Читать книгу Traditional Moroccan Cooking - Madame Guinaudeau - Страница 5

In the street the burning June sun is at its zenith. There is constant noise and movement on all sides. Cries of ‘Balek, balek’; buying, selling, discussing; children pushing and crying; great jars of oil being carried home; donkeys stumbling along; proud, distant students passed by hurrying craftsmen; mingled smells – spices, oil, jasmine and orange blossom, remains of stale vegetables and datura. Thick dust makes a hell of the hot, crowded street.

At last the quiet passage where our host’s son awaits us. The open door casts a deep, cool shadow. In one corner a mule; a few spongers up from the country chat hopefully with the door-keeper over a glass of mint tea.

A rapid walk down a narrow corridor then suddenly, after a sharp turn, the oasis, an impression of space, calm, the pure light of the great patio. Mosaics and a marble fountain, whitewashed arches, the white robes of our host. An aristocratic home where the only discreet note of colour is given by the zellijes or coloured tiles.

Led by the master of the house, we advance, relaxed and at ease. Impressions: glances from the windows above, children held back in a corner by the black nurse, young women from the south, a mass of bright colours flying towards the kitchen.

The room where we are installed is long, decorated with mosaics, the ceiling coloured, the mattresses covered with brocade, the cushions embroidered in gold. On shelves facing the high door there are many clocks, all silent; chinaware; vases, Victorian or Louis Philippe, filled with paper flowers. In one corner a brass four-poster bed, throne of cushions and mattresses! In contrast to the patio, a riot of daring colours and riches. Conversation: polite formulas, health and the weather.

Before us, silently on bare feet, a ballet of young women, flowers behind their ears, skirts tucked up, hips tightly swathed in their striped cotton dresses, lays down in the patio, in front of the entrance to the dining-hall, the great dishes kept hot in their copper bowls with pointed covers.

Two servants at each angle of the painted door, caryatids beneath the raised silken curtains, wait for the master to clap his hands discreetly before beginning the ceremony of the feast.

Across the carpet the low inlaid table is wheeled towards us and we take our places on the mattresses round it after a ewer has been taken round and a trickle of perfumed water poured over three fingers of the right hand.

Seated on a cushion in the corner the master looks on. It is one of the sons of the house standing in the doorway who watches over the protocol, the changing of the dishes, water, bread. Everyone spreads a thick towel over his knees.

Yacout with arched back brings in the bistilla, flaky spiced pastry, frosty with sugar, shaded with cinnamon, in a huge china dish. ‘Bsmillah.’ Refined and delicate, food for the gods, it is very true that the civilisation of a people can be judged by its cooking.

With thumb, forefinger and the middle finger of the right hand take a piece of stuffing or a pigeon wing from under the golden crust. Lay the clean picked bones on the table. Finally, attack the pastry which melts in the mouth with its sugar and cinnamon. Before each guest the space becomes bigger, the gesture from the dish to the lips slower, the appetite calmer, allowing for the dishes which are to follow.

A discreet snap of the fingers, in the twinkling of an eye the bistilla disappears, leaving the debris of bones scattered over the table. Half a ksra is placed before each guest. Then Yacout brings in the choua, that rather insipid steamed mutton happily seasoned with cumin which rests the palate after the extraordinary spices of the previous dish. With three fingers the guest of honour searches under the shoulder blade and offers me the tenderest morsel …

Then comes the chicken with almonds, three at least so as not to appear mskin or poor. Before tasting the meat, dip your bread in the terribly hot sauce which will bring a rush of blood to the head.

There follows a turkey ma’amrra; after breaking the breast bone we enjoy the stuffing, a qamama tagine with a dazzling purée of onions and honey.

Finally a couscous to subdue our hunger. To avoid the shame of failure I shall not attempt to roll it into small pellets, the correct way to eat couscous. Fortunately a spoon is nearly always provided by our thoughtful hosts.

During this meal, which is typical of a simple reception, there is little conversation; that would spoil the pleasure and appreciation of each dish.

It is not seemly to offer water, which distends the stomach, but if necessary one can ask to quench one’s thirst.

The meat dishes finished, the broken bones are rapidly swept away, the table cleared.

A gentle rest, then the sweet steamed semolina with a glass of cold milk, before ending with the fruits of the season.

And the ballet starts again as at the beginning of the meal. Young women juggle away the table, then pass their hands over the carpet like a vacuum cleaner. One of them presents the silver ewer filled with warm water with which we purify our mouths, lips and hands. The cushion and the mattresses are put back in their place. Life is sweet, utterly satisfied. Chban or satiated, we are drunk with strong spices, heavy with sauces.

This formidable meal passes off better than one would think. In spite of the number of dishes the absence of wine allows one to digest the well-cooked meats quite easily, above all if one has the courage not to drink during the meal but to wait for the mint tea which follows.

Now the dishes, which are still far from empty, especially those served last, will be taken first to the women and children of the house, who from the first floor or across the patio behind curtains have been spying and waiting, then they will go to the kitchens, and when the porter, amidst a swarm of flies, throws the bones on the rubbish heap they are white and clean, as though they had lain in the burning desert sun.

The bourgeois families of Fez have at least thirty or forty people to feed every day. For a simple family meal only one or two tagines are served. An artisan is satisfied with a modest stew. Necessity renders the workman frugal: after receiving his wages he is obliged to buy himself vegetables and oil for his meal; at midday he will eat only bread and olives and his family semolina and sour milk. Never forget that the Arab working man has still the stomach of a nomad and can exist for many days on dates and dried figs, but when the occasion arises he can eat a whole sheep.

There are of course definite rules as to the succession of dishes. In giving a recipe I have generally indicated at what moment the tagine should be served. In the preceding pages I have given you a classical type of meal.

Remember that the bistilla must be served first, then the choua, fish, spring or summer tagines according to the season, tfaia tagine, kefta and mrouzia.

The mutton mahammar and mqalli. Chicken with lemons and olives roasted with spices. Stuffed chicken with rice, raisins and olives. Qamama tagine with onions and honey. Finally, a choice of the different couscous, rice with milk, semolina with sour milk. The m’hanncha or haloua served at marriages and circumcisions. Diversity is not lacking and, even if the basic ingredients are few, the dishes – thanks to the different spices and the imagination of the cooks – offer a variety of which the appetite never tires.

Receptions in Fez, with the courtesy of the hosts, the opulence of the surroundings, the elegance of the costumes, the Andalusian music, the dances of the chikhat, the conversation, and the culinary art – all combine to form the summit of a rich culture.