Written by: C.M. Griffin Design & Layout by: Chelsea Coolsaet
My wife and I edge our way between the other tourists vying for one of the few precious open tables overlooking Marrakesh’s main market, the Djemaa el Fna. Ignoring their looks, we set down the two over-priced, tepid Cokes that we bought before entering the main balcony of the Grand Balcon du Café Glacier. Tonight, as most nights, it is standing room only amongst this crowd of foreigners. We have all gathered here to escape the madness in the streets and alleys, known as derbs, and to escape the Djemaa itself, an anomalous open space amidst the medina’s labyrinth. We have also come for the spectacles, both natural and man-made, that each evening brings.
Beyond the balcony’s wrought-iron railing, a fading sun falls behind the peach-colored buildings framing the crooked western wall of the Djemaa. The yellow half-orb stands out against a mauve sky created by the mixture of dust, sand, and rays of sun. We lean over our table and while sipping soda through straws and recall the vast rug shops and ceramic stalls that we passed through earlier. The assortment of bags at our feet attest to the day’s haggling. Behind us, a shifting throng snaps pictures of what remains of the day. A young waiter finally maneuvers through the crowd, and in my own particular version of traveler’s French, I order a couple more Cokes and what the menu calls American pizza.
Billowing fumes of grilled meat and vegetables make their way to our table, erupting from the impromptu eateries that are erected in the middle of the Djemaa every evening. Stacked in rows two deep, with a central artery of grill space between them, each stall purveys its own versions of Moroccan staples: harira, a lentil-based soup; couscous, a rolled-wheat staple; and tagine, a slow-cooked meat stew. There are displays of carrots, onions, peppers and herbs between the cooks and the diners who sit in white plastic chairs at long wooden tables. Slight Moroccan men stand in front of each stall, menus in hand, appealing to passersby to come and eat. The condensing smoke rises above them and obscures what’s left of the dusk.
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Perhaps it is the smoke and steel that saves these stalls from the tide of activity swirling around them. There are indigenous Berbers who have come from the mountains to vend water from ox-hide canteens into brass cups. Snake charmers are hunched over oboe-like gourds and their weaving charges. Men call out, extending cups of crushed ice and fresh-pressed orange juice. The women gather huddled men and children under large umbrellas to pass on folk tales from antiquity. There are young boys dressed in drag for their minstrel shows and miscellaneous multitudes are selling imperfect remainders from the metal and textile shops. Amidst these and others—henna tattoo artists, cinnamon- tea stall proprietors, children hawking coconut cookies, and men selling single cigarettes from fanny packs—the steel and smoke remain constant, impervious.
We sip our sodas and glimpse all this through the haze. When the waiter brings our American pizza to the table, the length-wise sliced gherkins and green olives topping our pie suggest that the owners of the Grand Balcon du Café Glacier have perhaps never actually been to America. The pizza is good, nonetheless. It is especially good now that the crowd is thinning, as people descend by groups into the chaos of the streets. After another slice of home, we will join them below.
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