Morocco ...part three

Jamilla and I hired a car in Casablanca and drove to Marrakech, passing at speed through lunar landscapes made earthly by lines of dead cactus and mud villages almost invisible against the baked-brown hillsides.

Arriving in the fabled pink city, we left the car in a dusty carpark on the edge of the medina, at Bab Aylen.

We followed Didier, our Airbnb host, under a medieval stone archway and into the thronging, noisey thoroughfare, the tall, grey-haired Frenchman flicking the occasional "Salaam Alicum" to Arab acquaintances he passed.

The entrance to the riad

Deep in the popular quarter, a series of cobbled alleyways led to Didier's riad. Its unprepossessing entrance belied a pleasant, courtyard home into which you descended through a cast-iron security door.

Inside, a bougainvillea climbed towards the light and was alive with tiny, chattering birds. Although Didier's heart was in Marrakech, a cluster of fascinating artefacts betrayed his Madagascar dreaming.

Didier's riad

the archway leading to Didier's Marrakech riad

Morocco ... Part two

Before we left Casablanca for Marrakech, I wanted to visit some of my old haunts from 40 years ago.

Jamilla and I went to rond point (roundabout) Mers Sultan, a chaotic merging of seven, wheel-spoke lanes in a residential suburb not too far from the city. I used to live in a first floor flat near here. I thought I'd found my old flat, or at least the street-level entrance to it, but I could not be sure after so many years.

During long balmy evenings I used to lounge around on the terrace above the street din with my friends Ahmed and Abdulhak, smoking and listening to "Can't Buy a Thrill".

Ahmed is dead. Abdulhak is an Imam in Italy, or so I've heard. Nothing lasts. Nothing stays the same. Experiences fade to memory. Once familiar landmarks become a palimpsest.

So now, I wanted to sit outside Cafe Mers Sultan, on the rond point, and drink a beer or a coffee, just like I did almost every day in '78. But the cafe's licence had long changed, forbidding the consumption of alcohol al fresco.

I walked to Brasserie du Soleil, fully expecting it to be gone ... but it was still there. This is where I ate dinner most nights, at a footpath table. It's still called Brasserie du Soleil but has become a dark and dingy beer bar, windows papered up, as if it should be ashamed of itself.

Nothing stays the same.

Morocco ... Part One

It's been thirty-two years since I was last in Morocco, a long time between mint teas.

I took my daughter there to celebrate her 26th birthday.

Our sojourn began with a one hour wait at Casablanca airport's passport control.

Despite the long queue behind us, the immigration officer was happy to spend some relaxed time querying Jamilla's origins.

"You've got an Arabic name?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"But you are Australian?"

"Yes."

"Is your mother or father Moroccan?" he asked.

"Yes, my mother," she said.

It was late at night and we got one of the last trains from the airport to the port, then paid an exorbitant fare for a devious taxi driver to take us through near-empty streets to our hotel in the old city.

the view from our hotel terrace

Casablanca port

Restaurant routièr

Continuing on the theme of cuisine bourgeoise ...

The one-sided sign faces east, so traffic on the D666 heading towards the A62 tollway might see it, then again, they might not. Traffic coming the other way will be none the wiser.

The sign carries the heading, Restaurant Traiteur, under which is written Cassany Remy and a phone number.

It sits opposite an open field and a farmhouse screened by large firs and a tall hedge. The restaurant itself is hidden behind a clump of trees, accessed by a pot-holed asphalt driveway. This leads to an expansive truck and car park. On this day, it contained quite a few vehicles.

But it didn't look like a restaurant. It looked like a house.

Although the place came highly recommended, I was struck by doubt and announced to our guests from London that I would not be held responsible for what might happen.

We walked in through the front door and saw a number of men seated at two long, narrow tables running the length of the facing wall.

There were smaller tables against the other wall and we were seated by a smiling, matronly woman wearing an apron. Most of the men followed us with expressionless stares. They made no response to my face-nodding "Bonjour". I got the impression we had entered a clubhouse ... without an invitation.

A platter of diced beetroot was already on the table. Our matronly waitress brought us a basket of bread and a cold, one-litre jug of house red.

The dining room was poorly lit and had a rather gloomy, nondescript decor.

The men at the long tables returned to their meals and conversation.

We helped ourselves from a metal tureen of soup, ladelling the steaming broth into our bowls. Before we could top up, the tureen was whisked away.

After soup, four serves of pork terrine in aspic were brought to the table. Each slice was topped with a small mound of shallot and vinegar reduction. The diced beetroot now came into play.

Once that was finished, we didn't have to wait long until a large oval dish was put in the centre of the table. This contained slices of roast pork loin in a thin sauce of its own juices. It was accompanied by a big dish of steaming haricot beans, thick and salty, mushy and yummy.

Next, a large bowl of dressed salad. Then, a not-too-shabby cheese platter with another basket of bread. Finally, a selection of supermarket desserts, such as chocolate mousse or sweet yogurt.

The coffee, served tar-black and bitter, was drunk from our wine glasses.

We asked the matronly woman about the restaurant. She said it was only open for lunch, Monday to Friday. She said it was family-owned and had been operating from this house for a very long time.

She gestured to the outside and said she could remember when the house was surrounded by farms and there was fresh produce right on their doorstep.

She said she was a close friend of the family and had worked for them for thirty years. The customers were truck drivers, tradesmen, workers and travelling salesmen. Some came back every day, she informed us proudly.

The cost of our home-cooked, delicious and very filling meal was 12 euros a head. We drank only a third of the wine.