when I look at this.
And yet at the end of the day, it was not the pottery, rugs, wood carvings or jewelery, but the Moroccan flavors, cheap to collect, safe to store and easy to infinitely reproduce, that I fell for and that still linger on my palate after all those years. Sweet and savory coming together in one dish, a handful of complex spices skillfully combined and .. chickpeas. A lot of chickpeas in every possible form. Hence this stew.
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Chickpeas forever:
My Kind of Chickpea Bread
5 Secrets to Perfect Hummus
Spiced Chickpea and Purslane Salad
Moroccan-Inspired Chickpea Stew
The base of this dish is classic Turkish chickpea stew unpretentiously called nohut yemeği (chickpea dish). I gave it Moroccan twist by bringing on board the sweetness of carrots and cinnamon and balancing it with earthy cumin, bitter mint and parsley, pungent pepper and just-perfectly-sour amount of lemon. I always cook chickpeas myself instead of using canned; you can read about my method here.
Source: Olga Irez
Prep Time: 10 Min
Cook Time: 30 Min
Total Time: 40 Min
Serves: 6
Ingredients
- 2 cups cooked chickpeas see the note above
- 3 cups chickpeas cooking liquid / good quality stock
- 6 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
- 2 medium carrots cut into 0.5 cm dice
- 2 medium onions finely diced
- 2 garlic cloves minced
- 2 tsp Turkish tomato paste
- 1 tsp Turkish red pepper paste opional
- 1/2 tsp ground cumin
- 1/2 tsp isot or hot red pepper flakes
- 1/2 tsp dry mint
- 1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
- 2 tsp fine sea salt
- 1 lemon juice and finely grated zest of
- 1/4 cup finely chopped parsley
Directions
Warm up the olive oil in a cooking pot. Stir in the carrots and let them soften on the medium heat (3-4 min). Then toss in the onions and cook until translucent (3-4 min). Add the garlic and as its aroma reaches your nose, stir in the tomato and pepper (if using) pastes along with the spices. Pour 1 cup liquid in which chickpeas cooked or good quality stock. Bring to a boil, cover and dial down the heat to the low. Let simmer until the carrots are tender (about 10 min). Finally, add the chickpeas and remaining cooking liquid. You may add more liquid at this point if a thinner stew is desired. Bring to a boil and cook on the low heat for additional 7-10 min for the chickpeas to soak in all the flavors. Stir in the lemon juice, grated lemon zest and finely chopped parsley. Taste and adjust seasoning if needed: depending on how salty your tomato paste is, you might need more or less salt. Serve hot or warm with pickled vegetables alongside rice or bulgur pliaf or with plenty of bread to mop up the tasty juices of the stew.
Awesome pictures and story! Would love to go to Morocco as well. But Turkey first!