Meet me in Morocco

There’s this scene in the classic Hitchcock film, The Man Who Knew too Much, where Doris Day and the amazing James Stewart have dinner with a British couple in the epic Hotel La Mamounia in Marrakesh. They have large platters of couscous, merguez, all kinds of dips and small things. The two couples discuss the food, the culture and customs. They discuss how to eat the food and the customs related to it. “Tear the bread… Oh, allow me to show you, will you? You use only the first two fingers and thumb of the right hand. You don’t use the other two fingers, and always the left hand in the lap.”

There are no forks and no plates, just the ultimate sign of respect and conviviality of eating from the same bowl. The next day, the couples stroll the exotic markets of Marrakesh. Snake charmers, colorful food stalls, merchants selling strange skins all culminating in a plethora of enchanting noise and mysterious peddlers. It is the uneasy calm before the plot thickens into murder, kidnapping and treacherous false diplomacy.

Luis de Terry bears a luscious leg of lamb.

There are few places in this world that fascinate me as much as Morocco does. As far as I can remember, Casablanca has been as cliché as it is my favorite film. I still cry every time they zoom in on handsome Humphrey Bogart and gorgeous Ingrid Bergman, tears in her eyes, the sound of the plane ready to take off… Rick’s Café Américain in Casablanca, Bogart hiding from his painful past, and she, love-of-his-life Ilsa Lund, walks in. “Of all the lousy bars in all the world, and she walks into mine.” Morocco is all about mystery, culture, history, romance…

Morocco is the backdrop of films and exotic dreams. Markets in Fez with stacks of spices, saffron, turmeric, coriander… The French have always kept close ties with Morocco. Things worked out rather peacefully for them as compared to their Mediterranean cousins in Algeria. Couscous — and I don’t mean the grain that is actually called “semoule,” but the dish with a rich hearty broth, stewed vegetables, merguez, lamb, chicken… you name it — couscous is just as Parisian as French onion soup. Every other café, brasserie or bistro will serve couscous either on their regular menu or on a Friday special. There are a number of amazing Moroccan restaurants in Paris and I’ve had the opportunity to even try homemade tajines. But never, never have I ever had the privilege of going there myself.

I studied Moroccan history during university and we had to choose topics to focus on for an oral presentation. Does it surprise you that I did a piece on the use of sun-dried tomatoes and saffron in Morocco? The layers and the precision; these women take pride in making their food. There are no shortcuts, everything is about layers of flavor and the patience in preparation. There’s a balance of spice, earthiness, heat, freshness and acidity. Lemon confit, harissa, bell peppers, cinnamon, coriander, saffron…

Chefs Karen Martin and Luis de Terry

Last week I was invited to a most wonderful intimate dinner at La Régalade. They’ve launched a French Moroccan Festival, a collaboration by La Regalade’s sous chef Karen Martin and one of my favorite chefs, Luis de Terry. The food was impeccable, hearty and passionate. As we drank the beautiful chardonnay and discussed shocking intrigues in the culinary industry, I felt like Doris Day, lost in some café in Marrakesh, indulging in luxurious cuisine, caught up in some foreboding Hitchcockian plot.

The meal started with a magnificent mhemmer and fish keftas with mint and harissa. Mhemmer is a Moroccan tortilla de patata; it was firm outside and delicately fluffy inside — very humble ingredients come together in perfect balance. Egg, potatoes and onions were interlaced with parsley, coriander, paprika and cumin for that one-way ticket to Maghreb. The fish keftas were light and fluffy, the mint was refreshing and harissa aioli was creamy and hot. I was right there in the port that Luis was describing, eating my fish keftas out of a rolled paper cone, feeling the dry sting of the Mediterranean sun and the salty breeze. There were spicy prawns with generous servings of fresh cilantro that were rather delicious, but from the ocean to the earth I traveled — the lowly snail had outshined the poor crustacé.

Mhemmer an exotic twist on the classic tortilla.

Escargots sizzled in a bath of harissa butter. These unrefined black pearls were sprinkled with fresh chopped herbs and spices, glittering in its juices, bathing like a Nubian princess under a hot sun. They were rather breathtakingly exquisite. And with the overwhelmingly unnecessary use of foie gras and truffle oil nowadays, this poor little snail, specially grown and fattened for my palatable pleasure, is slowly crawling up my favorite food scale. A large colorful platter of roasted bell peppers with goat cheese and citrons beldis (preserved lemons) served as a refreshing cleanser.

Most people look down on soup. “It’s easy. It’s poor man’s food. It’s something extra to throw in.” Soup, when executed properly, can be utterly mind-blowing. Soup is a way to fool your tongue and play with any preconceived notions you might have. A crème is all about flavor because there are no physical telltale signs. We were served a squash soup worthy of the Moroccan king himself. So ridiculously thick it must have been pureed and passed through a sieve close to 10 times to get that unctuous, velvety consistency. There must have been a tablespoon’s worth of sacred saffron in each bowl to get that truly amazing flavor that is so rare. As saffron is like a young and shy demoiselle, you must coax it gently and be patient for its full flavor to blossom and bloom. A little cinnamon here and some rice pilaf for texture turned this soup into what seemed like a harmonious symphony of plush ingredients that even the famous London Philharmonic Orchestra could not match.

By then I had whet my appetite so much that when the impressive leg of lamb came, only social decorum stopped me from taking that lamb by the bomb and sinking my teeth in like a ravenous caveman. It was one of those meals where the flavors had excited my taste buds so much that my stomach became a never-ending black hole. Who was full? I certainly was not! Keep that steamed and roasted lamb coming, along with the couscous and grilled vegetables.

Needless to say, by the time dessert came, I was drunk on food. I was high on good company and perhaps ever so slightly tipsy with the fine wine. As we traveled through the hard-to-find markets, expounded on the delicious history of Moroccan food, gasped over shocking stories and shared our very strange experiences with rabbits, the night seemed more and more enchanting. Take four friends and ask them to each invite a person you haven’t met. Have an exciting adventure and discover new food. One tip, though: order your own portion of escargots. Stolen snails might be grounds for murder mysteries and scandals.

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La Regalade’s French Moroccan Festival runs till Dec. 30. For more information call 750-2104 to 05. For the leg of lamb remember to order 24 hours in advance.

You can contact me at Stephanie_zubiri@yahoo.fr.