In the Red Kitchen

     I could've spent every meal in Morocco at that market. It was exotic. Cauldrons of snails bubbled in broth sending a woodsy aroma through the air. Roasted sheep's heads lay in wait for adventurous eaters. Carts heaped with dates, apricots and figs sat beside mountains of almonds and walnuts. Snake charmers lulled both serpent and audience with haunting melodies while fire-eaters rallied the crowds with daredevil performances. Almond-eyed boys led monkeys through the square while the small hennaed hands of young girls begged for coins. The market was alive with mystery.

     But, I wanted more than to taste the spiced foods of Marrakesh. I wanted to learn to make them. That's where Abdelwahed came in.

     "Are you ready to cook Moroccan food?" His voice, though soft and reserved, startled me out of my bliss.

     "Only if you promise that I'll be able to recreate something as tasty as we've had all weekend." His thin, angular face broke into a smile.

     "As you wish." He bowed, raising a hand to his head to catch the paper chef's hat as it fell. He sounded like a genie from the Arabian Nights tales. He waved his hand, indicating that I should enter the kitchen before him.

     Laid out on the spotless countertop were a single clay tagine and a mortar and pestle. Bunches of jade green herbs were piled in the corner. Six small glass dishes held spices the color of bricks. The tail of a monkfish swam in ice water by the sink. It was the sparsest classroom I'd seen.

     "Most of our food is made in a tagine." He pointed to the dish on the counter. "Many homes do not have ovens so the women cook their food over a fire." He lifted the conical shaped lid.   "This works like an oven keeping everything moist."

     Abdelwahed grabbed the cilantro and parsley and began pounding them in the mortar while he spoke. "All the flavor you put in the tagine goes onto the plate." He picked up a soft spongy lemon. "These are preserved lemon. They go into the charmoula that we use with fish." His English was textbook and rehearsed, a third language behind Arabic and French.

     I knew a little about Moroccan cooking and knew I loved these lemons. I made them on the boat, covering them with sea salt for three weeks to marinate and mellow. "How long do you preserve them for?" I asked.

     "A year, " he said. Like other times in my life, what I thought I knew was wrong. But, that was why I was there; to learn from the source.

     Abdelwahed picked up bowls of spice. He dipped an antique spoon into khaki colored cumin and crimson paprika sprinkling them over the herb and lemon mixture. He grinded again, making a paste that filled the tiny kitchen with it's smell.

     He placed the bottom of the tagine on the gas stovetop and sprinkled more spices over the fish, turning the medallions to rust. "This is ras al hanout. It is a blend of thirty-seven spices."

     My eyes widened. "Thirty-seven? Wow!"

     "It is what you call curry powder."

     Abdelwhaed swirled olive oil into the tagine and placed the fish inside to sear. After thirty seconds he flipped the fish over and spooned charmoula over the pieces. He placed the lid on the tagine and transferred the rest of the paste to a small dish decorated in a Moroccan design.        Five minutes later, he lifted the lid. Steam mushroomed out. He placed the dish of sauce in the center of the tagine and sprinkled slivers of preserved lemon peel over the fish. He placed the whole thing in front of me. "Bon Appetite."

     I dipped the fish into the sauce before popping the nugget into my mouth. It was soft and smooth instead of acidic like fresh lemons. Mellow spices mingled together, none overpowering the other. The moist fish slipped down my throat. I smiled. This was worth staying home from the market for.