I take classes in Agdal, Rabat’s chic, modern neighborhood, which sits far outside the city’s old walls. It’s a nightlife hotspot, which you wouldn’t know from walking around on a Saturday night, but the bars and restaurants are always packed. And god knows the McDonald’s is the place to see and be seen (Could it be the new McArabia sandwich?).
Since my 20-minute bus ride doesn’t allow me to go home for lunch, generally the biggest meal of the day, I’m slowly eating my way through Agdal.
Lot of chicken, after the break.
Perhaps it was Wednesday that I became acquainted with Atlas Chicken – I can’t remember the exact date because my mind is clouded by thoughts of rotisserie chicken. It should be known that the chicken-rice-fries combo is pretty standard fare in a lot of lunch places. However, several things set Atlas Chicken apart.
First, the menu: quarter-chicken, half-chicken, or whole chicken. (For the record, between three people, we ate one and one-quarter. “Was it enough?” is the question that plagues us.) Second, the wait: that is, there was no wait once we ordered; they have about 50 chickens cooking at once. Finally, the victory lap: the crowning glory of this restaurant is what I can only describe as a golden basin in the middle of the dining room floor, where patrons wash their hands after eating their fill; napkins are available, but they are rough and inconveniently located, as if to shame those diners who seek them out.
This satisfying lunch was not an isolated experience. I’ve eaten well since being in Morocco, though my sugar and butter intake is probably at an all-time high. Pastry shops are omnipresent and sell both Moroccan and French-style desserts. The wonderful thing is that the one-dirham pastry you buy in the medina is just as good as the seven-dirham pastry you buy in Agdal. (Seven dirham, by the way, is just under $1.00. As a friend has remarked, one dirham is practically a negative quantity.)
Some of the Moroccans I’ve met have the impression that Americans either eat far too much or nothing at all. I hear about young Moroccan women – slim, but healthy – trying to gain weight. A lot of them can’t comprehend Americans’ obsession with weight loss. Still, I think it should be easy to gain weight here. Fat is generally left on the meat, sugar is added to everything (including the super-sweet traditional mint tea and, more distressingly, ketchup), and buttermilk is a common post-couscous beverage.
Furthermore, bread has never been more central to my diet than it’s been in Morocco; the families I know all buy several flat, round loaves daily to accompany meals, and they use the bread in place of forks or spoons, particularly with dishes like tajines.
However, I sleep easy knowing that I – perhaps unlike so many Barbary pirates – will not develop scurvy during my stay. The medina and the city’s other outdoor markets are full of oranges, and orange juice is a mainstay on restaurant menus (unlike, for example, soup, which I find myself craving in times of distress).
The fruit here is generally delicious, and I think my host mother was amused when I told her how good Moroccan strawberries are; she replied that they’re out of season and will be fit for consumption in several months. I can almost hear Moroccans wondering, “What do Americans eat?
