Breaking bread in Marrakesh

Aziza, our lady Moroccan guide, strode into the hotel foyer in a long white djellabah, the traditional long, loose dress of the country, and a light cream kaftan embroidered in the neckline and cuffs with intricate lace and pearls. My husband Alex and I were at the lobby of the L’Atlas Hotel in central Marrakesh quite early that sunny spring morning, waiting for her.

 

We got on a coach with six other guests: a couple from Mexico City, another from Barcelona, and a mother and daughter from Bógota, Colombia. Aziza spoke Spanish slowly and clearly, so we understood her well, and in spite of feeling self-conscious about our spoken Castillan, we forged ahead and asked her questions. 

We were on our way to the Ourika Valley, one of the rich, fertile lands where the Ourika River flowed. The formidable-looking peaks of the High Atlas Mountains could be seen from afar, and square, white-washed houses huddled near the road. We stopped in one of the lush areas where streams flowed, and the air was cool and pure. 

 

Aziza told us that today we shall visit her Berber friend named Fatima who lived in one of the brick houses about half an hour away from our first stop.

Fatima was a warm, ever-smiling fair-skinned lady who looked to be around 60. She had a smooth countenance, with only a few lines on her forehead. We went around her house made of clay and bricks, with palm fronds for its roof. There was a small stone mill too, where she ground her wheat. We sat around the square courtyard, the stone seats gaily spread with colorful rugs. Her two adult daughters were with her, and they all smiled when we came in, and “salaam alaikum” were said by all.  

 

The Berbers were a nomadic tribe but now some of them had settled down. This morning, Fatima was ready to show us how the very famous Moroccan mint tea was prepared. 

She had a beautiful silver tea service, which included an elegant silver teapot, and a large silver serving tray, and on them were clear glasses.

First she placed two to three teaspoons of tea into the silver teapot, scalded them with very hot water, swirled the pot, then discarded the fluid. This, Aziza said, was to make sure the tea leaves were open and ready. Next, Fatima added one big ball of mint leaves and branches, and one huge chunk of rock sugar into the pot; she then poured in some boiling water again. She allowed this to steep for some time, and then poured out some of the tea into a glass and returned this to the teapot. She did this several times, to ensure that all the sugar had been dissolved. Finally with a flourish, she poured the amber-colored tea from a high distance onto the glasses. This helped develop a foam, which added to the visual treat. 

 

We tasted the tea and found it very fragrant, minty, sweet, and very refreshing. Together with the flat bread and the various spread of butter from goat’s milk, honey, and olive oil, it was a perfect repast in Fatima’s dwelling at the foot of the High Atlas Mountains.

Back in our hotel, Alex was able to check out the schedule for Sunday Mass at an église catholique (Catholic Church) just a few streets away. 

 

It was the Paroisse des Saints Martyrs (Parish of the Saint Martyrs), and there were 50 of us. Half of the attendees though, needed a tall attractive Caucasian lady as a sign-language “translator.”

One of the five priests officiating said a brief Spanish prayer during the Prayer of the Faithful, but the Mass was in French. Something to be said about the universality of the rites: we could follow them even if our French was wanting. Suddenly, while the Nicene Creed was being recited, we heard a loud call to prayers by a muezzin, clear and strong, from a mosque beside the church. With his call we continued our praying; a surreal moment indeed, where Muslim and Christian prayers were said together! This made the breaking of bread in this Marrakesh church one unforgettable experience. 

 

After the Final Blessing, one of the priests said something in French, and another translated, “We would love to know where you are from!” Many were from the UK, a large group was from Paris, and still another from Rome (this elicited a lot of “aaahs!”).

When our turn came, Alex and I were the only ones from Manila, but this brought forth many hand clapping, and we could only smile and bow all around. An American lady came up to us for a chat, together with her French companion. She laughed when I told her it was such a relief to hear and speak English again.

 

That evening, Alex and I tried out the Port Restaurant along Avenue du France: a tagine dinner!

Tagine referred to the North African earthenware used in the cooking: a high, conical cover with a vent on top, and a round, low-sided bottom, both of which were placed over the fire. The bottom could also be used as one’s plate. The conical cover ensured that all the condensation from the cooking returned back to the food, trapping in all the goodness and flavor. 

 

We shared a “Tagine de hachee viande aux oeuf,” which was minced lamb with eggs, very savory and spicy.

On the vent of our tagine cover, someone thoughtfully placed a small rose. Light-as-air omelet with chewy mozzarella and crisp fries with mustard and horse radish sauce completed the meal, taken on the second floor veranda, where we could see the lights and feel the cool breeze from the mountains. The side dish of crunchy baguette with a little butter was delicious in itself, as the meal made me feel blessed to have broken bread three times today, all under the cover of the velvety Marrakesh sky. —KG, GMA News