The labyrynth of smells - fruit and veg market, Fez, Morocco

‘The smells’ – the unforgettable combination of cinnamon, rose water, cumin, dust and dung – disturbing and enticing at the same time.

‘The smells’ is what I tell people when asked why I fell in love with Morocco. If you are looking for dust-free streets and hassle-spared promenades, then Morocco may not be for you. But if you are turned on by the idea of snatching the last glimpses of the Middle Ages, go now and you’ll be forever haunted by the aroma of the leathery broad beans stewed with cumin and sold in shadowy corners; by the smell of old waters collected in the cobbled, no-wider-than-a-donkey’s-arse, streets; by just boiled potato sandwiches sold by a local gang of boys; by dusty but mind-blowingly delicate carpets; by the odour of freshly made leather goods, combined with intensely sugary mint tea poured from dizzy heights…

The streets of old Medina (Fez)

...We came back to Morocco almost five years after out initial olfactory affair with the place, choosing Fez, this ancient city with over 9000 streets hidden in its Medina, for a fleeting breather from London staleness.

The labyrinth of streets and smells

August is a low season in Morocco because of the unbearable heat (40C is normal). This year in addition it is the month of Ramadan, with its soul-testing fasting demands, making travelling a particular challenge. We decided to go on a whim, wanting to experience Morocco in its most uncomfortable.

But once landed, we were taken back by the smell of soil freshly impregnated with rain - the land felt fresh, enlivened. It was pleasant - too pleasant for those looking for the exotic 'otherness'. It was not until we reached the eerily empty walls of Medina (8pm is when everyone rests at home, having broken their fast, before 'hitting the town') that the memories - the smells - started to creep back in. No traveller can escape Fez Medina without getting lost. I wonder whether local inhabitants find their way by nose, as each corner, crook and cranny has its own smell, an olfactory labyrinth of a kind...

Souqs of Fez (and J with a yellow umbrella)

Fez Medina is broken down into sections, souqs, markets, each specialising in a particular trade, each with its unique combination of smells. Thus there is a spice souq, henna souq (now more famous for its pottery), tanneries with their revolting stench of leather treated with dung and chemical dies, the meat market with a whiff of coagulated blood and fresh innards…

Chicken on sale. Tesco 'fresh' carries a different meaning here

The fruit and veg market in the Western part of Medina is unsurprisingly most aromatic and fresh. Mid August is the time of figs - heavy, lilac ones and less sweet, lemony ones. All quite small compared to the perfect giants sold in London. Bursting with flavour quite literally, so ripen that they get slightly sticky on the outside. We couldn't hold ourselves and greedily bought a couple of kilos of each kind from a women who had just come down from a village in mountains.

Figs.

Some believe the ultimate Eden fruit was this aromatic, suggestive-looking fruit, rather than a cool and firm apple

Yellow melons are on the other hand a lot bigger - and needless to say so much more perfumed - than those sold in Green Lanes. We had the pale-green flesh cut up and served with warm bread for breakfast each morning.

Fruit and veg market in Fez

I have read odes to prickly pears which carry a semi-iconic status on Greek islands, but I had myself been disappointed in the past with their undistinguishable flavour. In Fez these hedgehogs of fruits are sold in big wooden carts, with the seller swiftly and miraculously transforming each fruit into a round pink softness, refreshing to no end and only a few un-prickly seeds to deal with. I can't say the prickly thing is my favourite fruit, but I see what those hot-blooded Greeks might like about them.

Prickly pears sold across Medina to clench thirst

Then there were huge pink onions everywhere, almost translucent in colour, sweeter than the standard white variety. We bought just one and brought it all the way to London, where I've been slicing it carefully and enjoying bit by bit with a tomato salad.

Pink onions and very red tomatoes

And of course - tomatoes. Real stuff, with a smell and colour, fully ripen. Most on sale in Fez were not of a particularly fancy variety, but the patience of a farmer who left the fruit on its vine for long enough makes the whole difference. Those who know me know that tomato is what I live for in culinary terms. I hunt them down and buy in bags every time I'm in a county with a suitable climate.

...We came back tired to our hotel, smiling silly, happily, minutes before another thunderstorm poured down, shutting down most aromas of the city, quietening the sounds....We sneaked in our bags of fruit and bread - eating or drinking is not allowed until darkness, remember - and had our mini feast. In bed. Divine. Blasphemous. All the better for it.

Lunch in riad: tomatoes, figs, bread

On communist idiology and erotic fruits

I have come to a conclusion that one of the main criterion (let’s be honest, THE main criterion) in choosing my future place of residence ought to be its proximity to a good farmers’ market. And by ‘good’ I don’t mean a bijou type of a market, with a handful of artfully set up stalls of organic burgers and couscous with sun-dried tomatoes. I am after gluttony of shackled tables, all offering the same, all offering something different...

I have come back from a week in Croatia, you see. I am a new person, with a renewed belief that a (post) communist space, sea and sun can work together, even if the first few days you are in a haze of (seemingly) incompatible sensations - clean and luxurious sea, rude and haughty service, lightly (as opposed to Northern European 'cook to death' method) fish and vegetables, uninterrupted kind sun and a rumble of Slav sounds all around. I felt on the edge at first, not being able to put my finger on my feelings and the surroundings - a sense of displacement, disbelief and even envy that the hoards of Slavs managed to settle in this Adriatic paradise some many centuries ago - well done, bro! My predecessors in the not-so-far-away Ukraine chose steppes and sub-zero winters. The territory of Croatia was part of the Roman empire, and invaded by everyone from Turks to Venetians - the Italian influence is particularly strong here, with many local Serbo-Croatian dialects (a language so close to Russian that I could almost read newspapers) sounding positively Italianised - ciaos, sing-song rhythms and energetic gestures added to my overall Slav-Latin confusion. But it's Croatian markets (surprise-surprise) that made me feel if not at home then definitely homey.


The nearly orgasmic feeling of being able to just pop around a corner and have a selection of 10, 15, 30 little stalls all offering the same basic, beautiful, fully ripen products; all differently priced depending on their size and purpose (eat now or can for later); all having their customer and making a small but a buck. I aimlessly dreamed of organising guided tours here for the English farmers and producers, to show how selling the same product can still work in one market...

Unfortunately, we know well that the underlying structures of the markets in Britain are too different for us, on the Island, to even dream of having a market culture (things are changing, but the result is still uncertain). The Continent (and in my view ex-Communist countries in particular) still have masses of people with their allotments, growing a little bit of this and that, some for their own bellies, some to earn an extra coin. In Croatia it is a combination of a fertile land, mild climate and many years of Soviet food shortages that result in proliferation of markets. In the olden days growing your own was almost a necessity, even for the city dwellers. My own theory is that for many people under the Communist rule of no private property having an allotment meant having space for that Cosmo-induced 'me' time, freedom to have different conversations with your friends, creating something of your own, for yourself, getting away from the concrete reality of party-enforced limits. Perhaps it was all a lot more relaxed in Yugoslavia (I still remember my parents dreaming of a Czech 'garniture' - Yugoslavian furniture was highly desired for the unknown to me reasons), but things are clearly different here now. Even in food-phrensied countries like Italy and France markets are more professional than here it seems... But I'm transgressing away, here are the highlights of what you should try:

Figs - the freshness, light perfume and obvious eroticism of this large and squishy, lime-coloured fruit with its pale purple inside is unbeatable consumed with lashings of (local, lavender)honey and morsels of very mild (local, goat) cheese or just devoured as it is, lying Emperor-style by the sea, gazing leisurely at the surrounding female bodies.

Cherries - tiny, intensely sweet and sour jewels, the colour of a gypsy girl's eyes (and why not??), are surprisingly refreshing in the heat, especially when chilled and swallowed first thing in the morning after a thirst-inducing night. I kept dreaming of having them with peeps and all sunken in an almost-frozen vanilla ice-cream (note, NOT of local variety - overly-creamy and sugary - but hard and Italian, to sunk your teeth into).

Prošek - sweet dessert wine made out of dried grapes, syrupy in texture and blood-coloured. Highly recommend the kind produced in the isle of Vis (the island was closed to public until 1990's being a military post and the main hideout of Tito). Drink it cold after the abundant dinner of fish and molluscs; it gives energy and sweet dreams.

And of course, THE fish, on which just a bit later...