"Sister, Step Into My Shop": A Township Experience (NAMIBIA - post 2 of 2)

The beaten dirt paths by the beachside of Swakopmund are lined with several dozen craft vendors displaying their handiwork on top of blankets or propped against desert palms. As we wound lazily between the merchandise, vendors rushed out to greet us as "sister"and pulled us by the wrist into their "shop". Where one shop ended and another began was difficult to determine; the various wooden and stone statues, masks, and trinkets were near carbon copies of each other and only distinct in terms of handmade flaws. Similar to our experience from Moroccan souks, the vendors are relentless salesmen and the slightest interest in buying will lock you into a done deal before the price of the item in question is even determined. My motive, however, was not to buy and I soon discovered that as soon as I shifted my weight backwards onto my heels and brought my eyes up to their face rather than down at their goods, the men dropped their unctuous personalities and became folk conversationalists. One particular man made it his 30 minute goal to educate me on the "poor"foods of Namibia, once I proclaimed an interest. Instead of game meats most foreigners associate as local cuisine, most Namibians eat what can best described as homecooking. "True food is in the townships,"he informed me as if privileging me in on a secret, "You cannot find it in the restaurants or out here in the cities".

Townships are slums along the fringes of larger towns in many parts of Southern Africa. Villagers relocate to townships, most craft vendors included, where they will travel from their communities (sometimes as far as 20 km without a car) to sell their goods in the city centers. The disparity of wealth in Namibia is appalling. From the 2005 census, 30% of Namibians lived on $1 or less a day while 50% lived on less than $2 per day. Contrasted to the cozy oasis of Swakopmund, the townships are tight, packed communities with their own governing body and system of order. Crimes are notorious to townships and most tourists are sheltered from the periphery of these communities much less experience the culture and lifestyle within one. However these are the neighborhoods where the majority of the citizens live, eat, bath, and function day-to-day. This was the place to go for the "real"food. My vendor-friend shrugged casually and sent me on my way, muttering about bringing me some dried Mopani caterpillars (a regional specialty) to test the limits of my curiosity the following afternoon.

NAMIBIAN STREET FOOD
Even without the advice of my vendor-friend it soon became apparent that street food in Namibia was not only uncommon but nearly non-existent. Despite studies reporting that the majority of Namibians consume their food from street vendors, I only chanced across one solitary woman working her blackened grill one evening. She was strategically positioned, steps away from the entrance and exit of a karaoke bar, leading me to think she may have had familial connections with the owners of the local joint. Her food sizzled enticingly and was taken from mismatched tupperware containers of marinated meats, macaroni salad, and butter, pointing to the homemade nature of her production. A red-and-white checkered, lined picnic basket housed bread from the supermarket, disposable eating-wares, and napkins set beside the grill. 25 Namibian dollars ($2.5 USD) and a three-minute wait bought us a grilled slab of meat, your choice amongst a juicy marinated pork chop, steak, or spiced, long sausage. Dripping with lard and charred from the grill, the meats were penetrated with flavor, with the pork being especially tasty. The grill set-up is a common feature of Namibian foods and "braai"or bbq is ingrained in the nation's culture. Our hostess was shy, plump and good humored in her printed red cotton dress and apron. She runs her grill from 10PM until 4AM, breaking only on Sundays from the routine. Tourists, who are distinctly not among her regular customers, are missing out on some of the most authentic bbq around.

NEIGHBORHOOD COOKOUT
On our final day in Namibia I was finally able to visit the Kuisemund Township, a five minute drive to the edge of Walvis Bay, with a touring group. Corrugated sheet metal, brightly painted to liven up the atmosphere, make up the rickety shacks nudged tightly into countless rows. The expanse of the township is unbelievable. It is a necessarily closely-knit community, with rules and a formal governing system to oversee activity within the township (one could very well label it a small city). Order is strictly enforced and although the members of the township we visited were gentle, curious, and openheartedly kind, foreigners are advised to avoid the townships unless invited by a reputable member from within.



We stopped at an open air food market and the hidden street food culture of Sub-Saharan Africa was revealed to me without restraint. Street food serves a home-based need in Namibia rather than the tourist population we generally associate with street vendors. The market setup was remarkably similar to a neighborhood cookout. Neatly aligned rows of men and women wielding tongs, knives, tritons, or small hatchets filled a large dirt plaza with their bbq grills, butchering tables, stew pots, wagons, and baskets of puffy fried dough or bread. Tented produce stands lined the front of the entire operation nearest the sidewalk, displaying green apples, onions, and potatoes in bulk, wilting under the depressingly hot sun. I stopped to watch a woman baste her bloodied cow stomach, liver, and scrappy cuts of meat on the crusty grill. Closer inspection is not recommended as hygiene is minimal. One pair of tongs services raw and cooked meats and no refrigeration or running water appeared within sight. A man exchanged a few coins for grizzly pieces of the blackened tripe, which the woman had sliced into bite-sized cubes. A small pile of salt and a smaller pile of pink chili powder waited like miniature-scale sand dunes on a side wooden table. The customer seasoned his cubelettes with a pinch of each before they were deftly wrapped in a scrap of newspaper to take away. Walking between the aisles we watched similar transactions taking place. An army-sized tin pot of mystery curry or stew (probably potatoes, carrots, and meat remnants) bubbled away atop a charcoal grill in the absence of propane stoves. The atmosphere was overwhelmingly energetic and unapologetically full in your face; hot and sweaty from more than just the sun. A short distance away, a man hacked away at an unskinned portion of what was possibly once a larger animal. The local girl said it was a cow...but it could have honestly been anything. I was still debating whether the swarming flies were enough of a deterrence to sample some of the braai when we were called away to our next destination in the township. Looking back I regret my hesitation, (the tripe looked a bit dodgy but smelled amazing), however I was finally able to eat some Mopani caterpillars at our next destination.

Food in the township is basic, staples with few fringes. That being said, I had some of the tastiest food during my entire stay in Namibia at our next stop, the Mola Mola Shebeen (sha-bean). Shebeens were once illicit bars or liquor stores, popularized during Apartheid when blacks were banned from entering white clubs. Many have since obtained a liquor license and serve as historical landmarks and community gathering places in the townships. We brought our chilled cokes and orange sodas to a back room where half a dozen covered pottery bowls filled a wooden bench table. Our guide began by describing the method for eating the dishes, a pinch of "porridge", a steamed bread-like grey dough, paired with a dip into one of the savory side portions: stewed caterpillars, salted fish, rehydrated dry seasoned spinach, yellow lentils (similar to daal), or black-eyed beans. Poverty is apparent in the traditional diet where quantity is next to nothing and the ingenious use of resources is everything. The side dishes were all similarly pungent and condensed in proportion to the speckled mound of porridge, stretching what little is available to flavor the filler staple. Our caterpillars were rotund little buggers the size and thickness of your index finger down to the second joint. The first bite was crunchy and the second yielded an unplaceable Chinese herbal sharpness on my tongue, which sent me longing for home. Most of the stews, spinach, beans, or salted fish, had unique tastes despite their use of the same few ingredients, sweet peppers, onions, and spices. The legume dishes were filling, earthy and comforting, stewed to the perfect "al dente"firmness.


(Caterpillar stew - photo by M. Keen)

WHAT IS (IT) WORTH TO YOU?
A step into a township by no means demystified the economic, social and political problems plaguing the beautiful country of Namibia. What it did offer me was a personal peace in having sought and observed the lives of the majority of Namibian natives. When we haggle for our souvenirs and trinkets from the craftsmen in Swakop or Walvis Bay, we tend to disassociate from the reality these men and women face at the end of a long hot day. "What is it worth to you?"is a parting question many vendors will call to your retreating back after an unsuccessful negotiation. Peers returned with stories of exchanging their clothing, pens, used Nalgenes, cookies, basically anything to supplement their cash shortages. Above the costs of base materials, the vendors will usually come down to your counter-offer, usually about half of the starting price. Crafts and wooden masks have no personal value for the vendors, and I could not understand the seemingly lack of pride in their handicrafts until I stepped out of their shops and into their homes. Money, even crushed, melted Oreos put calories into their families bodies, not canvas paintings or beaded jewelry.

pictures added to older posts

I got a chance to upload some pictures when I had downtime in South Africa:

• Me and Javier, my tapas waiter (Spain)
• OJ vendor #8 (Morocco)
• Mint tea (Morocco)

The Land of Meat, for Some: A Preface to Namibian Street Food (NAMIBIA post 1 of 2)

Let me first off begin with a correction to my MOROCCO post "Brain and Liver on a Stick" and an apology for my cultural insensitivity. As a friend kindly pointed out, the brain I ate was more likely to be lamb than pig considering that Islam is the predominant religion in Morocco. It was a delicious lamb's brain that I ate.

Onto Namibia.
To give a justifiable account of the "hidden" world of street food in Namibia (explored in my next post), I must first preface it with a more familiar depiction of foods visible to a typical visitor of Namibia.

On the 30 km stretch from Walvis Bay up to Swakopmund, a coastal German town and tourist destination, a friend questioned her taxi driver on what to eat while in Namibia. "Meat!" was his enthusiastic answer. Namibia is a country with a meat fetish. Wild game hunting is a popular activity as well as an industry, providing the exotic ostrich, zebra, boar, springbok, kudu, and oryx commonly featured on menus. (The latter three are antelope species). The pervading trend here is inexpensive animal-sized portions, reminiscent of the Caribbean style of preparation; seasoned, grilled fish, Hawaiian burgers and fries, rice pilaf, etc. Besides slightly uncommon combinations, such as mussels (shells included) topping pizzas, the food is recognizable to a Westerner's, or perhaps mid-Westerner's palate.

Swakopmund is a German colonial town North of the port of Walvis Bay. Directly to the east, Windhoek, the Country's capital city lies in the heart of the country. Despite its unflattering name, Swakop is a coastal mecca, a sleepy hidden oasis. Restaurants, and pubs particularly, are filled with South African whites and tourists, with a sprinkling of native locals. We wandered around the beachside craftsmen's plaza before heading into a popular steakhouse for lunch. The food here was fine. A slab of sizzling meat on an iron platter, larger than a man's head (which none in our group ordered, but salivated over a neighboring table's) was probably the most exciting item on the menu. The restaurant's namesake burger towered a solid foot (at least) and pizzas the size of a medium sized bicycle wheel ranged from $4-7 USD. I was frankly a little more than disappointed to have stepped directly out of the Moroccan cultural immersion back into an African version of Monterey Bay.

Namibia is a relatively young country, gaining its independence in 1990. The destructive vestiges of apartheid are still apparent in shops, particularly within the service industry. Restaurants are nearly always owned and frequented by whites, while blacks are employed to run the show. The roads are starkly clean to the point of being barren, street food is nonexistent in town centers. In a restaurant seemingly dedicated to ostrich meat, we encountered a blend local ingredients prepared in the European style. Table cloths and glass candle votives dressed up the wooden tables where white patrons perched with their cocktails. A local musician serenaded us with his guitar from a corner. We sampled ostrich kebabs laced between onions, sweet peppers, and dried apricots, a generous 79 NAD ($8 USD) plate, and minced ostrich homemade raviolis in a silky butter sauce. Ostrich is a red meat (surprise!), similar in flavor and texture to beef with a wilder tang and far less fat and cholesterol. [Another fact check for a restless employee on lunch break - Ostrich contains less saturated fat / cholesterol / or total fat than chicken]. The cubes were slightly burnt and the bird was tougher than the standard cow but without being dry. I enjoyed it more than beef, however I have a bias for gamier flavors. The minced ostrich enveloped in a thick, homemade skin didn't have a distinct flavor but was smoother in texture than beef. The true highlight of dinner, however, was the Illy (Italian) coffee that rounded out the meal. With the exception of Moroccan coffee (more milk than coffee), I'm beginning to believe (supported by hard evidence) that team America is sorely beat in the coffee realm.

JERKY
I cannot understand the obsession with Biltong aka "beef jerky", visible everywhere throughout the country. Keeping consistent with our MEAT theme, the jerky hangs in plastic bags emblazoned with its signature blue "Biltong" brand in every gas station and convenient mart. We munched in a cafe dedicated to the snack fad and variations of jerky, "Slim-Jims", and jerky nuggets on the menu. With jerky, what you see is pretty much what you get, and the addition of melted cheese and grilled bread merely added a layer of saltiness to the dish. Granted, a small sandwich goes for about $2 USD if you're peckish between meals.

A PLUG for (Desert) PEACHES
Its not ALL about the meat. So far, I've maintained the habit of visiting the local market while in port. This latest excursion led me to the most fortunate discovery of the Desert Peach. It's fuzzy, mid yellow skin revealed no clues to the liquid gold, sweet fresh flesh and juice wrapped inside. (Picture the hue of a golden orange African sunset and you're on the right track). My companion's eyes light up and a smile only describable as James plunging his face into into his giant peach came across her face when I forfeited a bite to her. I made the half an hour saunter under the blazing direct sun to revel in a second peach, even greater than the first (if possible, and it was).

Despite my reinforced statements of Namibians' love of meat, the average Namibian consumes less than 300 calories a day from meat. The economic disparity in Sub-saharan Africa is embedded in the unique food patterns of blacks and whites. Steaks and fancier preparations of meat are consumed by a minority of upper class Namibians (as I observed) in addition to tourists. (Swakop, like Marrakech, heavily catered to the ideal tourist). Meat in various forms is still enjoyed by local populations, however with much simpler, down and dirty preparation techniques.

Beyond Tapas: Why One Falls in Love with Spain (SPAIN - part 3 of 3)

Let me return for a moment to the continent of Europe; our one day transit to Morocco didn't leave me enough time to fully metabolize Spain. Here are a few of the more spectacular recollections from my days spent there.

The Cádiz Fish Market is tucked at the back of the Plaza de Flores (the Plaza of Flowers). Everything in this covered, parking lot sized market was alive and kicking (or recently was), from the wriggling crawfish and gemstone blocks of ruby tuna and marble swordfish, to the energetic vendors and customers, exchanging jokes and greetings as often as prices.

The vendors are charmingly personal in their interaction with customers. Within the auction-house of a fish market, I stopped at a compact fruit stall for an apple. The young, thin vendor peered down upon me, "Which one?". He waved theatrically towards two varieties packed in weathered, wooden crates behind him, red or pale green. "La más dulce de los dos?"I ventured. With a smile, he plucked a green, lopsided specimen, perfect and unique amongst the masses, and passed it over to me for inspection. The apple was crisp, slightly sweet, but mostly tart and yielded a thoroughly satisfying crunch. Throughout the market, this same care and enthusiasm was exhibited behind every transaction, each one magical to witness.

Spanish hospitality is genuine without embellishment. Despite their generally dispassionate expressions, the Spaniards are a generous bunch and were appreciative if not impressed by my faltering Spanish ability. Although my audio recordings with Javier confirmed my frightfully American accent, the locals welcomed my attempts to communicate, and words soon flowed out comfortably under their carefree guidance. By the end, I was seeking out any unthreatening person to practice on, storeowners, waiters, fellow travelers, patrons seated at sidewalk cafes, and even a shy, pre-adolescent boy who was obsessed with my friend's enticingly long, blond hair.

A NOTABLE DISH
The Cádiz Cathedral square is lovely and open, fenced in on three sides by tapas bars and cafeterías with the grand outline of the Cathedral forming the fourth edge. Students and children, dogs as well for that matter, love to gather at the Cathedral steps or in the courtyard seating to await their tapas. Curiously, it also happened to contribute free wifi ("wee-fee"as the Spanish pronounce it). A group of us set off one evening to take advantage of the Lord's generosity, making our way down to the Cathedral past dinner time. A full belly signifies nothing in Spain and we extended our dinner with a plate of huevos con gambas (scrambled egg with shrimp) to ward off the chilly evening. What arrived a short time later was so much more than simply eggs and shrimp. How anyone would have thought to scramble together so many delicious ingredients for an end-product masterpiece and grandly entitle it "eggs and shrimp"was beyond our comprehension. Eggs, softly scrambled in a quaffable olive oil with incredibly fresh shrimp were additionally bolstered by boiled green beans, fried garlic bits, baby wedges of sauteed potatoes, and pickled turnip or onion with a smattering of chopped parsley. We were still digging for new ingredients by the end of dish. Halfway through our meal it began to pour. Buckets of rain flooded our feet and the raindrops danced, drumming against the awning above. We huddled closer together unperturbed, enjoying the yuppie comfort food in front of us.

HELADO y DULCES
WIthin the first two hours of setting foot in Spain, we were already headed for the ice creams. On the open waters, a $1.50 malty soft-serve piled in a stale cone is suitable perhaps for nausea, but low-ranking within the recovered taste-bud circle. Heladerías are about half as prevalent as cafés, meaning that there are quite a few to choose from, and may also be tacked alongside a bakery. Orders come in one, two, or three "bolas"(scoops) for about 1-4 Euros. The ice cream was nothing remarkable to speak of, identical to gelato from Italy, creamier, smoother, denser, and more melty than ice cream from a box. All quite tasty to be sure, but what truly stuck out were the delicate, wafery-thin cones cradling each melting orb. The crispiness reminded me of the tri-colored Mother's Brand sugar wafers from childhood and the flavor was full of authentic eggy, buttery goodness. I sampled pistachio, which I wanted to like more than I actually did, and yogurt, which I actually enjoyed more than I planned on doing so. The yogurt flavor captured the tartness of fresh plain yogurt, lightly sweetened, or otherwise describable as Pinkberry-manifested gelato (an excellent marriage). One of my traveling companions even managed to become a regular within three days at her favorite joint, always with the same daily order.

Sweets and desserts in general are not a national phenomenon in Spain, however the city of Seville has made a name in the international sweets market. I was welcomed out of Seville's train station by streets lined with an army of orange trees, spread across the entire city. Initially, I mourned the prolifically fallen, unclaimed fruit but would soon discover that while the oranges are famous for making marmalade, they are too bitter to be eaten raw. The fruit fuels Britain's jam industry in support of their afternoon tea addiction and as a local proudly told me, the British supposedly import "all"of Seville's orange crops. Lucky for them as the jam did not seem so readily popular with the Spaniards. The orange globes created a beautiful festive backdrop to the city wherever we went. You can tell whether an orange is a sweet or bitter variety by examining the stem immediately protruding from the fruit. If the stem is thick and slightly flattened, looking more like a thin extra leaf rather than a round twig-like stem, then the oranges are bitter.

And now, back to Africa.

Brain and Liver on a Stick: The Quest for True Moroccan Cuisine (MOROCCO - part 3 of 3)

For my final meal in Casablanca, I was determined to find "Tahricht"(containing offal: brain, tripe, lung, heart rolled up on a stick of oak and cooked on embers), a description which I had read in the article on Berber cuisine in Wikipedia. (Forgive all the Wikipedia references. It is one of the few free-access websites available onboard.) Berbers are a native people of North Africa, west of the Nile Valley. They are most prominently represented in Algeria and Morocco and have heavily influenced the culture and cuisine of Morocco. Mmmm brain, why not? I generally prefer the nastier nuggets of animals, namely tendon, gizzard, tongue, tripe etc. in lieu of "meat,"the muscle, the marble, the fat, what have you...brain and liver on a stick, sounded right up my alley. After dining on multiple tagines, couscous, and the classic must-eats of North Africa (I will return to these momentarily), I was adamant in sampling something a bit farther off the beaten path. My obsession became apparent when I dismissed severally perfect chawarma (or shawarma) rotisseries at 2 PM, to the distressed grumble of my stomach and my famished friends. My singleminded quest for brain and liver on a stick continued. Five chawarma shops and a couple of mint teas later, there it was. A single, ribboned, grayish mass (pig's? I'm pretty sure) displayed harmlessly on a steel platter in the window-front display of a casual eatery. BINGO! Skewered liver cubes stacked in neat rows beckoned from another metal tray nearby. The jovial, bellied owner confirmed "cerebrum,"gesturing a halo around his head as I nodded vigorously, eyes wide, and jabbed my finger at the last brain standing. My mute enthusiasm surely amused him, but he was very nice about serving up my order. For less than fiver dollars, I indulged in a cultural experience as much as a culinary treat. The grilled brain was particularly delicious, sandwiched between a crusty French roll and served with french fries and cold rice pilaf on the side. Its texture was oddly like wobbly but not runny scrambled eggs, with the softer "curdles"of tissue held together by a sparse web of stringy vessels. The flavor was delightfully packed with the rich umami characteristic of meat. As for the liver, it was fine but not exceptional, dry from the grill and texturally deteriorated.

THE (other) FOODS
The food in Morocco immediately appealed to me. Influenced by the mild Mediterranean climate, the cuisine is distinctive from Spain but similarly bountiful in the basic staples of olives, oil, citrus fruits, and seafood. Spices stain the dishes with their colorful pigments and were historically used to prolong the life of meats or to overpower their rancid taste. Salads of fresh lettuce, cucumbers, onions, and tomatoes are drizzled with vinegar and parsley or stuffed into chawarma sandwiches along with gerkins. Tagines, meaty braises intensified with the flavor of briny olives and preserved citrus, or sweetened with dried fruits and cinnamon, are left to bubble over a squat vase of coal. The result is a highly condensed, harmonious melange of assertive ingredients, perfect for dipping fresh Moroccan loaves or spooning over couscous. The word tagine also refers to the conical clay cooking vessel characteristic to the flavorful dish. The cone-shaped lid redirects the condensation back into the stew to maintain its moisture throughout cooking. I couldn't resist swaddling one away in my suitcase to bring home.



Examples of their ballsy flavor combinations:
- Chicken with brined olives, salt preserved lemons, onions, turmeric...
- Lamb with meaty prunes, golden raisins (sultans), cinnamon, toasted almonds...
- Lamb chunks with eggs in khlii (clarified butter, i.e. ghee) - The waiter clarified our order several times to ensure that we knew this was a traditional dish and not your classic sunny-side up with sausage.

* For all the cooks out there, ask me for a recipe interpretation of these dishes a few months after I return.

Couscous is the primary starch eaten and also the national dish of Morocco (I know right? Now we're all wondering what the National dish of America is). The tiny beads of pasta are fashioned from semolina flour and are miniscule, mere fractions of its cousin, the voter-ballot chad-sized Israeli couscous. Couscous accompanies tagines and curried legumes, or buries chunks of meat with stewed vegetables spooned on top.

A WORD ABOUT CINNAMON
Moroccans love their spices and cinnamon plays a leading role, making its way into an inconceivable number of sweet and salty dishes. Despite it's potency, the spice is never overwhelming and can be used so sparingly that at times you barely recognized the tingle at the back of your tongue is warm from the piquancy of cinnamon.

Pastilla (or bastilla), a pastry specialty of Fez (the ancient capital of Morocco), demonstrates the sweet and savory uniqueness of cinnamon. Papery filo layers are filled with a mixture of shredded chicken, eggs, onions, cinnamon and a touch of sugar, wrapped into a package, and baked until flaky and golden. Just before serving, the pastry is dusted rather liberally with cinnamon and powdered sugar, an essential accent to the dish. (Picture the composition of Greek spanakopita). I received contradictory information on the availability of pastilla, including one fellow who insisted that I needed to special order the pastry a day in advance. Pastilla is actually quite common in most Moroccan eateries and also available with an alternative spicy fish filling.

* I'm still unclear whether the actual name of the dish is "pastilla"or "bastilla". Certain people I spoke with thought I wanted pasta when I asked for "pastilla"so it might be safer to go with "bastilla".

Cinnamon is also surprising in the most basic of presentations. For the final course in a traditional dinner with a Moroccan family, we were served a simple but exceptional pairing of oranges sliced crosswise and sprinkled lightly with cinnamon. The sweet spiciness of cinnamon enriched the natural tanginess of the oranges. Dress it up with a few sprigs of Moroccan mint and you're set to impress nearly anyone. (Start with juicy, outstanding oranges).

Cheers until Namibia where I hear they're into big game and barbeque.

Street Carts of Morocco: Catering to the locals (MOROCCO - part 2 of 3)

The sights and smells of fresh baked bread and griddle-fried blankets of dough fill the early morning maze of the Ancient Medina of Casablanca. The souk or "marketplace,"most cities will have at least one, are gritty and tightly packed with vendors of cheap, colorful Western goods. (Think Chinatown crammed into half the space). Sunlight passes through gaps in the plastic tarps hung as makeshift shelters between storefronts. The counters of bakeries and minimarts spill over with the traditional Moroccan rolls; thick, flat wheels of essentially French bread (French domination from 1912 through WWII to Moroccan independence in 1965). The souks are mainly a marketplace for durable goods and raw ingredients: spice mosaics, raucously flapping chickens, and fresh produce. Despite the large gathering of individuals in a central location, restaurants and even small eateries are only sporadically dotted amongst the other shops.

After winding through a decent portion of Casablanca's souk, I passed by a legitimate street vendor doling out slivers of (cornmeal?) cake from a shallow, round tin steamer. 180-degrees heel turn brought me face-to-face with the man's simple operation. He and his small rickety pushcart were temporarily stationed in an unremarkable corner while he carved out breakfast for a middle-aged woman, swathed in dark draping cloths. I was sorely conflicted to try some but felt hindered by the absurdly large bills I had just withdrawn from the ATM minutes ago, and also by the cultural intimacy of the transaction of which I was observing and intruding upon. The cake bridged a consistency between semi-soft and firm polenta and perfumed the air with an intensely rich scent of sweet butter and dairy.

Beyond the boundaries of the souk, continuing our tour on the streets of Casablanca, we ran into another similar enterprise. This cart, nearly identical in appearance and functionality to polenta-man's, featured a one-item menu of boiled chickpeas sprinkled with a fragrant spice mixture, of which I'm positive contained cumin. A large slotted spoon scooped a generous load of steaming chickpeas into a plastic bag followed by several shakes of the seasoning.

A MOBILE OPERATION
Polenta-man appeared as taken-aback by my sudden interest in his business as I felt suddenly plopped down in North Africa. My presence startled him enough to stop serving his awaiting customer and contemplate me, contemplating him. All eyes suddenly turned towards me, and the vendor seemed warily confused as I edged forward for a closer view into his steamer. Truly mobile street vendors such as Polenta-man and Chickpea-man serve a distinctly local consumer base. Their food is unapologetically basic and cheap, a few ingredients thrown together as a quick in-between-meal ration in exchange for a few coins. My near-miss encounter with Polenta-man (despite my street food mindset) demonstrated how easily overlooked these simple snacks are to tourists and Westerners, even middle-class natives.

Street vendors have historically been known to move continuously throughout the day in search of customers or perhaps in avoidance of the local police. The men pushed their carts loaded with ingredients, serving and eating-wares, cooking vessels etc. until hailed by a hungry truck driver or laborer. Over three days, I ran into another chickpea seller in Marrakech, a total of three street carts. Unless one knows where to look, the portable nature of these operations make them difficult to come across. Another form of Moroccan street vending were stationary table vendors providing nutritious grab-and-go lunches of bread stuffed with hardboiled eggs, canned tuna, olives, and mayonaise.

ORGANIZATION AMIDST TOURISM
Certain lineages of street vending have blossomed into touristic enterprises in Morocco, namely in Marrakech's major market-square, Djemaa el Fna. Upon entering the largest plaza in all of Africa (if you're not immediately overwhelmed by its vastness, you will be by the cobra charmers and monkey trainers who sidle over to lay their "tamed"creatures across your shoulders and demand money for the unsolicited joyride), I ran into a few dozen identical stalls of fresh orange juice and bulk nuts and dried fruit vendors grouped together in blocks of five or six vendors. The stalls are designed in a circus style complete with false wooden wheels, canopy facade, and gaudy, flaking paint. A small placard labeled with an identification number 1 through 40+ dangle from above the vendor's head. Number 8, a young man with a childishly disarming grin waved us over and squeezed out a citrus blend of Moroccan oranges, grapefruit, lemon, and possibly mandarins in record time. One twenty ounce glass rid me of three bulky dirham coins (33 cents) and was delicious. The ruby-coral hued liquid was inexplicably fresh, perfectly blended, and sweetly rounded. Unlike his peers, #8 was friendly without being harassing and I walked away with the plan to revisit later in the afternoon for an interview and another glass of OJ. As if Spain had not offered enough of a lesson, I returned a few hours later to discover that #8 was replaced by #8b. Through a series of mocking gestures and an uncomfortable dialogue, I pieced together that the vendors rotate shifts throughout the day with probably two daytime shifts (including OJ and candied nuts or dried fruit), before the evening cooking shift appears. The highly structured organization of the market's transactions was fascinating to come across after the mainly informal street food of Casablanca.

* photo of #8 OJ to come.

A NECESSITY FOR RECYCLING?
(A final observation from my Moroccan eats.)
Forms of recycling are present in the absence of cheap disposable materials that fuel our on-the-run lifestyles in America. Paper cups with their "recycled"cardboard holders stand in for authentic glassware or mugs. Overlooking an aesthetic appreciation or the implications of paperware on our social interactions, the simple act of using durable eating-ware be it spoon, bowl, cup etc. plays a role in conserving resources and reducing waste.

We toasted our final meal in Casablanca with bottles (not cans) of soda. While paying for our food, our cashier gestured that we could not take away the bottles, they would be refilled with soda and sold again at a later time. Noting the disappointing in our faces from nearly securing a cheap, Arabic-inscribed Coke bottle for a souvenir the owner allowed us to walk away with the bottles for the equivalent of a CRV of 1 dirham (or about 11 cents USD). The soda itself, or I suppose the liquid inside, only cost 6 dirham. (Incidentally there is a controversy in Arab countries over the multinational domination of the beverage industry by Coca-Cola. Small, though growing competitors are fighting back with an independent brand of Cola. I was half-asleep to escape the pangs of seasickness while watching this (a BBC production for those interested) so someone may want to fact-check me.

Other recycled dining ware I used included a ceramic bowl of fresh unpasteurized yogurt and metal spoon that the baker wrapped up in a brown paper bag for me to take "togo"as long as I promised to return it to him later that day. Orange juice in Marrakech was also served in hefty IKEA glasses.

Street cart foods were "packaged"in disposable plastic bags or square of paper.

If for nothing else, I must return for the chickpeas, and perhaps another glass of OJ with the first #8.

5 cups of Mint Tea (& Recipe): The Moroccan Tradition (MOROCCO - part 1 of 2)

As much as the Spaniards captured our hearts with their café, we now turn our caffeinated souls over to the herbal tea blend ubiquitous throughout Morocco.
Mint tea or "The a la Menthe"is found in every household and storefront. It is as much a beverage to delight in as a social gesture of friendship and hospitality. Tourists exhibiting exemplary bartering skills may be invited to share a cup of the vendor's tea, awaiting at his footstool. During my three day tour of Casablanca and Marrakech, I partook in no less than 5 (individual sized) teapots (pots not cups) of Moroccan mint tea, both by choice and invitation. The soothing blend of green tea and fresh potent mint leaves is invigorating as the hot liquid steams over your face. Beware of my foolhardy attempt to drink the elixir straight off the stove and sip the tea at your leisure.

Before untangling our swell-ravaged bodies from the boat, erm pardon, SHIP (it did very much seem like a boat in that final half an hour before docking), we were instructed with excessive ceremony and precaution in the social conduct and typical interaction of the country; particularly as it pertained to gender inequalities. I observed this divide manifested most clearly in large cafes throughout the urban centers. Men filled sidewalk seating, lounging in wicker chairs, all facing outwards towards the street for maximum people (women?) watching potential. Even the indoor seating was filed in a similar fashion as if the patrons were attending the cinema. Similar to the bars of America and unique from the cafe atmosphere we have created, Moroccan cafes are devoted to middle-aged men, a social niche or business negotiating hotspot. Nevertheless by mid-afternoon, after braving intermittent downpour and patchy skies, our group of four girls were ready to join the ranks. Although women are not forbidden to enter a cafe, even alone, she may sacrifice the comfort of her experience by being surrounded by observant men. We chose a modernly outfitted cafe packed with both men of all ages and several young ladies as well. [Note to self: most women sit indoors. Do not be discouraged to poke your head in and check the gender ratio before deciding on your location.] The tea is simply prepared with green tea leaves, fresh sprigs of mint, and an impressive quantity of sugar, no less than five lumps per pot. Each order is served in individual silver plated teapots, ranging from simple Asian buffet-type mini tins to ones ornate enough to capture Abu's thieving monkey-eyes. A dainty tall glass teacup, essentially an oversized shot glass, accompanies the teapot along with a silver spoon and an additional large packet of sugar, arranged atop an individual silver tea tray. (Depending on whether I find this to be a trend, I may revisit the exceptionally large packets of sugar offered outside the US). I was pleasantly surprised by my first taste of the honey-colored liquid. It is very sweet, but behind the initial sugary mouthful is an subtle aromatic sharpness from the mint layered over the basic comfort of green tea. If you are not a believer in mint, try the recipe below before proclaiming your final judgment.

THE RECIPE
Thé a la menthe
(serves 1)
- 2 fresh mint sprigs (Moroccan mint if possible)
- 2-3 tsp loose leaf green tea
- 5 sugar chunks / cubes or honey
- boiling water

* pour boiling water over tea leaves and steep or continue boiling for 5 min
* add mint sprigs in teapot; steep another few minutes
* add sugar and stir well (to taste)

I have been informed on various occasions, though I did not witness this practice firsthand, that it is customary to pour the tea into the cups from an impressive height of several feet or more. This both serves to better mix the tea and sweetener as well as entertain the tea recipient with a small performance.

Lo empezó con Churros con Chocolate: The Story of Tapas (SPAIN - part 2 of 3)

It began with Churros and Chocolate, a characteristic Spanish breakfast of French cruller doughnut lengths and thick "hot chocolate" for dipping the fried pate choux. The Crullers themselves are delicate with a crispy shell and airy, eggy center miles away from the sugar cinnamon doused 2 feet carnival batons we in America have come to refer to. And the chocolate? My traveling companion with a most unfortunate accuracy described the drink as reminiscent of "warm brownie batter". All visions of sophisticated European melted chocolate essence have disappeared from my mind forever. The chocolate is runny thick, enough to reasonably coat the fingers of churro but lack the strength of dark quality cacao...

It truly began with our port arrival in Cádiz where we immediately herded towards the train station for the city of Seville. A beefy man in his mid-60s, El Jefe (the boss) standing in the front of his cafe, beckoned us in for Churros con Chocolate. His dark rimmed glasses and grandfatherly face immediately appealed to me and I mentally promised to return specifically to his cafe and accept his invitation upon our return to Cádiz. But first, Seville.

- Seville -

True to my word, I came to his store on the final morning of our visit to Spain. I had already crafted out a plan that this kindly gentleman would be the first subject of my street food interviews. Our waiter Javier, whom I later discovered to be El Jefe's son, supplied us with our café con leche, churros y chocolate. Naturally nothing ever goes perfectly according to plan, especially while traveling and I watched my interviewee-to-be scooter off in his bombero, with mild curiosity. Javier would have to suffice; he was more than up to the task.

Javier was the most willing, animated, and gracious participant to my interest in the history of Spanish cuisine. Dodging in-and-out between serving his patrons, Javier wove the story of Tapas to my friends and me, and three of his fellow Spaniard regulars, who eventually shifted their chairs as a unified, amused audience to our performance.

TAPAS
Tapas have their roots in the streets of Spain. Imagine my delight to discover that the defining foods of Spain, which I had ridden off as non-participants in the street food culture of interest, fit the boundaries of my project nicely. During good weather, Spaniards would take to the streets to enjoy the plentiful Mediterranean rays. "Food," Javier said, "is foremost influenced by weather." He described the regional differences of food in the North where cooler temperatures have nurtured the creation of hearty meat dishes and stews, while the milder South prefer salads and prolific seafood (read about the Fish Market of Cádiz in my next post). Vendors offered small bottles of wine or beer in the streets to fuel their touring compatriots and also a free nibble to ward off any accompanying hunger. That's right, the first tapas were GRATIS! Each vendor (or possibly his wife) would create his own dish of choice and these changed by day as much as by mood or the availability of ingredients. Soon people began requesting specific repetitions of their favorite tapas and the call for a centralized collection of dishes was born. Today tapas is a fully commercialized part of the Spanish food industry. Food, still small dishes, is the highlight of the dining experience, and wine and beer have accepted a secondary, albiet equally important, supporting role. In my brief observation of Spanish cities, probably 60-70% of food shops are made up by tapas bars. You can find them squeezed sardine-style with their daily menus displayed on sidewalk chalkboards. Immigrants have added cultural accents to tapas as well with mainly Mexican and South American influences visible in the predominantly Mediterranean landscape. As for Javier, "Why open a tapas bar in lieu of another restaurant, say French of Italian perhaps?" His response captured for me the essence of the Spanish spirit and culture, "I guess I'm Spanish at heart."

* Many thanks to Javier for his time, enthusiasm, and input - and a photo to come.

The MENU - (descriptions of the dishes)
The history of tapas is reflected in the humble, simplicity of the dishes themselves. While tapas bars are built as a bar serving alcohol, the scene is family friendly and the perfect social gathering place; the food is comfort food at is glorious best. From four experiences at three different bars, I sampled delicacies ranging from 1.8 - 12 euros a piece. My last meal confirmed that price is not necessarily an indicator of quality, authenticity, and most importantly taste.

Patatas (potatoes) are ubiquitous throughout tapas (I told you, comfort food). Starchy medallions 2 stacked poker chips thick are fried to a golden brown, wading in a shallow pool of olive oil, and doused in a variety of thick, rich sauces. Supreme quality olive oil makes up a solid staple of the Spanish diet. The several onces of fat I soaked in during my first night off the ship were of the most satisfying and necessary source of energy I had consumed in days. Aceitunas (meaty green olives) brined and served in olive oil (yes, more) are a classic starter. Anything and everything is served "a la plancha." From fish, crawfish, and calamari, to sacks of fish roe, if it can be grilled or fried, it will be. Paella, creamy short-grain bomba rice (similar to Italian Arborio) is the Spanish manifestation of all things beautiful in a huge shallow cooking vessel. Seafood and meats nestle in between sweet pimientos (roasted, marinated peppers) and the entire saucy dish is seasoned with saffron and paprika dulce. And for the food adventurous, menudo con garbanzo is a seriously substantial stew of the lining of cow stomach and garbanzo beans (chickpeas) in a rich, sweet concentrated sauce.

Café on Leche: My Favorite Way to Wake Up in Spain (SPAIN: part 1 of 3)

Greetings from Spain. After a stretch of "mild" Atlantic seas, we finally reached Spain 8 days later, 12 Dramamine pills lighter, 2 yogurt soft-serves heavier (miraculous for nausea) and desperate for some credible food and of course, coffee.

The Spanish follow a belated schedule to our regimental 6AM wake up call. Cafeterías typically won't prop their doors until 9 in the morning, with their first wave of clients holding out until 10:30 or later. Lunch, the bulkiest meal of the day commences around 2 or more frequently 3:30 in the early afternoon, followed by the 6-9pm siesta where all shops literally close up and pull down their corrugated metal garage doors until dinner. By 9:30 or 10 in the evening a light dinner might precede a few bars and the night stretches into early morning. Tapas of course are eaten continuously from 11AM throughout dinner.

To drive their lively, festive lifestyles, most Spaniards begin their day with coffee (café). After thoroughly exhausting my desperation to walk across stationary land, in the city of Seville in Southern Spain, I ducked into a coffee shop for my first face-to-face with café con leche. Spanish coffee is prepared in 6-ounce cups trickled half-filled with espresso. Steamed milk is often added to form the various common drinks. Drip-coffee, America's reference to coffee, is nonexistent in Spain (perhaps in all of Europe), and all Spanish café is espresso. Following a trend, the robust, smooth café bears no resemblance to the often harsh American espresso; it is never bitter. I departed from my first demitasse wired with two giddy, astonished conclusions - I'm in Spain! And the Spaniards know their caffeine.

Before reaching land, our Spain guru, a professor of Spanish literature, language, society, history (all things Spanish) instructed us on the basics of café. Three notables made the honor role from his brief presentation. These are truly not to be missed:

1) Café con leche (coffee with milk / latte) - Out of my three café con leches in two different cities, over the course of four days, I experienced no bad coffee (I sidestepped the three Starbucks that have made their way into the larger town plazas). Rather, differences in the methods of brewing the coffee came through in each cup. Instead of developing into a source of frustration, the lack of standardization across brews was refreshing and interesting. There is no bad cup of Spanish coffee. Café con leche begins with the basic espresso, which is then topped with equal parts or slightly less of steamed milk. The combination is most similar to a latte, however milk is treated almost as a complimentary condiment to the excellent foundation of espresso.
2) Café solo (espresso) - This is the pure, naked presentation of the quality of Spanish coffee. Those who cannot enjoy black coffee may find themselves reaching for another sip from their partner's cup.
3) Café cortado (coffee "cut" with milk) - Akin to the Italian macchiato, which means "marked" or "touched" by milk, the cortado is an afternoon drink. A true Spaniard would never ask for a "café con leche" in the late afternoon. The creamy, caramel crema barely kissed with milk floats above a cup richer than café con leche but equally as palatable and gratifying. With this final cup, I bid farewell to Spain.

FINAL OBSERVATIONS
Sugar, cream, and coffee are a great combination evidenced by the success of coffee ice cream and coffee-cream desserts like Tiramisu and Buche de Noel. Having tasted my first cup of coffee as the traditional Vietnamese coffee, thickened with sweetened condensed milk (an artform of its own - to be explored in March), I have always taken my coffee sweetened. However, I found that the coffee in Spain is best appreciated without sugar. The espresso is so distinct on its own that sugar would only distract from its complexity.

Café is a pleasure and is unembellished in Spain. All three drinks from above price reasonably between 1-1.3 Euros (< $2) for a regular 6 oz portion; the perfect, condensed amount in comparison to its deformed, distant relative, American chain coffee. Incredibly, I may find myself to be an espresso convert.

Less commonly or occasionally in addition to café, the Spanish also enjoy jugo de naranja (fresh pressed orange juice) for breakfast. The mildly sweet juice is extremely light and barely tart. Hot chocolate (which I never sampled but observed from neighboring patrons) is a small glass of steamed milk served with a small packet of chocolate powder to be mixed in on one's own. This is not to be confused with "Chocolate" in Churros con Chocolate which I describe in SPAIN: part 2.