to cure their patients, without losing sight of the question of taste. One of them, Al-Rasi, hit upon the idea of coating medicinal decoctions in sugar to make the remedy more pleasant.
Religion has also played its part in shaping the eating habits of the Moroccan people. Religious directives addressed the issue of food early on and certain restrictions came into force. Pork is forbidden, as is any animal that has not been sacrificed in a religious rite—Jews refer to this sanctified meat as “kosher,” Muslims call it “halal.” Despite their solemnity, religious celebrations are also at the root of a number of original recipes that are served at specific times of the year. For example, it is with harira that the fast imposed by the month of Ramadan is broken every evening. This soup, both delicious and nourishing, soothes the hunger of the day and brings members of the family together. On these evenings, and much to the delight of the children present, pastries such as grioch, shebbakiya, selou, and sfenji are also served.
It is in the great imperial cities that the Moroccan art de vivre reaches its zenith. Note the words of a civil servant from the finance ministry in 1885: “Thus at last, Great Chamberlain, will the preparations to welcome the Sultan be concluded. No fewer than thirty-three dishes will follow: salads, couscous, pastilla, tagine of poultry, meat, fish […]. Scoundrels from backwater provinces will be left speechless before such abundance and magnificence and they will admire with near religious devotion the white bread served for the occasion.”
Large meals, or diffa, follow an immutable ritual: salads are served one after the other and then make way for the famous pastilla (pie) of pigeon. This is followed by mechoui (barbecued lamb), various tagines, couscous, and, finally, mouthwatering pastries.
A flask of scented water is always passed among guests so they may wash their hands and rinse their palates. Finally, guests enjoy a glass of mint tea, the gratifying conclusion to any great diffa worthy of the name.
Opening the doors to Morocco, we enter a world of tastes and colors that reveal great richness and incomparable skills. In doing so, we perpetuate an authentic tradition, a refined and unequaled celebration of the senses.
Mint tea, Morocco’s national drink.
The valley of Tinerhir, east of the High Atlas Mountains.
The Riches of a Generous Past
Morocco’s sumptuous history of cooking has placed the country on the world’s culinary stage.
History has rarely provided a better example of people living in such effortless communion than medieval Andalousia. Back then, Christians, Jews, and Muslims shared the same lands and the same way of life. Each group developed its own faith, and art rose to the heights of grace. O blessed Andalousia, for a time the Mediterranean blew a wind of peace onto your shores. But at the end of the fifteenth century, this peace was irrevocably shattered when the Catholic kings from the north broke the truce and forced the Jews and Muslims to choose between conversion or exile.
Banished from Spain, some took refuge in North Africa, perpetuating their long tradition of peaceful cohabitation. Their food, music, and dress were very similar. Admittedly, in the kasbah of Algiers or in the alleyways of Marrakech, the Jews had separate quarters reserved for them, but everyone lived together on good terms. With their shared history, it is difficult today to unravel the bonds that unite Jews and Muslims. As a reflection of this history, Moroccan cuisine is a veritable lesson in sharing, curiosity, generosity, and harmony.
Porters from Telouet carrying couscous and bread to a diffa (banquet).
The regional cuisine of the Berbers was already in existence when the Muslim Arabs arrived. Later, the dadas (female slaves) from Bilad Al-Sudan and the Jews who were banished from Spain each, in turn, enriched the culinary art of Morocco. Despite them living in close quarters and accumulating culinary skills, many dishes retained their uniqueness.
I remember that my mother adored eating rkak (matzo, unleavened bread) that our Jewish neighbor made. Whenever our neighbor could, she would give some to my mother, who would offer her own homemade bread in return. As they enjoyed each other’s breads, they traded their baking secrets. But since neither was ever completely successful in making the other’s recipe, they continued to exchange their breads as they had before. Our table was rich and varied with Jewish cuisine distinguishing itself through its pastries and the subtlety of its breads.
Unlike in other regions where Ottoman occupation resulted in the disappearance of local culinary traditions, Moroccan cooking was gently imbued with the influences of foreign cuisines. The exiles who arrived from Grenada were warmly welcomed and, in the same vein, African slaves from the south were generally treated well.
No border is impenetrable. At the northeastern tip of Morocco, the town of Oujda faces that of Tlemcen, in Algeria. For centuries, travelers crossed the border in both directions carrying with them their foods and culinary skills— their invisible heritage—thus rendering the exact origins of many dishes impossible to determine.
Despite the difficulties in tracing the culinary history of Morocco, there is one unwavering fact: only the cooking of the ancient communities has found a place and made a lasting impression among the peoples it encountered. In the nineteenth century, Europeans imported new utensils and products but their influence is only very recent because their interaction with the locals was limited to purely administrative affairs.
In an Algerian novel, a fellah (or farmhand) recalls how he had never seen sugar as white as that brought by American soldiers during World War II. At the time, such a product was only available on the black market. It was only in the 1970s that French cuisine took hold here, with hors d’œuvres, sweets, and remarkable pastries. The bakeries that made round bread saw production drop in favor of carefully calibrated baguettes. Even the sfenjis —fritters sold on the streets which children delighted in—have been supplanted.
As in many countries where cooking benefits from the privilege of tradition, good restaurants are rare in Morocco. If a traveler is not invited to the table in a private home, he will leave with an indifferent impression of Moroccan cuisine. Large hotels prefer to serve indefinable international cuisine to please the masses, rather than offer traditional fare that might upset the undiscriminating tourist. And that is how the gourmet could miss the roads that lead to the delicate flavors of a pigeon pastilla or a patiently simmered tagine of apricots and pine nuts. Unless, that is, he meets a Moroccan family who will take it upon themselves to defend the culinary honor of their country.
The dining room of a traditional restaurant looking onto a patio planted with orange trees.
Out of respect for bread, it must not be touched by a knife, which would be considered an act of violence. Bread should be broken. Food that has been given by God and blessed in His name before the meal should not be degraded by such an instrument.
Moroccan cuisine is in fact family cooking. It demands the communion of family members for the traditional dinner at home or, less frequently, for a wedding, a birth, or a baptism. Each family adds its own personal touch, some jealously guarded secret only handed down from mother to daughter. The art requires both skill and memory. Most older Moroccan women are not familiar with the written
