A Cook's Tour_ In Search of the Perfect Meal - Anthony Bourdain [53]
Sitting in a tiled dining area on comfortable cushions with Abdul and Sherif, the three silent coppers propped up in a row against a far wall, we were brought a silver tray and water pitcher with which to wash. One at a time, our waiter poured water over our hands, allowed us to scrub with a cake of green soap, then poured water again to rinse.
Bread arrived in a big cloth-covered basket – the same flat bread I’d seen earlier at the bakery – and Abdul broke off sections and placed them around the table. One does not simply reach for bread here; one waits to be served.
‘Bismillah,’ said Abdul.
‘Bismillah,’ said Sherif.
‘Bismallah,’ I said, quickly corrected by my hosts.
A large selection of salads was placed in a circle: potato salad, marinated carrots, beets, olives of many kinds, mashed okra, tomato and onion. One eats without knife or fork, or any other utensils, using one’s right hand, always. There are no southpaws in Islam. You don’t use your left at the table. You never extend it in greeting. You don’t reach with it. You never, ever use it to grab food off the family-style platters of food. You don’t eat with it. I was really worried about this. It’s enough, one would think, learning to eat hot, often liquidy food with one’s fingers – but only one hand?
Practice was clearly required. I had to learn to use bits of bread, pinching the food between two – and only two – fingers and the thumb of the right hand, the digits protected by a layer of folded bread. Fortunately, I soon noticed that a lot of cheating goes on. Both Abdul and Sherif used quick moves with the bent fingers or knuckles of the left hand to push or position recalcitrant bits into the right.
Individual styles varied. I caught Abdul tearing the white centers from each little triangle of bread, creating an ersatz pita pocket of the crust, making it easier to scoop food. I called him on it, accused him playfully of cheating while I struggled with thick, not easily folded hunks. ‘No, no,’ protested Abdul. ‘I do like this so I do not get fat. I am on . . . diet.’ A little pile of white bread centers formed beside him.
After a peek at Sherif’s technique, I decided to stick with the more traditional approach, forcing my fingers to learn. It was messy at first, and one does not lick one’s fingers here – as you are constantly revisiting the same communal platters as the others at the table. Napkins are rare. The bread, issued periodically throughout the meal, serves double duty as both utensil and napkin. It took me a while, but I got better over time.
The waiter brought a big tagine of bubbling-hot kefta, set it down on the table and removed the top. A tagine – I should explain to avoid confusion – refers to the cooking vessel of the same name. Nowadays, since the introduction of the pressure cooker, it is used largely as a serving platter. The tagine is a large, shallow, glazed bowl, with a sloping, conical top like a minaret’s peak. Nomadic peoples used to carry them from camp to camp, preparing slow-cooked meal-in-one fare over open fires, using the tagine as an all-purpose stewpot. It was a low-maintenance way for women to cook: Simply put the food on the fire, then move on to other pressing chores, like tending to livestock, gathering wood, nursing kids, making bread – all this while the stew (also referred to as tagine) cooked. In Morocco, if you didn’t know already, like the James Brown classic, it’s a man’s, man’s world. The women cook. The men often eat their meals separately. Should you be invited to the home of a Moroccan for dinner, the lady of the house will cook, hidden from view in the kitchen, with maybe a sister or mother to assist her, while you and any other male guests are entertained in the dining area. The women of the host’s family will eat in the kitchen. The