I went for sardines. Came back with a whole bream because the man at the corner stall raised his eyebrows in a particular way. Charmoula on the bones, a bed of tomato and preserved lemon, into a low oven. Forty minutes, no hurry. The kitchen smells of garlic and coriander and the sea.
Derb 37 — the cuisine of Morocco, written from inside it
A week in Essaouira
Three hours west of Marrakech and the air goes salt. Sardines on the grill at the port, four days running. Blue boats, blue doors, blue overalls — same blue, faded the same way. Came home with sand in everything and a small jar of argan oil.
The cat and the fountain
The fountain talks to itself at night. The cat is in the lemon tree, watching Siena asleep on the daybed she is not supposed to be on. They have an agreement, the two of them, that I am not part of. I let them have it. I close the kitchen and go upstairs.
Three days in Tangier
A small hotel above the medina, a balcony over the Strait. Spain in the haze if you squint. Lunch at a tile-floor place near the kasbah — a plate of fried small fish, a glass of something cold, a slice of lemon. The light here is different from Marrakech. Cooler. More Atlantic.
The High Atlas, in spring
A weekend in a stone house in the Atlas. Snow on the peaks, almond blossom in the valley, a tagine slow on the fire. The neighbour came by with bread still warm and didn't stay long enough to be thanked. I keep thinking about the silence up there.
The cannon, at iftar
Rooftop, the minute before sunset. The cannon from the Koutoubia. Then the spoons — every house, all at once, metal on ceramic. The whole derb smells of harira for thirty seconds. Eleven Ramadans and I still come up here for it.