THE LINGERING SMELL OF JEMAA AL FANA

On the bus back from Marin County, I sat next to a young man who started chatting with me. Now, normally I spend that half-hour ride contemplating the inside of my head, with my eyes closed. It's important and enjoyable down time. But he needed to talk. It was the worst birthday ever, he averred. He and his other half had just broken up.

He seemed nice enough -- though it's incredibly hard to judge whether someone has axe-murder sensitivities or rampant peculiarities on such superficial acquaintance -- so the reason for the split may well have been due to psychosis, paranoia, and sheer gut-busting insanity or stupidity from his girlfriend. Or boyfriend. The gender of the other party never came up.

As people who have suffered psychological blows often do, food was foremost in his mind. Food is comfort. Food is love. Food is the consuming passion that takes the place of a passion completely consumed.


I could have mentioned that I also had been through a break-up (nearly four years ago), but it was his day, and instead of celebrating another year older, he was depressing over a disastrous love-life collapse.
Which occurred today. At the home of his ex.
Right before dinner time.


Yeah, one hell of a sucky birthday.

And, probably, no cake.


But after a half hour conversation about Moroccan food (about which we both know a lot, but him far, far more than me), he seemed much better. With a bit of luck he'll have an appetite when he gets home.
And perhaps his apartment mates will feed him.

After some good tagine, and merguez, rice with lamb and dried fruits, olives, salad, zabadi, and some flaky flat breads, plus halwa, he'll feel a lot better.
If his apartment mates cannot fix that, they should drag him out to one of the local North-African restaurants and make him fat and happy again.


His ex probably HATED Moroccan food anyway.


Good thing he lives in San Francisco.
Food in Marin is pathetic.
Not Moroccan.




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