"You have beautiful eyes," the Moroccan
sweet-talker said to me in his tourist English as he handed me one of his
sugary confections. Never mind a napkin or piece of wax paper to transport his
offering in. He used his bare fingers. Was this a special form
of intimacy or merely questionable hygiene? Weren’t those the same fingers he
used to take people's money? It didn’t matter. This was a gift, and I felt
obliged to eat it.
After a few days in Morocco, I had come to expect their
overly familiar fondling of my food. The surprise here was that this was the
first good-quality sweet I had tasted. Many of them foreshadowed the promise of
almond paste, but this one actually delivered. After throwing my wheat-free
diet to the wind while on an international adventure, I was desperately seeking
the French influence in Moroccan breads, pastries and sweets that had eluded me
thus far. They had simply not proven to be French enough, but this particular
stand-in was the closest. "I'll be back," I sweet-talked the
sweet-talker. But would I really go back for pastries that this stranger in a strange land purposely pawed?
I didn't mind that bees were cavorting on his confections.
After all, they weren’t flies, and with colony collapse disorder, frankly I was
happy to see them cavorting anywhere. But the shopkeeper's cavorting fingers?
Not so happy about that cavorter disorder.
It’s not that I’m a grumpy germophobe. Okay, maybe it
is—but not enough of one to stay away from North Africa and to eat from the
market stalls in the souks. Yet even the neuroses-free visitor should have a
beef about the way Moroccans handle their food. The large plastic scoops in
the dried fruit, nut and olive bins? They're just for show. Not that those are
sanitary anyway, but let's just say they are closer to godliness than some of the ungodly things I witnessed. Yet from
my observations, European tourists weren't bothered by any of this. Was there
something wrong with my germ logic?
Those olive pyramids didn't build themselves
Moroccan shopkeepers are so involved with their fruits, nuts, olives, candies and pastries, they are like overprotective parents holding their children's hands before sending them off to boarding school. I was surprised they didn’t kiss each one goodbye. And the passersby, like proud uncles, give each fig, date and nut a little squeeze for good measure—even if they’re not in the market for a fig, date or nut. It’s a small affirmation as if to say: Brownie, you’re doing a heckuva job.
Once I ordered some snacking garbanzo beans that I was really excited
about since there was a scoop in the bin. But the shopkeeper
bypassed the scoop—as if that were too formal for our budding relationship—and
grabbed some with his bare hands, tossed them in a tray and lovingly caressed each one before bidding them adieu. Suddenly I freaked out and told him I changed
my mind as I quickly left his stall. Who was I to come between a man and his
garbanzos?
What gives Moroccans carte blanche to roll food around in their
unwashed hands, no matter how gooey, sticky, salty or powdery? It's in their DNA. They are endowed with a tactile propensity that Louis Braille would have
marveled. Consequently, their DNA is in their food. If the authorities need
fingerprints, I’m pretty sure they go to the food souks to find
them.
Meanwhile while I was there, I read about a hepatitis A outbreak from
organic berries in Oregon. The article said hepatitis A is usually spread
from food in North Africa and the Middle East. Yet I hadn't gotten sick in Morocco. Apparently it would have
been more dangerous to stay home and eat USDA organic. And then my epiphany: I have no control over anything. (But still, do they
have to fondle everything?)
So I returned to the sweet-talker and gave him money in return for some freshly groped sweets. Afterwards, I heard him say to a British woman, "You have beautiful eyes," as he handed her a sugary confection with his bare fingers.
"Two-timer," I thought. If it weren’t for the almond pastry that would soon caress my lips, I would’ve felt jilted.
