They had no idea we were coming. Every Moroccan man proclaims his wife or mother as the maker of the best couscous in the country, and brings visitors home on short notice to prove the point. Women in the household readily accommodate unexpected guests. In any case, Rachid could not have contacted his great-aunt, as neither the farm nor the hamlet half an hour’s walk below the mosque had a telephone service.
Tamou looked much older than her probable sixty-some years, but set a brisk pace and brandished her stick as she hustled us through the gate and into a courtyard to a small building of whitewashed stone. We ducked through a low doorway into the single room that was the family’s living and sleeping quarters. Tamou and eldest granddaughter Fouziya went to prepare the food that is always offered to guests entering a Moroccan home.
Nadia pinned the curtain back from the doorway and sunlight streamed into the windowless room. The rough stone floor was scattered with faded kilims and a few cushions. Thin mattresses lined a stone platform at one end. A brass tray wrapped in plastic sheeting hung from a hook on one wall, a verse from the Koran in calligraphy just opposite. Nadia removed the plastic, positioned the tray on short accordion legs and draped the table with a cloth. A tray brought down from its perch for the sole purpose of sharing food was the only furniture in Tamou’s home.
Fouziya soon appeared with a platter of creamy rice, drizzled with argan oil glistening in amber swirls. We sat on cushions and dipped into the rice with pieces of flatbread. Served at room temperature, this was Moroccan rice pudding, slightly sweet, the nutty argan oil deeply flavoured. We shared a glass of tangy buttermilk. I hate buttermilk, but I downed it with a smile.
‘Rachid, please tell your aunt we’ve brought food,’ we urged. ‘Ask her if we can help prepare it.’ Tamou’s grin of assent revealed she was missing a front tooth. Rachid struggled to help us relay our enthusiasm for Moroccan food, and our quest to learn from home cooks. Moments later, he announced that he was leaving to visit an uncle who lived nearby, but would be back for couscous. I was surprised but not alarmed that cooking with Tamou would be in pantomime. The language of food is transcendent.
We’d arrived tramping through Tamou’s field, fallow in late autumn. Now, Tamou took us on a tour of her property and pointed out her root cellar, the well and the quern, a Flintstone-sized basin and wheel of granite used to grind argan nuts into oil. Tamou opened barnyard doors concealing farm implements and animal fodder. Life here was an unadorned existence: everything in its place, everything with a use, everything well used.
Chickens scratched at the feet of other animals in their enclosure: a donkey, a dairy cow and her calf, two sheep, their lambs. The little barnyard was well kept and the animals looked healthy, especially the little donkey, unlike the pack animals so often abused by their owners in the alleyways of Fez. Youngest granddaughter Zoubida was out with her herd of eight goats. With a flourish, Tamou presented her camel, secure in its own stall. Farmers here plough fields with camels, but we never learned if this one was ‘tractor’, transportation, or both.
The clean little farm was a study in self-sufficiency. I was impressed by the orderliness here, so different from poorer homes I’d seen in the Fez medina, where some families and their animals live in the same rooms. In a few weeks, a sheep and a goat would be killed for Eid al-Adha. Tamou’s family would not have to buy an animal for Islam’s Feast of the Sacrifice, a saving of at least 3600 dirham, an enormous amount for people living just above subsistence.
We returned to the living room, and Nadia opened a sack of argan nuts. Each summer, she and her sisters gathered the almond-shaped fruit that littered the ground under the thorny argan trees nearby. Native to south-western Morocco, the trees are plentiful here. The women husk the wrinkly nuts, roast them over an open flame and extract the oil for home use. When they need cash, they sell nuts from their silo to a women’s cooperative near Essaouira.
Nadia settled onto the floor, a squared-off stone between her feet. She bashed each nut with a smaller stone to break the vise-like grip of the husk. I tried it, clubbing thumb and forefinger with every painful stroke. Nadia giggled and demonstrated again, shells flying. I could see why argan oil is called ‘Moroccan gold’. It is cussedly labour-intensive to produce.
My fingers rejoiced when Fouziya interrupted us, the aroma of mint and absinthe wafting in with her. It was chilly in the unheated room, even in my fleece and boots with woolly socks, and hot mint tea was a welcome prospect. Tamou followed a now familiar ritual, pouring the first glass back into the teapot, then raising the teapot high to stream tea that frothed into each glass. We sipped our tea with pieces of bread dipped into argan oil and melted butter.
When it was time to prepare the couscous, Fouziya and Nadia bustled to fetch water and kindling. Tamou led us to a free-standing room, a kitchen without running water or electricity. There was no gas bottle, the engine that powers Morocco’s urban kitchens. A lone rack held pots, platters, trays and a few glasses. The cooktop was a low stone shelf in one corner, a small space for building a fire underneath, the wall above streaked sooty black. Tamou’s was the most primitive of the kitchens we’d seen, practically empty. How does she cook with nothing? Where were the big jars of cumin and ras el hanout, the piles of coriander and parsley, the little dishes for serving salads?
Fouziya put one of the birds we’d brought into a pot with slices of lemon and covered it with water. Tamou handed Deb and me the ubiquitous paring knives that constitute the full kitchen kit for many Moroccan cooks, and I thought guiltily of the gadgets and conveniences in my home. We were put to veggie duty before a basin of water set on the stone floor. It was cold, and my fingers cramped as I washed and cored carrots. It was impossible to stay crouched and I constantly shifted position. After ten minutes of this, my knees and ankles screamed for relief. I was thrilled when Nadia fetched me a cushion. I wondered how they could prepare every meal squatting on the floor.
Tamou scooped a tea glass through the couscous Fouziya had dumped into a wide crockery bowl, filling it half full of the grains, then to the brim with water, before draining the water out. She did this three times, muttering her disapproval. We could tell Rachid had not chosen the right couscous, but it was frustrating to not understand Tamou’s explanation. When Rachid returned, we insisted he translate for us: ‘Good couscous needs just one washing!’ Ah, now we knew.
Still on their haunches, Tamou massaged oil into the couscous and Nadia seeded tomatoes through a grater into a bowl on the floor. Fouziya broke branches into small pieces for the fire. Deb and I peeled and sliced vegetables over our basin, as Tamou gestured and kept up a running commentary on the proceedings. Her crackling laugh rivalled the snap of kindling as the fire caught. Stinging smoke filled the room until the flue began to draw it outside. Tamou covered her nose with the end of her headscarf. I coughed as I observed the medieval tableau through smoke-induced tears.
Tamou added argan husks to the fire to raise the heat, and swabbed the chicken with synthetic yellow colorant from a packet. I was dismayed that the lamentable chemical, which contributes nothing in the way of taste or aroma, was used by every home cook we met in Morocco, to supplement or replace turmeric. When the chicken came to a boil with onions and tomatoes, Tamou added the root vegetables and simple seasonings: coarse salt, black pepper and a sprinkle of powdered ginger. No cumin, coriander or parsley here, ingredients used in such quantity in city kitchens. I wondered how this meal would taste without these flavourings.
Fouziya trowelled the couscous into an aluminium pot with holes punched in the bottom, and twisted a plastic bag around it. She set it atop the chicken and turbaned the two pots with a towel. Voilà, an instant couscousière. Ingenious! The stacked ensemble went back on the fire to simmer until Tamou pronounced the chicken done.
Steam roiled above Fouziya’s head as she turned the couscous onto a round platter and shook it vigorously to toss the grains. She mounded the couscous and arranged chicken and vegetables on top. Meanw
hile, Tamou had returned the cooking pot to the fire, and reduced its liquid until thickened to her liking. Tamou ladled sauce over the platter and summoned us to the table. The platter was only slightly smaller than the table top. There were no individual plates.
Nor was there cutlery, just a circle of right hands tearing meat from bone and scooping up couscous. Here, as elsewhere, the Moroccans pulled meat from the hot carcass with asbestos fingers, something I found impossible to do. I was grateful when Tamou placed bits of chicken on my side of the platter. The yellow-tinged chicken was tender, the vegetables and sauce more flavourful than I had expected.
Chuckling, Tamou flipped a small handful of couscous back and forth in her palm to form a ball, and popped it into her mouth. She motioned for me to try it. My attempts to imitate the trick were in vain, but I cadged my share of couscous and vegetables with pieces of bread.
The sun was setting as the women walked us to the car. We clasped hands again, and Deb and I were effusive in our thanks for the day. Tamou and her granddaughters had never met an American or Canadian before, but the warm efficiency with which they had welcomed us into their home had made it seem like drop-in visits such as ours happen all the time. When Tamou gave me a fierce hug, I was saddened to know we’d not meet again. Long shadows followed our tumble down the mountain to the highway.
In city kitchens, Deb and I had experienced a richly spiced cuisine of complex flavours and elaborate meals elegantly presented. We had been introduced to exotic and intriguing food combinations. There was none of that with Tamou. She provided us with a glimpse into her rural food culture, its modest flavours and unpretentious hospitality. As our day together unfolded, Tamou’s fun-loving nature and generosity of spirit shone through the mantle of her discipline.
I admired this resourceful woman who had prepared a meal for unannounced strangers, transforming the ingredients they brought into a Friday feast – and making it look effortless. She and her granddaughters cooked food in the way they knew, and served it with pride.
Minor discomforts were trumped by wonder as I watched Team Tamou in action. The day opened my heart to that part of a culture’s cuisine that lies beyond the taste and presentation of food. I had entered Moroccan home kitchens in search of culinary secrets and insider cooking tips. In Tamou’s company, these taste-centric expectations were replaced by a broadened appreciation of homely hospitality.
Women in Morocco inspired me to cook with greater confidence, to put away my measuring cups and trust my intuition. Tamou’s example taught me something more substantial. I began to worry less about perfecting a dish, or setting my own table with picture-book elegance. I started to pay more attention to meal-time camaraderie and to feel more generosity towards strangers. Even now, when I pull a paring knife from the drawer, my heart warms at the memory of a remarkable woman celebrating the day we shared with a well-placed lick of her hand and forearm.
Cooking with Donna
WILLIAM SERTL
William Sertl was the travel editor of Gourmet for ten years, having started at the magazine the same year that Ruth Reichl took over, in 1999. The position combined his two great passions – food and travel – and he worked with a team of editors that, he says, ‘ended up being more like family than colleagues. We certainly agreed on one thing: the first order of business after getting off a plane was figuring out where to eat.’ Prior to Gourmet, Bill was one of the founding editors of Saveur (as well as the travel editor of Garden Design), and worked for that magazine from its inception in 1993. From 1986 until 1993, he was articles editor of Travel & Leisure. Bill was born and raised in St Louis.
It took me thirty years as a travel editor – best job in the world, everyone said – to realise how much distaste I had for vacations. Not travel. Vacations. So I might not have been the best person to write a magazine article about Mustique, a private Caribbean island in the chain of St Vincent and the Grenadines. Luxury villas for rent on Mustique came staffed with enough servants to ensure that you, the master of the house for a week or two, had absolutely nothing to do except loaf on the beach or sip cocktails made by someone else while waiting until dinner was ready.
I have never cared much about landing at JFK with a tan. I like to come home smarter than I was before I left. Speaking a little better Spanish. Understanding a little more clearly how Parisians manage to look so chic, even when taking out the trash. Bearing a new recipe – always a recipe, for food is the key to culture, the easiest way into a relationship with folks you’ve yet to meet.
But Mustique, where everyone speaks English and where having servants is the very idea of the place, happened to be the assignment at hand. I had to make the best of it, so I came up with a plan. Among the staff at Sapphire, my five-room manse overlooking the sea, which so far I had seen only in a brochure, would be a cook. I would befriend that cook and break down the barrier that put her in a white uniform and me in shorts and a T-shirt. I would hang out with her. She would teach me to cook, to cook Caribbean.
The dinner bell told a different story.
I arrived at Sapphire in one of the ubiquitous Kawasaki Mules – a motorised vehicle that’s bigger than a golf cart but not as sturdy as a Jeep – that every renter on the island is given after landing at the airport. My ‘staff’ were dutifully lined up, waiting to greet me as I drove past the gates: two gardeners, with whom I would have very little to do during my week’s stay, busy as they were puttering around the lavish grounds; two maids – Pearl and Pat – both of whom would become pals, at least for a week; and Donna Jacobs, who ended up a friend.
It’s hard to settle into a villa meant for parties of six, seven, eight or more when you’re only one person. It’s difficult to relax. I broke the ice with the worst kind of small talk, mentioning to Pearl, the matriarch of the group, that it had been raining on Barbados when we changed planes. ‘Did it rain here?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘the rain, it came down.’ Ah, that lovely, lilting Caribbean way of phrasing. Islanders always seem to add a dash of sunshine to their speech, making English sound almost musical – no mean feat for what is not the most melodious language on the planet. I was starting to melt. Could the ice be far behind?
I took my seat in the formal dining room, so beautiful and shimmering in candlelight but also open to the breezes swirling through the house. The room was off a central courtyard filled with exotic plants and trees, where birds and butterflies swooped and soared with no regard for manmade boundaries. The warm moist air turned the rambling house sultry, a tropical Wuthering Heights above the sea, open to nature’s seduction.
‘Here is the bell, to ring when you want your next course,’ Pat told me, attempting to hand over a dainty little glass ornament that would have looked more at home in a Park Avenue dining room than on a sunny Caribbean estate. At first, I laughed, without meaning to. Then I baulked, and stood up, pushed my chair under the table and marched directly into the uncharted territory of the kitchen.
Donna was stirring the contents of a pot on the stove. I approached, picked up the lid, and said, ‘What’s for dinner?’
Donna was a good cook – no question about that. It might be more accurate to say she was a good chef, for the menu of vegetable ravioli in a roux with herbs, followed by seared tuna with wasabi mayo, topped off with a blue cheese and cheddar soufflé – so exquisitely executed and full of flavour it could have been served at the finest French restaurant – gave few insights into anybody’s local cuisine. This was high-end vacation fare, something you’d expect at a fancy dining room in just about any big city on earth. I suddenly wanted to know: where did you learn to cook like that? When did you realise you liked to cook? When can I come into your world and step out of the role I am supposed to play?
The answers came quickly. The owner of this villa, Brian Alexander, had only recently retired after thirty years as the managing director of the Mustique Company, the association of owners that rents all the 110-plus villas on the island. Mementos
, hanging on walls and casually propped up on tables in hidden corners of the house, spoke of Sapphire’s noble history. Nothing was more revealing than a small, faded photo of Alexander greeting a young Princess Margaret dockside upon her arrival on the island, with her sister the Queen and brother-in-law Prince Phillip.
In his managerial position, Alexander entertained a lot. He wanted a good cook and was willing to sponsor Donna for training with New York’s French Culinary Institute when it came to Mustique to run a special program. He needed sophisticated cuisine to reflect the worldly crowd he catered to. He needed a dinner bell.
Mustique made even more sense to me when I discovered that the island had been purchased in the late 1950s by a Scottish aristocrat as a private playpen for himself and privileged friends like Margaret.
Donna immediately got that I wanted to hang with her in the kitchen. I was curious about every menu she had mapped out for the week, especially one dish – sushi – that was coming up in a few days. (Sushi? Why not, I thought, with fish this fresh?) Donna wasn’t shy about filling me in on her culinary prowess, and I was more than happy to hear how she had always wanted to learn to cook.
There aren’t a lot of options for work on a small Caribbean island, where most employees come from the mother island of St Vincent – larger, yes, but not exactly brimming with opportunities itself. I began to notice the men sweeping the roads and beaches all over the island. So many of them stood and stared as they slowly brushed yet another leaf or scrap of paper out of the way, as if even the tiniest piece of litter might make someone recoil in horror. They were fully employed and yet not doing much of anything at all. Donna, as well as Pearl and Pat, lived on the grounds of my tidy beach castle and might have found a better way. Donna, especially, had a job that was creative and clearly satisfying to her.
A Moveable Feast Page 5
