Through tears, I gripped the knife. My task was simple and it had to be done… I took a deep breath, closed my eyes tightly then plunged the blade straight into its heart.
“No no no no!” squealed Souad. “You’ve gone straight for the heart! You have to peel off the outside of the artichoke! Give it to me, you go back to chopping the onions.”
These are some of the hard lessons of Moroccan tagine cooking. That triangular shaped plume of terracotta, filled with delicious slow cooked flavours and couscous. But I had always wondered if it was just a serving vessel or in fact a vital part of the cooking process, like a wok to stir fries or a kettle to pot noodles.
My girlfriend Rowena and I had signed up for a cooking class at the Café Clock in Fez, the culinary capital of Morocco – and home to the world’s oldest working medina. A maze of streets folding in on themselves, defying gravity and safe building practices.
Earlier we had studied the menu online, and formulated the best collection of things that might impress people at dinner parties. It looked amazing. Zaalouk Salad, Seksou T’faya cous cous, Harira Soup, Djaj Mqalli, Pastilla, lamb with prunes and…
“Not lamb, I don’t like the taste. Or chicken either. Not here.” I insisted to vegetarian Rowena. We had seen the chickens flapping about down at the market, so watching one get chased down and decapitated ‘while we watched’ was a bit too Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall for me.
“I like to eat only part of a beast, cause then you feel like it might still be alive afterwards. One legged pig that sort of thing.” I boasted morally.
A short lady with a warm face clocked us from the Cafe Clock kitchen. Souad approached.
“Have you seen the menu? I think we do lamb – it is lovely to eat lamb.” Souad suggested with a big smile and lively eyes.
“Yes it’s lovely to eat.” I responded enthusiastically.
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We followed Souad out into the Medina to begin shopping, bumping behind her like empty beer cans on the back of a ‘just married’ car. The narrow, crooked streets were a-flowing with life and vegetables of every kind; tomatoes, fennel seeds, donkeys, humans, cucumbers and cats. The ancient cobbles made for uneasy footwork when you needed it most.
A man named Mustafa, riding his beast side-saddled through the streets.
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“Barek!” directly translates to “Move! Laden donkey coming through!” Now, on donkeys; I knew the little guys had strength, but these Moroccan ones seemed able to carry tremendous loads. I thought ants could do 18 times their own body weight (which is impressive) but these Moroccan donkeys could carry that, PLUS at least 18 ants.
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“Barek! Barek!” I moved quickly, stepping backwards onto some fennel seeds.
Souad showed us a myriad of market stalls, weird things, delicious things. Chicken breasts the size of human breasts, pumpkins the size of humans, and cats the size of chicken breasts. 
The cats looked patiently and obediently upwards, anxiously awaiting a slip of gravity and the slap that only a thick slice of meat can make on pavement.
We inhaled the smells and relished the sights. This was another world, the sort you would read about in ‘Arabian nights’ or see in an Indiana Jones film. Still exactly as it was 400 years before, untouched by the western world; free from pop culture, advertising and politics.
“That black cat is called Obama.” Souad pointed as a shank of lamb rolled off the counter and slapped the ground.
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We continued shopping, but I started to feel that it was slightly less about us buying groceries and interacting with the locals, and slightly more about Souad prancing between her best friends. We stood back and watched her grab things and say things and laugh loudly, with the occasional “watch out for that donkey!” dispersed throughout. I had a brief moment of genuine interaction when I asked a shopkeeper if they would pretend I was genuinely interacting with them for a photograph. The purpose of this was to use it in this article and make myself look like a proper intrepid adventurer, just popping out to get some lunch.
Just popping out to get some lunch.
“So, tell me about Tagine cooking Souad.” I still wasn’t sure if we were cooking it in the tagine, or if it was just for serving.
“I’ll tell you later,” she said in the first serious tone I had heard all day. “Barek!!”
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We arrived to a man with some lovely looking lamb. We waited whilst she joked and laughed with him.
“He has two wives,” Souad whispered, even though I’m sure he couldn’t understand English. “His lamb is lovely.” I wondered, if perhaps the lamb man might soon have a third wife.
Back in the Café Clock’s specially designed kitchen, we began work. Chopping, cutting, slicing, learning… “Not the heart!” she shouted as Rowena roughly mangled an artichokes innards.
“A mother-in-law will decide if a woman can marry her son by the way she cuts an artichoke.*” We looked at each other awkwardly as Souad joked heartily about the artichokes heart and the sensitive nature of our future relationship. 
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We were simmering lamb and vegetables in just a normal deep pan, adding amazing flavours in the form of dates and lemons. It smelt amazing. But I couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. I wondered if tagines were used to cook things in at all? So I asked again.
“Ok. Let me tell you, Tagine, in Morocco doesn’t just mean the clay cooking pot. It means something very special…” her large grin subsided and she started to speak very quietly. I put down some rind and moved in closer.
“It is very important to be generous with tagine, and it brings family together every day. The grandparents always come to live with the family, and always the grandparents get first offer and the children have to wait.” Her tone was surprising. This topic was clearly extremely important to her, and she spoke as if where we came from our grandparents lived in old people’s homes, or that our kids had no manners and that families didn’t sit down for dinner together.
“You must always offer first. Tagine is about sharing and family. And food is about life.” I was starting to understand. All her friends in the street markets, her love of cooking, her life and her family; were all the same. Souad wasn’t going to marry the lovely lamb man at all. It was the tagine that brought them all together. As the flavours of our tagine slowly melded together, infusing into a delicate balance of delicious flavours, coming together in the same way they have done for centuries – this was what she meant.
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Our tagines were done. We all sat down and ate together like a family. Well, actually Souad didn’t join us because she was at work.
But Rowena and I sat atop the Café Clock and overlooked the Medina. From up here it was calm, peaceful and donkeyless. With the sun on my back, I inhaled the fresh Atlas mountain air and the amazing smell of my creation… I took the lid off and offered Rowena some.
“I’m a vegetarian.”
I knew this, and took a bite.
“But you know what? It is bloody lovely to eat lamb.”
*A year later, I married Rowena – despite the mangled artichoke incident. We have not eaten Moroccan since.
A one day cooking course costs 600 Dirham per person.
Visit www.fez-food.com for more information.
Once a year, a special relationship blossoms between myself and Nigella Lawson. Her book, ‘Nigella Christmas’ is filled with many recipes – most of which should never be attempted either at Christmas or any other time of the year. She does however, have a very detailed and overly complicated, borderline Pagan kitchen witchery method of cooking a turkey…. I decided to give it a try.
The Frost Retort 