Feasting in Fez, Morocco
By Beebe Bahrami
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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
told me that this was not going to 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 compromises.
Neither was her husband. His dormant desires to have 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.Tthe pressure from family and friends only reinforced
her determination to stay 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’s intention was to take a traditional celebration
and use it to reinstate her reputation in her neighborhood,
as much as to 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
that we were pulling into a wild Western outpost, ready
for a show down. That’s when Fatima warned that 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 got
out of the taxi a few blocks away in order 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 huge mortar and pestle on the floor of her small
stone and steel kitchen. Kenza’s father, a baker,
had just changed out of his flour-dusted work clothes and
into flowing robes of white and ochre. He was seated
near the door sipping a cup of mint tea when we entered. He
stood and greeted us and then told us to sit and rest. His
robes were fluid, but his expression was tense and pensive.
Fatima whispered that he was worried about how Kenza would
behave that evening.
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 that in between his baking
duties he had bought a big, fat sheep 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 both the urban lifestyle and the demands
of rural tradition.
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Traditional couch and floral-patterned
cushions.. |
As soon as the sacrifice began, everyone
moved quickly, taking the meat and preparing different dishes
with the different 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 to lingering guests who were
most likely the closest people to the family. One woman
took the entrails and carefully scrubbed and cleaned them
and set to cooking them in a rich tomato, garlic, paprika,
and olive oil sauce. Another woman was preparing the
choice 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 was making lamb couscous with vegetables cooked 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 were also deciding
the order in which 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, huge 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 huge 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 top of 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 then 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 had also baked the loaves of flat bread that
people would consume with the feasts’ many courses. These
were in two huge plastic bags, just in front of 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 were doing the same while they carved the last of
the lamb carcass and cleaned up. The longer they cooked,
carved, and chopped the more they grew compassionate and
understanding toward Kenza. They began to talk about their
own lives and their personal triumphs and failures.
Fatima and I offered to help but were
emphatically told to enjoy ourselves. We decided to give
the family some space and went for a walk around the old
quarter. The narrow old labyrinthine streets offered
us a feeling of 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 on procuring the best foods
to serve. Kenza was banking on people eating so well
and on seeing how much she was willing to spend in her son’s
honor, that they would stop taking her husband’s side
and recognize how much she was capable of doing 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 lightening 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.
A few moments later, thankfully, her first guests arrived
and she released my hand. It was 4 p.m. and an unbroken
flow of guests commenced that continued in and out of the
modest home for the next twelve hours. By 7 p.m., the
musicians came, one with his electric keyboard, another
with an oud (lute), then 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, but her eyes were shiny
and on the ready to emit strikes of lightening.
What was unusual in this traditional
setting was that men and women were being entertained in
the same room. Usually there are separate sitting rooms
for men and women. Instead, Kenza’s family created
a separation of 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
once and for all hear her out and come to an all gender,
beneficent conclusion.
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, women whom Kenza had hired,
flanked the mother and son and began to musically cry out
the baby’s name and to sing his virtues. This
lasted a few minutes and then the two singing women went
around the room collecting money from the guests. This
money would go toward paying their fee as well as some of
the cost of the food and the musicians. Next came mound
after mound of pastries for guests to enjoy with their tea
as well as to take home. Fatima, always my cultural guide,
informed me that this custom guaranteed that even those
not in attendance would then discuss Kenza’s life
as they munched on the honey-drenched sweets, later casting
their own 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
of the 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 common serving plate and pop them in her
mouth. In their left hand diners held a piece of bread
torn from a loaf of bread. Kenza’s mother stood in
the kitchen’s doorway and watched. She held her breath
and anxiously listened from the sidelines and then went
back to direct the plating up 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.’ By the time 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 the joys, challenges,
and sadness of relationships began to circulate. People
were beginning to connect with Kenza’s circumstances.
The women were vocal about the difficulties for women in
traditional Moroccan marriages; the men were silent in their
sense of the difficulties for Kenza’s husband, but
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 fully
devoured along with several refreshing chopped salads of
cucumbers and carrots, tomatoes and olives. Guests reclined
on pillows and discussed matters other than Kenza’s.
What had been the big deal, anyhow?
At around 4 a.m., any guest who had
not already departed was offered a place to sleep. We
stayed up until 7 a.m. and talked about our lives, about
the success of the feast, about 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 good will. The
previous weeks of sidewalk and balcony gossip disappeared
like drops of rain in this dust bowl city. People told Kenza
that she was a strong, clear-headed woman, and that she
would make a good life for her son. And they added that
they would help.
Recipe for Kenza’s
Chicken Tajine with Olives
(serves 4)
I’ve tried to replicate
Kenza’s mother’s chicken tajine. The
following recipe comes the closest to capturing
the savory and spicy satisfaction of eating this
dish at the feast.
Ingredients
- One medium sized
onion, cut in long narrow slivers
- 5 cloves garlic, minced
- ¼ cup olive oil
- 1 whole chicken
- Enough water to cover
the chicken half way in a cooking pot.
- 1-2 tablespoons grated
fresh ginger
- ¼ teaspoon saffron
pistons, roughly ground in a mortar and
pestle.
- 1 tablespoon ground cumin
- lemon juice from half
a lemon
- salt and pepper to taste
(because of the olives, go easy on the salt)
- ¼ cup roughly chopped
curly parsley
- ¼ cup roughly chopped
cilantro parsley
- 1 cup green olives
- 1 cup black olives.
Pour the olive oil into the
pot for cooking your chicken. Heat it and
add the chopped onion and the minced garlic. Sauté these
for a minute and then add the chicken and quickly
pour cold water over it until the bird is half
immersed. While bringing the water to boil,
add the fresh ginger, the saffron, the cumin, lemon
juice, salt and pepper. Once boiling, reduce
the heat and allow the chicken to simmer for half
an hour. Turn the bird over and let it simmer
until fully cooked. After the chicken has
cooked for an hour, add the two types of parsley
and the two types of olives. Allow to simmer
on very low heat until you are ready to serve the
dish. Serve with a freshly baked Moroccan
style flat bread or with a fresh baguette. Accompany
with a fresh green salad to make for a complete
and satisfying meal.
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Beebe Bahrami is a freelance writer and cultural anthropologist specializing
in travel, food and wine, and cross-cultural writing.
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