During the course of my research, I would often meet informants on the street. Occasionally I find myself famished, after fast hours of walking and talking. These were the times to go to one of the sandwich stands, or bocadillos, sprinkled throughout the medina; their inviting bright red plastic chairs and porch tables shining in the midday sun, an homage to the American fast-food joint. At these Moroccan McDonald’s we would lunch, though not at just any stand. Not all sandwich shops are created equal, and early in the semester, I stumbled upon the Kefta Brothers, and from that moment I never looked back.
The procedure at one of these shops is simple. You merely park your ass at one of the tables. There is no menu, no waiters to bus your lunch; you simply raise your fingers to order, the number of sandwiches you want pointing skyward.
The maestros behind the griddle expertly craft the order, and send it down wrapped in the only place setting needed, a pocket of aluminum foil. The great magicians, mixing meat and mellow veg.
The grill is hot. Smoke without mirrors shows the kefta steam searing skin and singing knuckles. My magicians have earthquake cracks in their palms, and tagged fingernails chewed to stubs. They go to sleep at night with gloves of lotion to heal the day’s heat burns. Every day they bathe in the broiled air scented meaty with onions and tomatoes, and their heads take on a sheen like a freshly waxed car. When I ask whose is better, the reply is simple. “Kif, kif; bhal hal. Same, same.”
The grill is hot. These are artists abstract and articulate. The first evokes a masculine imagine of cooking, as he slaps an ever-growing harem of young lamb into the searing blacktop. the onions hissing in protest as they are thrown chaotically into the air to mix with the branding meat. A construction-site cook, he piles the medley haphazardly around his canvas, remorseless. “If you are a peg, endure the knocking; if you are a mallet, strike,” he exclaims. With arms as thick as my legs, he slices the frying field furiously into battalions, and then spreads his troops to cover the no-man’s-land. As for the tomatoes, he makes them sweat, slowly moving them ever closer to the hot spot of the griddle. He goes about controlling the pile from one side of the surface to the other, marching his meat into strategic positions; reenacting skirmishes in the trenches, he sprays casualties of war onto the ground, in caramelized refugee camps. When it comes to the eggs, they scream loudly as they are thrown into the fray, sons too young to see the heat of battle. All the while, our painter is laughing a huge smile. He scrapes his spatula across the surface of the sandwich meat, an artist adding the final brushstrokes, and scoops his masterpiece, his Jackson pollack, into waiting buns. Drizzling copious amounts of fiery ketchup atop , he serves the POW spoils, messy-style, to waiting warlords and returns to his battle station. He clears off the dead and wounded with a swift stroke of his weapon, and begins the battle anew.
On the contrary, his brother is more caring with his kefta. He nurtures it on his black canvas, more graceful and purposeful than his chaotic counterpart. His spatula is a delicate horsehair brush, and as he begins his portrait, his deliberate, delicate strokes speak of his mastery. A calligrapher, his hand is slow, but steady. He gently ladles lamb onto his palate, and begins mixing with measured handfuls of onions and tomatoes. His saute is more like suggestions than commands, a hamman rather than a brazier. He babies his mixed grill, tempering it with a gentle steam and massage, and the vegetables sigh with a spa-like pleasure. Ever so slowly, the minced meat begins to bend to his will. He brushes his colors gently to the waiting high heat; the onions and peppers sing a soprano symphony, followed by the treble of tomatoes and deep base of kefta. They meld into a fantasia of sense, browning with caramel hues and toffee flavors. His work takes longer, but captivates nonetheless. His handwriting complete, he serves his sandwich with a subtle sauce, erases his writing, and begins his next character atop the papyrus griddle. The grill is hot.
Ali and I sit, and I raise two fingers. They pepper our preparations with proverbs and advice, old professors with no lesson plans. “You have to taste it as your making it, its a key step that isn’t included in cookbooks. The secret to being a good cook has not much to do with your skill and everything to do with your ingredients. A nice piece of meat won’t need much more than salt and pepper and maybe some herbs.” We receive our orders, with heaping teaspoons of special sauce, and adjust our meals to our liking. A custom-made sandwich is reductionist: Simply remove that which you don’t want from the warm bun. Ali likes his custom-made. He doesn’t like eggs. In fact, he says, the only way by which a novice can distinguish a bad egg from a good egg is by the taste: a bad one tastes slightly better than a good one does. My sandwich is perfect as is. I bring the meal to my waiting mouth, eyes blinded by the sheen of aluminum, and eat greedily. Time stops as we devour our Big Marocs, and when we are done, our bellies indeed feel full of eggs. The grill is hot, and it heats African stomachs like a wood stove.
Recipe:Kefta Brother’s Bocadillo
Starting in the 1980s, new snack restaurants started serving “Bocadillos, or sandwishes.” The new fast food, it was portable, cheap, and offered no limit to customization. Soon a craze was born, and sandwich stalls popped up faster than Starbucks in the States. Students pass by after (or sometimes during) school, workers take a tea break, and shopping women all rest their feet at the bright red plastic chairs of the sandwish shop. Everyone, whether young or old is wont to have their personal favorites, and variations contain everything from kefta to fried fish to potato croquettes. Though the composition of a bocadillo varies by region, usually it is half a khobzette filled with meats, eggs, vegetables and/or cheese. Oftentimes, particular stall owners will offer garnishes of herbs, hot sauce or homemade special sauce served in used ketchup containers.
Makes 4 Sandwishes
8 oz. ground lamb or beef
½ cup diced onions
½ cup diced tomatoes
½ cup diced green peppers
2 eggs
2 Khobzette or other flat, round loaf (you can substitute think pita if necessary)
Ketchup:
1 cup ketchup
1 tablespoon cumin
¼ cup harissa or other hot sauce
-In a large bowl, mix together meat, onions, tomatoes and peppers.
-Heat a very large saucepan or griddle over high heat and add meat mixture
-Cook, stirring constantly, until the meat is browned and the vegetables just start to caremelize around the edges, about 5 minutes
-Crack eggs atop kefta mixture, and turn off heat. Keep stirring mixture until eggs are just set, about 1 minute
-Slice khobz in half and open like a pita. In each sandwich, shovel in ¼ of the meat mixture, top with a squirt of spicy ketchup and enjoy
December 12th, 2009 at 9:04 pm
great writing! well crafted analogy.
and it makes me hungry.
December 12th, 2009 at 9:19 pm
Love the last entry. I can c y u r ambivalent!
December 13th, 2009 at 8:56 pm
Maxi!!!! We are all eagerly awaiting your return home, I can’t wait to see you! Happy Hanukkah!
Just one more day, now!
Love your website! Who says you aren’t a good writer?
January 18th, 2010 at 6:00 am
Congratulations! You’ve been nominated for The Best Morocco Blog of 2010 in the category of culture blog.
We encourage you to have your readers and friends vote for your blog at
http://www.moroccoblogs.com and if you want to display the following graphic, you can do so proudly:
You can find the graphic at
http://moroccoblogs.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/nominated.jpg
April 27th, 2010 at 2:40 pm
Buddy! This made me well hungry!! Excellent writing, you have a gift my friend, for writing and for cooking, and I’m missing the later right now!