Beasts of burden

As we continue our journey out towards the far eastern border of Morocco and the much romanticised golden rolling seas of the Merzouga dunes, our lips begin to dry. The roads are beginning to get dustier and rougher and by the time we reach Rissani, one of the last towns before the endless sands of the Sahara, we can only pronounce half the letters in the alphabet (slight exaggeration).

I don't want to paint a cliched picture of this country, you really can find modern cities, beautiful architecture, thriving businesses and all the modern accessories you'll ever need but man when you drive into a place like Rissani you know you're in Morocco. It's arid, rugged, grubby and raw. The streets are disorganised and noisy, motorbikes and bicycles duck in and out of the people, the animals and the old vans and trucks that have made the journey into town from the smaller villages scattered near by and deeper into the desert. Sophia and I can't stop smiling, this place is real!

Apart from being your last stop to buy a chapstick, Rissani is also famous for its animal markets. In usual Sophia fashion, within 5 minutes of getting out of the car she has made a friend. In we go to the fresh produce markets first. If you've ever been amazed by the colours of piled spices in a Moroccan city souk, they're even more impressive set amongst the monochromatic backgrounds of the dusty desert markets. Trying to not be even bigger tourists than we already look like we made a conscious effort to not walk around with cameras glued to our eyes, instead waiting for the right moments which usually followed some sort of spontaneous and unpredictable exchange.

I could hear Sophia and our new mate deep in a conversation I couldn't understand until Sophia turned to me and said that we were off to see the animals. As we wandered through and she patted, kissed and talked to every animal in the market, even I could see that Sophia had obviously missed a bit of  the last conversation, to her it was heaven, she was in a giant pet shop. 

In Morocco animals are beasts of burden, they are necessary for transport, for farming, for eating and most importantly for survival but it's still hard to look tonight's tagine straight in the eye instead of through the tight thin plastic wrapping of a supermarket. So that's what it's like round here and the meat is fresh, as fresh as you can get.

Onions?

Soph tries a new spice mix.

Look at those colours!

The neutral palette.

Our new mate and local legend.

Couscous or tagine?

The blow-ins.

Tweaking it.

Patting it.

Parking it.

Chopping it.

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Nomadic

There are no shortcuts to the deserts that run down eastern Morocco along the Algerian border. I believe there is a small airport in a remote town called Errachidia but you certainly aren't going to find a low-cost airline that flies there which basically leaves you with two options, a full days drive from Fez or an even longer drive from Marrakech.

We felt that a driver/guide was the right way to go on our desert trip so that we could make best possible use of our time and see the most during our visit but it wasn't too far into our journey that we realised that, as that map had shown, there really was only one road all the way out there, pretty hard to get lost!

While our driver cranked out a selection of music from different regions of Morocco (and continually turned the air conditioning off each time he though we weren't looking) we passed through beautiful ever changing landscapes and towns. Ifrane was a town that caught our eye a few hours out of Fez. Also known as Little Switzerland, Ifrane is a summer resort/winter ski town filled with red-roofed, Swiss-style chalets laid out amongst gardens and tree lined streets, not a common sight in this country.

 A few more hours down the (same) road and it was the scatter of dark nomadic tents that captured our attention. Sophia was determined to go in for a closer inspection but I must admit that as we strolled out across the grassy plain I was a bit nervous, apart from the fact that neither one of us could speak Berber, how were we going to explain what we were doing knocking on their tent flaps?

Halfway out with 200 metres to go we were spotted, my pace slowed. I could now see the other family members beginning to gather out the front of the tent, I could feel my speed slowing again. A line of waving hands quickly went up, a spring was instantly injected back into my step. 

What an amazing family. Being there wasn't at all awkward or uncomfortable. We spent an hour with them simply hanging out and trading smiles before they walked us back to the road and we were again on our way desert bound.

The Nomadic plains.

Sophia with her new friends.

Smiles all round.

And Soph met a monkey...

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Cornes des Gazelles

I can't wait to have the recipe for this one typed and finished and ready to share with you all. Cornes des Gazelles are a sweet pastry with an almond paste filling found all over Morocco. I've eaten them in every town and village we've been to but the ones Fusia prepared for us at Riad Kaiss have by far been the best, they just had something more rugged and homely about them, something special that separated them from the rest making them perfect for our book.

One tray is never enough.

Oh, and Riad Kaiss also has a pretty special courtyard.

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The Moroccan way or the highway

It's important to stay alert in Morocco, a lapse in concentration can have you backed into a tight corner at any moment. You never know when you are going to come across a police speed camera or check point, they love a good roadblock.

The same goes for any good Moroccan kitchen, beware the roadblock. You can sit for hours and talk about the cooking technique and ingredients of a single recipe until a point is reached where everyone is happy and in agreement. We have agreed on the origin of the recipe, where it has taken its influence from, how it should be cooked and exactly what ingredients and ratios are needed and that the traditional regional requirements have been fullfilled. 

"Excellent, seeing as we are all in concurrence, lets cook it!" 

Fusia begins to heat a pan of milk, the first step in the preparation of Mehelbiya, a classic Moroccan milk pudding. In goes a cup of corn flower, things are going smoothly so it's time for me to put my feet up for a few minutes until the next dish is ready to shoot. I haven't even reached the door before I hear a heated Arabic/French/English debate firing up in the kitchen between Fusia, Sophia and Jane, our food stylist. By the time I make it back the kitchen has descended into silence. Jane is still and looking confused, Sophia paces the room in frustration and Fusia stands victoriously in front of the simmering pot of milk slowly stirring in what looks to be a second cup of corn flower.

"I thought we'd agreed that one cup was the correct ratio for this recipe?" I asked.

"Yes, we did" Sophia blasted back at me. "Fusia said that was traditionally how it was done and that it should never be done any differently".

"What's the problem then?"

"Well apparently that's not the way Fusia does it".

Roadblocked. 

Sophia gets blocked.

The girls celebrate their victory.

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Yotam's Army

It was never going to be a fair fight. Yotam Ottolenghi (the famous London based chef and restaurant owner) and his army had arrived in Marrakech to shoot part of his upcoming tv series that follows him across eastern countries as he experiences the local food and culture. Not only were they in Marrakech but they were staying right here with us a riad Dar Les Cigognes, a food media turf war was being waged under the one roof. 

Each morning two mini buses would come to pick up Yotam and his team while our little band of soldiers would struggle out the door ladened like donkeys as we all raced off to stake our rights on the nearby locations for the day.

We managed to capture this one image of Yotam (second from the left) and our team before Sophia and Jane turned on him like wild animals and ripped one of his arms off.

Apparently grey is a very cool colour.

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Bachelor's stew

We've spent a few days cooking and photographing recipes for our book at Riad Dar Les Cigognes in Marrakech with Fatna and her team so when we heard our next recipe, one of the great traditional Moroccan dishes called the tangia, was to be cooked down the road in the hammam (public bath house) we were intrigued. I could already visualise it. Soph, me.... and Fatna were going to nude up and explore the origins of traditional Moroccan cuisine.

Fatna sat at a low table with her tangia pot (the same word refers to the meat dish) which looked like a Grecian urn with a wide belly, narrow neck and handles on both sides, stuffing it full of a variety of cuts of lamb, casually sprinkling in a pinch of Saffron threads and two of cumin, some sea salt and pepper, a load of garlic, a few large swigs of olive oil and finally throwing in a whole preserved lemon. She wrapped the top of the pot in baking paper and announced in arabic that it was time to head off down the road. I grabbed my camera and my towel.

As I stood clutching my towel behind Steve and his video camera at what looked more like the back door of the hammam I was beginning to wonder how well this was all going to play out on film, I'd been struck by a moment of self-consciousness. Fatna knocked, the door was quickly opened by a slim, smiling man named Abdelhak who ushered us down some old crumbling stairs to a dark dirty room coated in charcoal, hmmmm not the hedonistic vision of endless food, splashing water and overflowing bath foam that I was imagining but then again we were in Morocco and not Ancient Greece I guess.

Abdelhak took the tangia from Fatna and buried it in a pile of hot ashes next to a fire that was burning in the corner of the room and told us to come back at the end of the day. What? That was it??

Walking back to our riad in a state of disappointment mixed with mild relief, Fatna explained to me that this was really one-pot cooking at its best. They called it 'bachelor's stew' as it was popular with single hard working men as they would go to the markets in the morning, have their tangia filled with the ingredients of their choice and drop it under the hammam where the hot fires heated the baths directly overhead. At the end of the day they would return to the hammam to wash and relax before picking up their perfectly cooked tangia and heading home for a delicious meal for one.

This story didn't end in the steamy way I had imagined but single guys if you cook this on your next date, I guarantee you won't be cooking for one for too much longer!

Fatna fills her pot.

Sophia, Abdelhak, random biker, Fatna and Steve. Clothes on.

Just add ashes.

A delicious meal for one, or two if you're lucky.

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2 important travel tips

Moroccan travel tip #1- Use taxis.

They are cheap and a they can advise you on all things Moroccan including important landmarks, culture and even cuisine.

Moroccan travel tip #2- Don't use taxis.

Every taxi ride will require intensive negotiation and because they know everything about Morocco they won't stop where you want them to, will lecture you on Moroccan politics and don't even get them started on traditional regional dishes!

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Moroccan Breakfast

We piled into the car at 7am with our favourite cab driver Abdou (actually he's not our favourite anymore. Abdou got greedy so we gave him the flick after breakfast) and headed to an orange farm a few miles out of Marrakech. A friend of ours Hicham who owns the farm, and also owns riad Casa Taos where we were married last year, had promised us a real Moroccan breakfast cooked up by the family that runs his farm.

After shadow boxing with Adbou (he was beginning to give us all the shits so I was feeling like slapping him around a bit) for 30 minutes out the front of a petrol station by the side of a busy road we were eventually met and guided down a long rough old road to a neatly set table nestled amongst the trees of a beautifully well kept orange orchard. Smiling faces of the farming family rushed out to meet us and quickly ushered us into a small old building where Mum was preparing msemmen (Moroccan crepes) on a small gas stove. Back outside under a tree Dad was cooking khlii (a type of preserved meat) and eggs on a little coal BBQ under the close supervision of his daughters who were heating up the pans ready for pancakes and batbout (chewy pita like breads). The Moroccans like their carbohydrates and with all these mini kitchens going everywhere Steve and I were dying for some to refuel our energy tanks.

The local girls grabbed our cameras and filled in while we ate and as soon as we finished we were marched off down the long rows of orange trees to pick fresh vegetables. The honey from breakfast came straight from their beehives, I went in for a close look until Steve threw a rock and had me chased out by angry Arabic bees.

Steve on the boom.

Local Speilberg.

Bread and pancake making.

"I love your shirt, it's just like mine."

Jane running away for a new life.

Carbs, carbs, carbs.

Moroccan cucumber.

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Recipe research

Sophia doesn't stop. Everywhere we go she's on the lookout for another recipe, something new, something different, something with an unexpected twist. This means never turning down an opportunity to hear someone else's point of view on Moroccan cuisine and how they like to prepare food at home. Whether we are photographing a chef from an exclusive hotel, relaxing in a Berber village, sourcing props in the souk, catching a train, visiting family and friends or picking up hitchikers, Sophia always walks away with a new recipe.

A trade off. Sophia had to wash 2 carpets in return for the family recipe.

Quick blow-dry and recipe share.

Success. Now where's the translator??

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A spice shakedown

You've got to give it to them, the shopkeepers in the souk (moroccan market) are honest. If you were to drop your wallet, overpay or forget your shopping bag, chances are you'll hear the Arabic tune of a Moroccan store owner yelling and whistling his heart out in an effort to return the possessions of yet another heat affected tourist.

It was decided that I was to be sent to the spice shop, Steve Brown as my wingman and Moroccan Moment Documenter (cameraman), to learn about the spices that shape this nation. Four mint teas and an hour later I was sent stumbling home, pockets lighter feeling like something went desperately wrong. There was no lying, no cheating, no tricks but did I really need 6 grams of Saffron and a soccer ball sized bag of the finest spices in North Africa?

How did he do it? Where was my wingman when I needed him most?

This dangerous substance is know as Moroccan Whiskey. Drink too much and you may make some bad decisions.

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