The a la Menthe

Now this really wouldn’t be a blog about life in Morocco without a mint tea entry. It’s funny what addicts we are in the States to mint, but of a very different variety. The breathmint and mouthwash category is a billion-dollar industry of synthetic spearmint, peppermint and wintergreen flavors. Real, fresh mint is just not as commonly or prolifically consumed. Sure, we liven up summer fruit salads with sprigs of the stuff, and pulverize it with ice, lime and rum into mojitos, but these are one-offs and the herb certainly doesn’t have the resonance at home that it does here. In an early entry, we’d mentioned one of our first days in the Medina and how the literal wheelbarrow loads of mint mitigated the stench of bloody meat, donkey dung, body odor and other scents we’ve come to associate with our adopted city. An armload full of the fragrant stuff, which would cost fifteen dollars in the States, is just pennies here. They’re basically giving it away like some kind of state-mandated health supplement. And, according to locals, that’s just what it is: a panacea for a healthy, long life . . . insh’allah.

Once the heat of the afternoon had subsided, the evening’s agenda had two items: First, a stop at Mustapha Blaoui, a home accessories emporium in the Medina that we’d been hearing lots about; and second, dinner in the Place, with a probable stop at Stall #31, whose delights we’ve already chronicled. Although we’ve been taken with the Moroccan crafts since day one, it wasn’t until Mustapha’s broad, heavy, studded door swung open to reveal a warehouse of chic accessories piled from floor to ceiling that we knew a shipping container would be in our imminent future. What Mustapha has done is curated and simplified traditional designs. He uses indigenous materials, like camel bone, but instead of carving it into ticky-tacky necklaces, he fashions a dresser from polished rectangular slivers of bone. Likewise, he’s applied the camel bone to a six-inch frame on a mirror that stands 15 feet tall. Camel hides have been died in a Matisse-worthy palette of colors and are applied as facing to dressers and trunks. Look up, and from the warehouse’s ceiling hang hundreds of lanterns, enough to light Westminster for a royal wedding. You can find a perforated metal lantern at any stall in the souk, but these are real works of art, whose scale and patterning is incredibly refined. Tableware comes in beautiful, simple monochromes and leather poufs, usually big enough for a single tush, are realized in the scale of a coffee table. The store makes us giddy and we nearly skip out of the place with promises to return as soon as we have a home to furnish.

As we walk along a familiar route through the souks to the Place for dinner, a jovial-faced man taps us on the shoulder and greets us with a warm Bonjour. He owns a small stall and we’d had a brief chat with him a few weeks ago while waiting outside a real estate office. He remembers us and invites us to sit with him and share a cup of mint tea. So far, we’ve only had tea in restaurants and a hurried glass that Hamoud prepared one morning at breakfast. This ceremonial pour is an entirely different thing.

Our host pulls up cushions for us to sit on and then he and his two children, a girl of 5 and a boy of about 7 join us, along with a loquacious young guy, who we assume helps out with the store. A curtain is pulled across the entry to provide some privacy, and then the ritual and conversation begins. Water is set to boil atop a Bunsen-type gas tank and green tea is measured into a teapot. Once the water is ready, it’s poured over the tea and allowed to steep for about a minute, at which point about half is poured off – a green-brown liquid – and retained while the remainder – a muddier, darker brew – is discarded. More boiling water is added to the tea leaves and the process of keeping and discarding is repeated several more times. Our host – and by the way, it’s always the top-ranking member of the family who prepares the tea – explains that he’s kept the l’ame, or “spirit” of the tea. Next, he folds a large handful of mint sprigs into thirds and folds into the l’ame du the, which has been poured back into the teapot. An alarmingly large chunk of sugar follows. When we exclaim at the quantity of sugar, Moulay laughs, saying Moroccan sugar is not as sweet as that of Europe and the US, which seems to hold true and must be due to it being less refined.

Finally, twenty-minutes since we our invitation for a “quick tea,” and with a practiced flourish, Moulay pours the steamy tea into traditional wee glass cups. He hands them around our group, saying bishmallah, to each of us – the equivalent of “to your health.” Sweet, redolent of the fresh herb, this mint tea is divine. “Moulay, he never rushes tea,” explains his chatty employee. “And I never drink alone,” adds Moulay. “Tea is too important. It must be savored and enjoyed with others.”

Throughout our initiation into Moroccan mint tea drinking, we’ve had a nice chat with Moulay about our time in Morocco and our house hunting. Of course, he’s got a friend who can show us a few places tomorrow. The motive beind the invitation to tea? Probably, but the whole experience was so pleasant, we’re happy to traipse around with his simsar friend tomorrow.

Oh, and it’s the final pour of the tea that’s the sweetest, and the only one Moulay’s soccer-crazed son Zachiarah will drink. “My wife and my kids just don’t like tea like I do,” Moulay says, shaking his head with a rueful smile.