Moroccans don’t eat before seven, Ramadan or not. They drink before seven; ironic for a Muslim country.
Having discovered the perfect little Italian restaurant – well it had Spag Bol on the menu, and deciding that as it was quarter to seven and one beer wouldn’t get me so lashed I would be rendered unconscious and sold into slavery, note I say slavery and not the slave trade, (I fear my days of ever being attractive enough to take up any position in the harem are long gone), I settle down to enjoy nursing my beer and watching the world go by.
The world consisted of more miserable matrimonials, the occasional vendor trying to sell pictures that you wouldn’t wish on your mother in law and Arabs spitting on the ground. Hmmm.
Five to seven and the waiter brings me a basket of fresh bread and the most noxious whorled fat I have ever had the misfortune to spread on anything. It is now getting a tad chilly to eat outside and I appear to be the only one wishing to do so; could this be a mistake?
I gather up my beer and enter the restaurant leaving the whorled fat behind.
Yes. It is a mistake.
This is clearly not a charming Bistro, this is a men only drinking club.
Gay bar perhaps? (One has to be optimistic in situations like this).
No, definitely straight. Had it been a gay bar I would have been welcomed with much bonhomie and had several shots or, at the very least, a decent cocktail would have been put in front of me.
Straight – Men only – Arab bar – Brilliant. Two choices, leave, or front it?
By now the waiter has retrieved the noxious spread and deposited it on a table to which he beckons me.
Bugger it, I’m starving. I order the Spag Bol and crunch my way through the bread.
20 or so Arab men of varying ages and attractiveness are busy putting the world to rights, throwing me the occasional cursory glances of disapproval,
“Excuse me I am covered from head to toe, not a bit of flesh exposed!’
I am ignored. OK, I might have been sitting behind a pillar and flashing my wedding ring to all points of the compass but frankly a ‘Welcome to Morocco’ would have been appreciated.
The only good thing about this restaurant so far is the ashtrays. Oh, if anyone is thinking of giving up smoking on a holiday in Morocco, forget it. It would, quite frankly, be bad manners. Everyone smokes, everywhere.
The food arrives. The Spag Bol lives up to all my expectations, overcooked, white worm, spaghetti, orange cheese that has never been anywhere near Italy and a sauce with a twist, curry.
Wondering how much I actually have to swallow before I can decently leave, I work my way through a few mouthfuls, finish my beer and ask for the bill, citing lack of hunger as the reason for my poor appetite.
Starving, I return home. An evening of Al Jeezera does little to improve my humour but I am sure tomorrow the weather will be glorious and I have to buy bus tickets for the next exciting adventure. I wonder what’s happening on ‘Enders?