Traditional Moroccan Cooking. Madame Guinaudeau

of Fez before they were transformed by contact with Europe. Now that Moroccan cuisine has become fashionable and is appreciated as one of the tastiest and most sophisticated of the Mediterranean, her work is more important than ever. Of course we do not want to spend hours in the kitchen as they did decades ago in Morocco, and we will make things easier for ourselves with pre-cooked packet couscous and our own shortcuts, but we need to know without simplification or embellishment how the real thing was and still is in most Moroccan homes. Traditional Moroccan Cooking: Recipes from Fez is a classic of lasting value which brings it all to us in a most engaging way.

      Claudia Roden

      PREFACE

      Moroccans have the right to be proud of their cooking, for there cannot be any doubt that this art reflects the degree of a nation’s civilisation. Dishes carefully and cleverly prepared, as pleasing to the eye as to the taste, contribute not only to our physical well-being but often have a most happy effect on our temper. The deepest depression vanishes at the sight of a really good meal.

      Moroccan cuisine takes its place among the world’s most savoury and refined. In Moroccan cooking, as with other cuisines, one must distinguish between two sorts of dishes, those which are intended for important banquets, and are the work of professional chefs, and more modest ones which are cooked with loving care by the lady of the house.

      Madame Guinaudeau has had the merit of arranging a most accurate list of recipes in use in Fez. She has tried out these recipes herself and made the most meticulous notes about both the preparation and the ingredients. Her book is not only compiled for the good housewife, it is a contribution to the history of this country and a document of great human interest. We know that such a work requires much patient research and the gift of sympathy and enthusiasm. Madame Guinaudeau has successfully accomplished a difficult task. We owe her our warmest thanks.

      Ahmed Sefrioui

      AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

      The time has come to fix the tradition of cooking in Fez before it becomes too Europeanised. Fassi cuisine is composed chiefly of well-cooked meat simmering in spiced sauces heavy with oil and butter, sauces in which ginger and pepper mingle with honey and sugar; the part played by fruit and vegetables is reduced to a discreet accompaniment.

      This tradition, coming from the Orient with Morocco’s Arabic conquerors, was impregnated, via Tetuan and Algiers, with the sweet and insipid perfume of Constantinople, passing again through Andalusia. Finally, there were added certain simple and nourishing dishes from the indigenous Berbers to produce the highly civilised cuisine to be found today among the wealthier inhabitants of Fez.

      I offer this book which is the result of search and investigation, by smell, by touch and by taste, during more than twenty years among both the rich and the poor families of Fez.

      The artist J.E. Laurent’s witty and expressive drawings bring alive the very spirit of Fez.

      In this book the weights and measures given for a British and American readership have been adapted as follows:

      2 lb 4 oz = 1 kilogram

      1 oz = 30 grams

      2 pints = 1 litre

      TABLE MANNERS AND CUSTOMS

      In the street the burning June sun is at its zenith. There is constant noise and movement on all sides. Cries of ‘Balek, balek’; buying, selling, discussing; children pushing and crying; great jars of oil being carried home; donkeys stumbling along; proud, distant students passed by hurrying craftsmen; mingled smells – spices, oil, jasmine and orange blossom, remains of stale vegetables and datura. Thick dust makes a hell of the hot, crowded street.

      At last the quiet passage where our host’s son awaits us. The open door casts a deep, cool shadow. In one corner a mule; a few spongers up from the country chat hopefully with the door-keeper over a glass of mint tea.

      A rapid walk down a narrow corridor then suddenly, after a sharp turn, the oasis, an impression of space, calm, the pure light of the great patio. Mosaics and a marble fountain, whitewashed arches, the white robes of our host. An aristocratic home where the only discreet note of colour is given by the zellijes or coloured tiles.

      Led by the master of the house, we advance, relaxed and at ease. Impressions: glances from the windows above, children held back in a corner by the black nurse, young women from the south, a mass of bright colours flying towards the kitchen.

      The room where we are installed is long, decorated with mosaics, the ceiling coloured, the mattresses covered with brocade, the cushions embroidered in gold. On shelves facing the high door there are many clocks, all silent; chinaware; vases, Victorian or Louis Philippe, filled with paper flowers. In one corner a brass four-poster bed, throne of cushions and mattresses! In contrast to the patio, a riot of daring colours and riches. Conversation: polite formulas, health and the weather.

      Before us, silently on bare feet, a ballet of young women, flowers behind their ears, skirts tucked up, hips tightly swathed in their striped cotton dresses, lays down in the patio, in front of the entrance to the dining-hall, the great dishes kept hot in their copper bowls with pointed covers.

      Two servants at each angle of the painted door, caryatids beneath the raised silken curtains, wait for the master to clap his hands discreetly before beginning the ceremony of the feast.

      Across the carpet the low inlaid table is wheeled towards us and we take our places on the mattresses round it after a ewer has been taken round and a trickle of perfumed water poured over three fingers of the right hand.

      Seated on a cushion in the corner the master looks on. It is one of the sons of the house standing in the doorway who watches over the protocol, the changing of the dishes, water, bread. Everyone spreads a thick towel over his knees.

      Yacout with arched back brings in the bistilla, flaky spiced pastry, frosty with sugar, shaded with cinnamon, in a huge china dish. ‘Bsmillah.’ Refined and delicate, food for the gods, it is very true that the civilisation of a people can be judged by its cooking.

      With thumb, forefinger and the middle finger of the right hand take a piece of stuffing or a pigeon wing from under the golden crust. Lay the clean picked bones on the table. Finally, attack the pastry which melts in the mouth with its sugar and cinnamon. Before each guest the space becomes bigger, the gesture from the dish to the lips slower, the appetite calmer, allowing for the dishes which are to follow.

      A discreet snap of the fingers, in the twinkling of an eye the bistilla disappears, leaving the debris of bones scattered over the table. Half a ksra is placed before each guest. Then Yacout brings in the choua, that rather insipid steamed mutton happily seasoned with cumin which rests the palate after the extraordinary spices of the previous dish. With three fingers the guest of honour searches under the shoulder blade and offers me the tenderest morsel …

      Then comes the chicken with almonds, three at least so as not to appear mskin or poor. Before tasting the meat, dip your bread in the terribly hot sauce which will bring a rush of blood to the head.

      There follows a turkey ma’amrra; after breaking the breast bone we enjoy the stuffing, a qamama tagine with a dazzling purée of onions and honey.

      Finally a couscous to subdue our hunger. To avoid the shame of failure I shall not attempt to roll it into small pellets, the correct way to eat couscous. Fortunately a spoon is nearly always provided by our thoughtful hosts.

      During this meal, which is typical of a simple reception, there is little conversation; that would spoil the pleasure and appreciation of each dish.

      It is not seemly to offer water, which distends the stomach, but if necessary one can ask to quench one’s