Day 4 – Fes

Our first full day in Fes, and we have a guide booked to show us the sights. But before Ben and the other amazing staff person, Fatima, will let us leave the riad we must consume our body weight in breads, crepes, james, preserves and mint tea (L scored with rice cakes and coffee). Josephine popped up and asked if we’d had eggs and fruit as well, and sais she’d arrange this for tomorrow (despite our protestations that we really had a goodly amount  of food here that we were struggling through).

At around 9am our guide, Kamal, turned up. He’s a bit of a character, knows lots of people around the medina (then again, given he makes a living showing affluent westerners around, that’s probably to be expected. Our stroll around the medina included a typical example of an Andalusian Moroccan door — one door knocker for friends, one for strangers, a small door in the big door, and the five pointed had of Fatima sign to ward of evil. Part of me wondered what happens if strangers, being strange and all, used the door knocker for friends, either accidentally or because they wanted a glimpse of the women of the house before they were locked away. I didn’t ask though, so my forever ignorance is my own fault.

Kamal took us to a carpet place. The story goes that this place is funded by UNESCO to give a working income to carpet-making women, and ended with Kamal’s favourite line “so there really is no obligation to buy anything”. Then the carpet guy gave us a bit of a story, some mint tea, and went through a bit of a song and dance in order to sell us some carpets. I’ll admit being a novice at bargaining, so gave the floor to L to show me how it’s done, even though she wasn’t really in the bargaining zone yet. Even not in the zone, she still got him down from around 17000 dirhams to a respectable 7000 (before getting screwed over with a sneaky 5% bank fee) for four carpets of various sizes. I’m still not sure I get the bargaining game, there seems a lot of hoo-har over nothing and no matter how well we’ve played, I still feel like I’ve been taken for a sucker.

Then we got the  tour of the tanneries — well, a leather goods shop above the tanneries. I’m not sure I would have liked to be closer. The smell was unpleasant, but we were fortunate to be there in winter. In typical summer temperatures, I can imagine the place would have smelt worse than the world’s biggest sweaty armpit. It’s not a pleasant odour, I don’t know how to describe it, nor am I sure I want to. Part of the tour involves scoring a handful of mint  to stick under your nose when it gets too whiffy. All smells aside, the tanneries look amazing. Big pots of bright coloured dyes, amazing colours, it’s a real festival for the eyes. Among these pots wander the tanners, who jump in up to their waists and do things with the hides. It’s the sort of job that makes any job woes I might have seem slight – airconditioning not right, it could be worse, I could be up to my bits in who knows what foul smelling stuff. Or I could have a job with the bleaching pots, where  the hides are bleached with ammonia sourced from bird poo. There are worse jobs than explaining to folks why they can’t use comic sans on their document.

I figured I could use a new belt, or maybe a wallet, so looked at these. How this turned into a detour upstairs, where a suede shirt caught my eye is anyone’s guess. And how any move towards the exit was foiled by L being shown a pretty fine red leather jacket, well insha’allah it just happened. This time I was allowed to get in on the bargaining game, and 8500 dirhams ended up being a respectable 4500.

Lunch was at Kamal’s Mum’s house. His family hail from an interesting part of town, there’s a prison, a high school, and a hospital in close proximity. Joining us were Kamal’s brother Joseph, and Abdul. We all sat around the table in the longe room, Joseph turned the tv on (some things are just universal) and we chatted until Mum brought out THE TAGINE. Not the tagine, or even The tagine or The Tagine, this sucker had to be almost three feet across, and it was piled high. There was about 3 inches of cous cous making the base for a mound of chicken, carrots, pumpkin, potatoes and other veggies. How this small, 150 year-old woman was able to carry THE TAGINE was something not explained by the laws of physics, but I’d never challenge her to an arm wrestle. The food was really tasty, soft chicken, beautiful cous cous like I’ve never tasted before, and even the veggies had good flavour (I even ate the cabbage).

After this there was a quick stop for a compression bandage for my knee (it had been doing okay, but I was taking stairs in half steps, and stumbling occasionally) before heading off to see the outside of the Royal Palace — lots of big walls and gates — and the Jewish quarter (apparently no Jews live there anymore, choosing instead the new town). The claim to fame for the Jewish quarter is that the houses have balconies facing the street, unlike the Andalusian Moroccan houses that have balconies inside. Kamal was big on pointing out architectural things like this.

We then went to one of the forts overlooking Fes, to see the city in all it’s splendour and sprawl, nestled in a large valley. It’s a big, beautiful place (and every house seems to have multiple satellite dishes). We had a quick trip to a pottery place where they make amazing things, and purple dye turns blue in the kiln, before heading back to the Medina. During one of our side trips, the van acquired a live chicken — we didn’t ask, it didn’t tell.

There were other sites Kamal showed us: a museum to woodworking in a magnificent former caravansarai; a riad restoration in progress; the front of some of the medina’s historical buildings (non-muslims not allowed inside).

One thing we barely saw: hats. There was one stall with a few fes, but no one seemed to be wearing them. Weird.

Part 2 – Dinner

L was hankerinng for some pidgeon in filo pastry, and at breakfast Josephine suggested a place she’d heard about, Dar El Hatima. Arrangements were made (we went off on our tour, and came back to a note saying we’d be picked up at 7). Just after 7pm Josephine returned, introducing us to Fouad, the owner of Dar El Hatima who would lead us through the medina to his restaurant.

Dar El Hatima, named after Fouad’s oldest son, is the  house where he lives with his extended family. His wife, the amazing Karima, cooks, assisted by her mother in law, and despite Fouad’s claims to it being a small house, it has a large dining area and a humbe warmth to the place. L ordered her pidgeon pie (pastilla) while I allowed myself to be persuaded by steamed lamb (not on the menu), a seasonal offering. First came the salad. In some places salaad can mean a couple of bowls of veggies. Here, it meant bowls of lentils, potatoes, aubergine, fennell, tomato and green capsicum, white beans, green beans,  purple cabbage, and possibly more I can’t remember. All of it exquisite, simple fresh flavours not all fancied up. This was almost a meal in itself.

Then came the lamb and pastilla, large and glorious serves. The lamb was exquisite, as good as L’s mum’s shanks on an off day (there is nothing as good as L’s mum’s twice-cooked shanks on a good day, other than more shanks). The lamb was delicate, melt in the mouth fine, served with beautiful cous cous sprinkled with cinnamon and crushed almond. I tried some of L’s pastilla, and it was also exquisite, though not really my type of thing. The outer filo was wonderful, crispy, and the filling was rich and sweet. I’m not the greatest fan of the whole sweet and savoury thing — I prefer when savoury is boss in the mix. I’d  like to think that I know enough to know that the patissima was exactly how it should be, and the fault was with my own personal tastes. L was certainly in rapture with it.

Just when we didn’t think we could eat more, out came some fresh fruit and tea to finish the evening. Moroccan bananas taste much like the Australian variety, but tend to have a different texture, a bit more floury I guess. Before we could leave, Karima took us on a tour of the house, where we met the children, mum, and admired the magnificent view from the terracce roof before Faoud’s brother led us waddling back to the riad.