The smoke hits first. A hundred grills going at once, the fat from the lamb and the merguez hitting the coals, and the smoke rises into the lights. Each stall has a number. The men call out.

Underneath the smoke — harira, fried fish, snails, sheep heads, mixed grills, fresh bread. The noise is enormous. The lights are harsh and beautiful. Steam everywhere.

The tourists sit at the stalls. The locals stand around the edges with small bowls of soup. The cats work the perimeter.

From the rooftops of the cafés above, the whole square looks like it's on fire.