Animal, Vegetable, Minaret: Fez Medina, Part 2

Animal: Part Two of a three-part series
Read Part One (To enlarge photos, click on images.)

Morocco, I gotta hand it to you. When it comes to head-to-tail eating, you really walk the walk. Every last vestige of carnivorous cartilage is utilized for your dining pleasure. As I made my way through the meat and fish souks in the Fez medina, it looked like CSI: North Africa. Each head, fin and spleen, from camel to sardine, was spread out for scrutiny. There were so many anatomical parts, I’m thinking you may have discovered some new ones. I didn't know which was worse—seeing them dead or alive.

Sheep heads; chicken by the pound; hanging rabbit and weighty chicken

As a flexitarian, I eat a plant-based diet with a little organic dairy, some sustainable seafood and as an occasional treat, organic chicken. All the forethought that goes into deciding whether something is treatworthy can be exhausting. But who wants to be a slave to a diet I.D. when you're traveling? It's so inflexible. So my trip philosophy was, when in Morocco. Yep, I would allow myself some wiggle room to experience the region's cuisine, guilt-free. It would be like having a little vacation from myself. So when I saw succulent, crackly-skinned chickens roasting on fiery spits that first day on the streets of Casablanca, gone was all forethought. Hell, there wasn’t even any foreplay. On day one, I did the deed and after my first romp with a chicken, I wanted it again.

 



Chickens en route (dead man squawking); future chicken tagines; a birdwatcher

But then I saw the live chickens crammed in cages by the food stalls in the Fez medina and wondered if I was doing the right thing by letting go. The way I felt when I saw them reminded me of why I’m such a killjoy about eating meat in the first place. But then I figured these chickens were locally produced and probably free from industrialized feedlots, antibiotics, hormones, GMO feed and chemical baths, unlike some countries. In fact, maybe they were really pasture-raised and had enjoyed long, healthy lives, and the cages were just temporary digs before these selfless birds offered themselves up as chicken tagine sacrifices. And maybe these sacrificial birds had their own humanitarian foundation, Poultry with Purpose, that spread love throughout the land, and fowl felt so good about themselves, humans could taste the happy in their chicken. Maybe.




A cow head; sheep heads; cow hooves

Though I have flirted with vegetarianism, I've never been one of those people who no longer enjoys the taste of meat. The last time I had one bite of filet mignon, I got weak in the knees. And while in Morocco, I never ordered red meat, nor was I remotely tempted to try the camel burger at Café Clock, the hearty harira soup made from lentils, chickpeas and tomatoes that I devoured daily tasted so rich, I wondered if it could have really been vegetarian. Either way, I decided to abide by a don't ask, don't smell policy. After all, I was on a vacation from myself. Did I really need to know? (If you know you’re in denial, is it still denial?) In fact, once when I ordered chicken tagine, it didn't take long to realize beef short ribs were canoodling in my couscous. The waiter had brought the wrong dish, and since there were no other diners, I knew it wasn't a mixup. What were my options? To throw it away? I have a zero-waste policy too. So as a flexitarian and conscious culinarian, I acquiesced to the cow in my couscous. 




A tannery; leather workers with dyed skins; a bargain shopper

And what do they do with all the animal hides? Fez is the leading leather production city in the region and has been since the 16th century. The skins that are in its famous tanneries are treated with pigeon dung, acids and cow urine before the dying process and then are transformed into beautiful babouche slippers, shoes, purses, jackets, etc. I've tried to abstain from buying leather in the past few years, but I asked myself, "Wouldn't it be better to support the local economy by buying their leather goods than to pay sweat-shop laborers in another country to manufacture synthetic stuff with a huge carbon footprint?" It embraces the head-to-tail credo. Too bad the traditional dyes, once made from natural colors like turmeric, have largely been replaced by toxic chemicals that the tannery workers are exposed to on a daily basis. Oy, some vacation from myself.





Catches of the day

The fish souks were swimming with fish I couldn’t identify, but I knew a sardine when I saw one. At least I thought I did. Turns out there are dozens of types of sardines or pilchards—common names for small fish in the herring family. Supposedly fish shorter than six inches long are sardines, while the larger ones are pilchards. Since Pacific sardines are a Seafood Watch® Best Choice and one of the most sustainable fish, I assumed Atlantic sardines would be guilt-free pleasures too since Morocco is one of the world's largest sardine exporters and the fish reproduce so quickly. But through some after-the-fact sardine sleuthing, I discovered that like most aquatic regions of the world, Morocco has overfishing issues too—surprisingly, even with sardines. And that glorious sardine tagine I ate? Ignorance truly was bliss.

You've got snail!

Small brown snails, sold live by the pound or the bag, are a popular Moroccan street food served in an earthy broth called babouche (yes, the same as in babouche slippers). While there's an obvious French connection to escargot since Moroccan cooking was influenced by the occupation, snail shells of the edible variety were uncovered at the roman ruins of Volubilis outside of Fez, dating this delicacy back to the Roman empire. The day I was at Volubilis, I didn’t see any traces of snails—only the shells of a lost empire. But I doubt they would have made a very tasty broth. 

The ruins of Volubilis left me breathless and brothless

Stay Tuned for Part 3: Vegetable

Related Links
Animal, Vegetable, Minaret, Part 1

Animal, Vegetable, Minaret, Part 3

Letting Go and a Moroccan Gigolo

What’s Your Diet I.D.?

Mark Bittman’s The Flexitarian: Make Peace with Meat

Animal, Vegetable, Minaret: Fez Medina, Morocco

Part One of a three-part series

(To enlarge photos, click on images.)

A medina gate entrance; a slave laborer; medina bling; spices

Oh, Morocco. What am I going to do with you? As I was being bombarded with, “Carpet, Madame? Spices, Madame? Antique Berber bracelet, Madame?" I thought I might go mad. Not only was the pressure to buy things too stressful, being called "Madame" night and day had me rethinking my career options. And then there was the line I kept hearing, "I give you democratic price.” I shrugged it off as a bad translation for “fair,” but now I'm thinking you were consciously trying to appeal to my Western sensibilities. “Democratic” being code for the freedom to spend lots of money on stuff I don’t need.




Rose petals; an orange vendor; fresh snails; agave silk fabric; babouche slippers 

In the old quarter, or medina, of Fez, there's no such thing as personal space. Everywhere I turned, I shared precious oxygen with animal, vegetable or minaret. Not only was I confronted by shopkeepers' democratic come-ons, I was besieged by shiny objects, brilliant fabrics, exotic footwear and leather goods so fresh, the animals were practically still wearing them. Severed heads, hooves, organs and intestines hung like prizes. Live chickens in front of food stalls awaited their fate like dead man squawking. The fish souks were swimming with snails and sardines as cats congregated for their catch of the day. Produce and spice vendors were peppered on the streets advertising everything from apricots, artichokes and mint to rose petals, herbal remedies and argan oil. Dried fruits, nuts and sticky sweets glistened as ubiquitous olives reigned salty and supreme. I was a sensory prisoner inside the gates of a loud, loud land.




Outside the medina walls; inside the food souks; a community bread oven

I came to Fez to experience the largest and most well-preserved medina in the world. Very little has changed since the Middle Ages—other than a few things like electricity and Nike knock-offs. An imperial capital for the last 10 centuries, today it’s a UNESCO World Heritage site still renowned for its culture and cuisine. 




Medersa Bou Inania; tagines for sale; future chicken tagines

Narrow, maze-like alleys sneak around for a mile, inhabited by souks, fondouks, mosques, madrasas, museums, artisan quarters, tanneries, restaurants and riads. The Fez medina is said to be the world’s largest urban car-free zone which explains why mules and men with rolling carts transport every conceivable object through the anachronistic streets, shrieking “Balak, balak!” (move to one side). I was lucky to make it out, toes alive.



Me in medina; furry thoroughfares 

After four nights in Fez, I still didn't know where I was at any given moment. Apparently it was written on my face because some boy or man would miraculously appear and insist on leading me for blocks, against my wishes. He would be equally insistent on a generous reward upon our arrival. One time I tried to dodge an irrepressible “guide” by sneaking off in the opposite direction when he wasn't looking. But out of thin air, he appeared, insisting that now I was really going in the wrong direction. Alone time must have been laughing at me from solitary confinement—a place that was starting to sound pretty good.



The amulet; me in front of Bab Boujeloud—the medina's main entrance; a stranger

Once when I was looking at a street peddler's beautiful amulet pendant for sale, he told me the family history of the Berber village it came from, clear across the country near Algeria. Then, out of the blue, he pointed to an old man in a caftan who happened to be walking by and proclaimed him to be the Berber father in the story. The old man gave him an I've-never-seen-you-before-in-my-life look and kept walking. Even though I didn’t buy the story, I bought the pendant. After all, I was smitten with it, and our spirited negotiation resulted in a very democratic price. 




Decisions, decisions, decisions

And then there was the time I was in a souk looking at two silver teapots. As the shopkeeper was turning up the heat on me to buy, I asked him why one cost half as much as the other, and he said, “It’s same, but different.” Hmmm. You mean like Morocco and America are the same? You have olive souks. We have Olive Gardens. Funny, no one ever had to sell me on the olives, though. Those salty, savory, spectacular succulents sold themselves. So I’ve come to realize that any place that serves olives for breakfast, lunch and dinner and isn't an Olive Garden is worth enduring such a cast of colorful characters. After all, my country is full of colorful characters too. Morocco, your Fez medina really is a different world. But same.


Stay tuned for Part 2, Animal

Related Link: 
Letting Go and a Moroccan Gigolo
Animal, Vegetable, Minaret: Part 2

Animal, Vegetable, Minaret: Part 3

Letting Go and a Moroccan Gigolo

"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.

Related Links:

Travel Bite: Spice Bazaar, Istanbul

Conquering the Eat-oh-man Empire

Mountains, Molehills and I'm Off

You don't have to tell me I have a gift for making mountains out of molehills. I’m the Sir Edmund Hillary of overthinking, scaling Everest without a sherpa (because no sherpa wants to accompany me). But this time I've really outdone myself, reaching epic elevations while planning a trip to Morocco and Portugal in which I’m about to depart. What are the mountains that have taken me to such dizzying heights? Here's the short list:

1. WTF can I eat?

I gave up wheat, corn, eggs, red pepper and a dozen other culprits for over six months once I discovered I had food sensitivities. The problem is I haven't fully reintroduced them back or eaten them all together. I’ve been living in my own little food bubble for so long, what will happen when I step out? Bread, pastries, couscous, harissa and hives? My Eat, Pray, Love time will now be Pray I can Eat.  

2. Hotels, Riads and Pensaos

The Sahara, mountains, beaches, kasbahs, medinas, souks, riads, castles, fishing villages, cork farms, wine tastings, cooking classes, trains, buses, planes? All the research has turned Sir Edmund Hillary into a crackhead. When those sites say, See more hotels like this one. I say, Yes, please! It’s only a click away! I’ve been to so many exotic locales online, I should be wearing sunscreen. Especially at my elevation. Vacation planning's a bitch. White whine.

3. Running, Crosstrainers or Walking

Over the last month, I’ve bought and returned 11 pairs of shoes, thinking I’ll try them out, one by one at home and see which one fits. Turns out my right foot has conspired against my left one and they are no longer a matched set. And returning them all has my carbon footprint conspiring against me too. And I never found a winner. I just hope there’s a New Balance store at the airport.

4. Hot, Warm and Chilly

How do you dress for the Sahara and a chilly beach town with one roll-on bag and a smaller carry-on that will be jam-packed with emergency gluten- and red pepper-free food and old, worn-out backup shoes that were once destined for the trash heap that may now be gracing kasbahs and castles?

5. Lotions, Potions and Sunscreens

It takes energy trying finding a new sunscreen that's clean, according to EWG’s Skin Deep Cosmetic Database, that won’t sting your skin and break you out and then finding it in the right travel size. And finding a way to bring all your other lotions and potions in small portions is also a chore. Do I go buy new plastic containers to put them in because they say BPA-free or use old empty old ones that are full of BPA and pthalates? You know my feelings about plastic.

6. Cleaning the House

It’s not enough that I have to get my shit together—I have to get it together for my house sitters. Sure, I could hire a maid, but why when I have to do all the heavy lifting first? Those shoe boxes aren’t going to pick themselves up off the floor. Might as well save the $100 for a new pair of shoes I’ll be returning.

7. Gluten-free or vegetarian airline meal?

You can only choose one, and if I order gluten-free, it will probably have meat or eggs. I’m off of eggs and am not a vegetarian, however I try to only eat ethically sourced chicken (and rarely at that). American Airlines' factory-farmed chicken scares me more than the pilot jacked up on Jack Daniels. But if I order a vegetarian meal, it will be all wheat products. When it comes to flying, gluten-free vegans are S.O.L.

Believe me, there are plenty more mountains I've been scaling, but I’m too exhausted to finish the list. I need a vacation before this trip. Am thinking Club Meds.


To see pics while I'm gone, "like" Lentil Breakdown on Facebook (my FB widget mysteriously disappeared from my blog and I've no time to solve the mystery, so just search for Lentil Breakdown on Facebook). Au revoir! 

Ode to Carrot Top

You’re a stand-up kind of root

Yet I don’t find you such a hoot

Beyond the pale, your dim routine

Could use more beta-carotene