Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Eating Alone
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
Two days ago, my stomach arrived in Fez hungry to taste Moroccan cookery. I looked forward to plates of steamy, aromatic couscous. Two days ago, that was the extent of my culinary command of the Moroccan table.
Today I am signed up for “Exploring the Foods of Fez.”
It’s 7:00 am. At my riyad, a traditional Moroccan breakfast is arrayed before me—freshly baked flatbread, poached eggs sprinkled with paprika, semolina pancakes drizzled in honey, savory pastries, split pea soup, olives, cheeses, mint tea.
To start my tour, the group hard swallows a rather dry presentation on the multi-cultural influences underpinning Moroccan life. Our guide Kamal—thick eyebrows hovering over soulful eyes, a bushy head of hair, glasses resting on a bold nose--tells us that in the 15th century, pogroms forced Jews to live outside the medina in salty marshlands. As a result, the Jewish quarter is called the ‘mellah’ which comes from the Arabic word for salt, melh.
Persecution of Moroccan Jews continued until 1912 when the French occupation or Protectorate commenced. When I ask him if there’s any lingering resentment about the French Protectorate, he smirks, “We learn French so we can tell the French in their own language all the bad things they did.”
Besides Kamal and me, eight German women are on the tour. The women are a tight-knit, spirited, talkative group. They listen in English, but speak in German. Small talk with an American English-speaker is decidedly not on their travel menu. Except for pleasantries, I am ignored.
Binge-eating substitutes for human contact. Keeping my mouth full camouflages talking to myself.
Fez is an open-air, interactive food museum—a labyrinth of food stalls. 350 distinct communities are each centered around a neighborhood mosque, a public fountain and a bakery. Snacking my way inside the walled city is a stomach-loving curriculum in ancient recipes, rich aromas, appetizing colors and time travel.
The fragrance of baking bread fills the air. Sizzling, grilling, simmering meats have a delicious smell. My eyes take in a color wheel of green dolma, black olives, brown figs, red sausages, incandescent spices, silvery fish and yellow chickens.
As if assembling a jigsaw puzzle made from canapes, Moroccan cuisine is revealed in fragments. Khili, a confit of preserved meats. Pita bread fresh from open ovens. Chicken pastilla baked in filo dough covered with cinnamon, crushed almonds and powdery sugar. Slabs of nougat candy. Pastries dripping in orange blossom syrup. Fava bean soup.
Babbouche—fresh-harvested snails served in a hot broth seasoned with thyme, anise, mint and caraway—makes me think of pricey plates of Parisian l’escargot. I tear off a ragged slice of warm flatbread, stab a snail with a toothpick and pop it into my mouth.
No one else tries one. Perhaps new foods, like new people, seem unapproachable, unwholesome, inedible. Maybe it’s because the snails don’t speak German either.
Back at my riyad, mint tea and crescent-shaped cookies filled with almond paste are waiting for me in my room. My slumped shoulders reflect the weight of the day’s isolation. I want to crawl into my shell. I need to sleep.
Tomorrow is another day of eating alone.
