Café Clock Cookbook

MY EARLIEST MEMORIES are tinged with the scent of Moroccan cuisine.

I was born in England and subjected to a childhood of grey school uniforms, even greyer skies, and to food so bland that it tasted of almost nothing at all. But, unlike my friends in the playground, I was certain the real world was out there – somewhere. It was a fantasy, a Promised Land, a realm of rich textures and dazzling light, a place where the air was fragrant with spices, and the kitchens abundant with the most magical ingredients.

This secret knowledge came about because of my family’s love affair with Morocco. My first journeys there were made as a small child in the early ’seventies – a time when the kingdom was awash with stoned-out hippies, tie-dye and bongo drums, VW Combis, and Rolling Stones’ songs. I didn’t quite understand how a place could be so different from the world in which I lived. It was so utterly mesmerising, vibrant, and so culturally colourful.

I can remember the pungent, intoxicating scent of orange blossom on Tangier’s rue de la Plage, and the taste of summer melons in Marrakech. My tongue still tingles at the thought of the warm almond pastry passed to me one balmy September afternoon in Chefchaouen. And, as for my first sugar-sprinkled pastilla – it stole my heart.

Then decades passed.

My feet traipsed through forgotten corners of the world, but never found their way back to my first true love – Morocco. Sometimes on my journeys I would close my eyes and be transported back – to the windswept sea wall of Essaouira, or to Marrakech’s Jma el Fna square, or to the twisting, labyrinthine streets of medieval Fès. With eyes closed as if in a dream, I would breathe in deep and sigh, feasting on the smells and on the memories.

Then, one morning, living in an East End flat no bigger than a postage stamp, I had a Eureka! moment. It was so obvious. We would embrace the land of my fantasy: we’d go and live in Morocco.

And we did.

It was like stepping through a keyhole into a world touched by a magician’s wand. In the years we have lived here, we have glimpsed an unbroken circle of life that’s been eroded and disjointed elsewhere. It’s a world dominated by values – by chivalry and honesty, by charity and, above all, by a sense of family.

And at the same time, it’s a world dominated by food.

Anyone who has ever spent time in Morocco has been charmed from the first meal by the kingdom’s astonishing range of cuisine. Through succulent flavours, textures, ingredients, and through sheer artistry – they go together to form an ancient kind of alchemy all of their own.

One of the first things I learned while living here is that most Moroccans prefer eating their own cuisine at home. A meal, especially one prepared for guests, is a sumptuous blend of hospitality and abundance, and is about honouring the invited as much as it is about feeding them. The dishes presented tend to be enjoyed communally, eaten from a central platter or tagine. And, of course, each home has its own carefully-guarded recipes, passed on through centuries from mother to daughter.

Like most of my Moroccan friends, I too am sometimes reluctant at eating in restaurants. As with them, I know that what we have at home is superior to almost anything found outside.

But there are exceptions.

When I first heard that an Englishman had given up a promising culinary career in London’s West End, swapping it for the Fès medina – where he planned to start afresh – I rolled my eyes. Then I put my head in my hands. It sounded like a recipe for catastrophe.

But, stepping across the threshold of the Café Clock, I was utterly enthralled. Not only was its founder, Mike Richardson, a man of magnetic charm, but he had conjured a spellbinding ambience in the heart of a city I hold so dear.

And, as for the food… it’s the exception to the rule. At last there is a restaurant that equals the cuisine found in Moroccan homes.

Café Clock’s success lies in the subtle flavours of a culinary tradition which itself stands at a crossroads of geography and culture. It’s made possible by seasonal foods, by spices, and by raw ingredients that have found their way to the medieval city through centuries, along the pilgrimage routes. After all, for more than a thousand years, Fès has been connected to the farthest reaches of the Islamic world, to destinations as variant as Seville, Cairo, and Timbuktu, Bokhara, Kabul, and Samarkand.

With time, Café Clock has become far more than a place to dine well. In the tradition of the ancient caravanserais, once found in every town and city between it and Mecca, and beyond, it’s a place where people gather. Some are locals, while many more are travellers, gorging themselves on the intensity of Fès for the first time. Together, they swap stories, talk, listen, laugh, and learn from the endless range of cultural events laid on in the crucible that is Café Clock.

Just as I had been anxious at hearing of an Englishman opening a restaurant in Fès, I had wondered a little anxiously how the Café Clock’s cookbook might look. Making the shift from the experimental fluidity of a kitchen, to the restricted world of the printed page, is not easy. It’s a realm in which too many talented food writers have failed.

But what strikes me squarely between the eyes is how the author, Tara Stevens, has approached this project. From the outset she’s harnessed an astonishing perspicacity, and a clear sense of observation. Through watching, tasting, and, above all, through listening, she has brought to this book’s pages a rare and comprehensive culinary experience.

At the same time, Tara has explained how and where specific ingredients are sourced, and has clarified the ways in which they are used in the kitchens of Café Clock.

The result is far more than a cookbook. It’s a key. Immerse yourself in its pages and, in return, it will unlock a domain that’s more usually cloaked in mystery, and quite off limits to the outside world. Study the pages well, and the ancient alchemy is revealed.

N.B. Clock Book, published by 33books, 2010.