Feasting in Fez, Morocco

By Beebe Bahrami

A tajine is used to create a variety of stews.

I had been living in Morocco's capital, Rabat, for several months when my new friend Fatima invited me to join her on a trip to Fez to attend a newborn baby boy's naming ceremony. He was the son of Fatima's friend Kenza. A few days later, on the train to Fez, I told Fatima how excited I was to participate in my first naming ceremony. She rolled her eyes and said this would not be a typical naming celebration. As our train left Rabat's green Atlantic coast and moved inland toward the drier brown hills around the bowl-like city of Fez, Fatima unfolded Kenza's tale.

Kenza was originally from Fez but moved to Rabat when she landed an important job at one of the city's archives. It was in Rabat where she met her husband and married. Four years into their marriage, they had a child. The demands of career, motherhood, and marriage reached a crisis point shortly after their son's birth. Kenza was not a person of compromise. Neither was her husband. His dormant desire for a traditional family life surfaced a few days after his son was born. He could not understand why Kenza wanted to continue her work as a curator. He could not understand her explanations of how fulfilling the work was and how few people were lucky enough to get such a job. The more he insisted, the less she budged. One day, Kenza took their infant son and left. She rented a room in a residence for single working women. She stopped speaking to her husband.

Back in Fez, Kenza's family and neighbors phoned Kenza incessantly: 'You should give in to your husband's wishes,' they told her, infuriating Kenza. She viewed herself as a self-made, modern woman. The pressure from family and friends only reinforced her determination to stay on her new course. Fatima was silent for a moment. We listened to the chug and sweep of the old rail working under our feet. "Kenza is orchestrating a feast," Fatima returned to the story, "to alter people's opinions," Fatima explained that Kenza intended to take a traditional celebration and use it to reinstate her reputation in her neighborhood and welcome her son into the community. As Fatima concluded the tale, our train pulled into Fez's modern town. The dusty, cup-like city added to the feeling of pulling into a wild Western outpost, ready for a showdown. That's when Fatima warned Kenza was like a loaded gun; anything could happen in Dodge.

We caught a taxi to Kenza's family home in the oldest section of Fez, Fas al-Qadim. We left the cab a few blocks away to make our last steps on foot, where cars could not pass into the narrow, cool, matrix-like streets of medieval Fez. When we entered the home, savory cooking aromas rushed to greet us a few steps ahead of Kenza's family. At least seven courses were in different stages of preparation for the evening feast. Kenza's mother was busy pounding spices in a giant mortar and pestle on the floor of her small stone and steel kitchen. Servants worked hard around us as we sat on long, floral-patterned cushions that lined the long seats built into the wall on all four sides of the living room. One young woman brought us hot mint tea. Rich, saucy fragrances continued to pulsate out of the kitchen.

Kenza's father leaned back and told us he had bought a big, fat sheep between his baking duties that morning. The sheep had been slaughtered on the rooftop of their home. This was a common practice on feast days, and roofs were built to accommodate the urban lifestyle and the demands of rural tradition.

Traditional couch and floral-patterned cushions..

As soon as the sacrifice began, everyone moved quickly, taking the meat and preparing different dishes with the other parts of the sheep. The head, especially the brain, one of the most delectable parts, was to be saved for the next day to serve lingering guests who were most likely the closest people to the family. One woman took the entrails, carefully scrubbed and cleaned them, and cooked them in a rich tomato, garlic, paprika, and olive oil sauce. Another woman was preparing the choice of cuts of meat for a lamb tajine, a lamb stew often cooked with various vegetables and cumin, turmeric, ginger, garlic, lemon, and saffron. Yet another family chef made lamb couscous with vegetables in a sauce saturated with freshly ground cumin and garlic. To this rich stew, she added fresh apricots. She explained that this lamb dish would be served on a bed of steaming couscous and sprinkled with roasted almonds.

Back on the rooftop, opposite from the sheep, other family members had just finished wringing the necks of twenty-two chickens and were busily pulling off the feathers while discussing the green olive chicken tajine they would make with the heap of birds. They also decided how the dishes would be presented to their guests. First, a lamb dish, then a vegetable; hold the chicken for a pregnant pause in the middle of the evening, around midnight.

In the kitchen, the fragrance of olives and saffron was everywhere. Extra cooking burners had to be brought in. Piles of peeled carrots, washed okra, sliced onions, chopped garlic, sliced ginger, apricots, peeled and sliced potatoes, giant freshly harvested lima beans, and two piles of olives — herb-marinated green and black cured — decorated the counter and overflowed onto a temporary plastic covering on the kitchen floor. Hanging upside down from several kitchen cabinets' knobs were vast bunches of freshly picked mint, enough for a few hundred cups of mint tea into which green tea and enormous amounts of sugar would be added.

In one corner of the kitchen, three gigantic cardboard boxes were stacked on each other, reaching the ceiling. They contained ten varieties of traditional Moroccan pastries, totaling around 130 dozen sweets. Fatima said that there had to be more pastries than attending guests because tradition dictates that each guest be able to take a pastry home to their own family members, not in attendance. She whispered, "Fortunately for Kenza, her father is a baker." He had been baking for his grandson's naming feast late at night and early in the morning for a week. That morning, he also baked the loaves of flat bread that people would consume with the feasts' many courses. These were in two colossal plastic bags just before the pastries.

Kenza's mother finished pounding the spices, and several female relatives joined her in the kitchen. While they peeled and chopped in a large circle, they peeled and chopped Kenza's life. The men on the rooftop did the same while they carved the last lamb carcass and cleaned up. The longer they cooked, carved, and chopped, the more compassionate and understanding they became toward Kenza. They began talking about their lives and personal triumphs and failures.

Fatima and I offered to help but were emphatically told to enjoy ourselves. We gave the family some space and walked around the old quarter. The narrow, old, labyrinthine streets gave us intimacy and secrecy. In a whisper — these streets have ears — Fatima added the juiciest morsel for last: Kenza had recently demanded a divorce. Her neighbors and family in Fez were forecasting horrible shame upon her. That was why Fatima went on; Kenza had spent large portions of her salary procuring the best foods to serve. Kenza was banking on people eating so well and seeing how much she would spend in her son's honor. Perhaps they would stop taking her husband's side and recognize how much she could do for her son.

A half-hour later, we were back at the house. This time, the air was thick and electric. Instead of cooking fumes, a surge of human lightning greeted us as the door opened. There stood Kenza. She stepped toward me through the threshold and fiercely shook my hand, "Aha! The American is here. Now our ceremony will not only be great but international. Who will argue with me now!" She looked around, challenging everyone with her eyes, and her grip on me remained firm and possessive. Thankfully, her first guests arrived a few moments later, and she released my hand. It was 4 p.m., and an unbroken flow of guests commenced, continuing in and out of the modest home for twelve hours. By 7 p.m., the musicians came, one with his electric keyboard, another with an oud (lute), a violin, and a fourth with a set of hand drums. As they set up their instruments, the couch-lined walls of the large sitting room grew thick, and guests began overflowing onto the carpet. Everyone was unabashedly talking about current events, speculating about Kenza's life, adding to local gossip, and checking out each other's attire. Kenza stood in the midst of it all, diplomatically smiling. Yet, her eyes were shiny and ready to emit lightning strikes.

What was unusual in this traditional setting was that men and women were entertained in the same room. Usually, there are separate sitting rooms for men and women. Instead, Kenza's family separated the large room by placing more backless couches in the middle. Men sat on one side of the room, and women on the other. Though separated, everyone could see each other. More importantly, everyone could hear each other: Kenza had set up a male and female council to hear her out and come to a kind conclusion for all genders.

At 7:30, servants brought in the first round of piping hot mint tea. Near 9 p.m., Kenza came out to mix with the guests and brought out her son for them to see for the first time. She went to the center of the women's section, where an ad hoc throne had been set up, and called everyone's attention to her. Two professional praise singers, Kenza's hired women, flanked the mother and son and began to musically cry out the baby's name and sing his virtues. This lasted a few minutes, and then the two singing women went around the room to collect money from the guests. This money would go toward paying their fee and some of the cost of the food and the musicians. Next came mound after mound of pastries for guests to enjoy with their tea and take home. Fatima, always my cultural guide, informed me that this custom guaranteed that even those not in attendance would discuss Kenza's life as they munched on the honey-drenched sweets, later casting their votes of support or scrutiny.

As the singing women collected and guests took their sweets, Kenza took her son to the bedroom and handed him over to a servant who put him to bed. Some people began to leave. The musicians started playing, and the conversations grew louder and more animated. Some more daring women got up and danced to the music.

At 10:30, servants served the feast's first course, the lamb and apricot couscous. They set up six large, round, knee-level tables between the cushioned couches. Everyone used her right hand to grab delectable morsels from the typical serving plate and pop them in her mouth. In their left hand, diners held a piece of bread torn from a loaf. Kenza's mother stood in the kitchen's doorway and watched. She had her breath and anxiously listened from the sidelines, then went back to direct the plating of the second course.

An uncanny silence settled in through the lamb and apricot. Fatima raised her eyebrows at me, silently saying, "They're enjoying themselves; the mood is softening." When the second course, the lamb tajine with carrots and okra, came out, sensory satisfaction was joined with six gentle communal conversations like the sound of six sweet-sounding, bubbling fountains. Breaking bread's magic had been released. Personal stories of relationships' joys, challenges, and sadness began circulating. People were starting to connect with Kenza's circumstances. The women were vocal about the difficulties women faced in traditional Moroccan marriages; the men were silent about the challenges for Kenza's husband. However, some could also see why she was doing what she was doing and grew bold enough to say so.

With the arrival of the chicken tajine with its plump green and meaty black olives and intoxicating loads of garlic and ginger in the sauce, men and women alike grew loudly benevolent all around. They boldly offered comments such as "Barakat Allah," God's blessings, and "inshallah," God willing. Those six bubbling fountains had turned into one unified and swift river, loud and roaring with one joyous voice. With great relish, everyone wiped up the succulent juices of the tajine with Kenza's father's bread.

By 2 a.m., the chicken had been entirely devoured, along with several refreshing chopped salads of cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes, and olives. Guests reclined on pillows and discussed matters other than Kenza's. What had been the big deal, anyway?

At around 4 a.m., guests who had yet to depart were offered a place to sleep. We stayed up until 7 a.m. and talked about our lives, the success of the feast, what Kenza would do next to get her life back on track, and how she could include her husband in the life of their young child. Then we fell into a deep, short sleep.

Late that morning, Kenza, her father, Fatima, and I stepped out into the neighborhood's embracing streets, planning on visiting some of the sacred sites within old Fez before Fatima and I departed. Neighbors had been waiting. They greeted us with warmth and goodwill. The previous weeks of sidewalk and balcony gossip disappeared like drops of rain in this dust bowl city. People told Kenza she was a strong, clear-headed woman who would make a good life for her son. And they added that they would help.

Beebe Bahrami is a freelance writer and cultural anthropologist specializing in travel, food and wine, and cross-cultural writing.