A Cook's Tour Part 4

After we'd knocked off maybe four ounces of caviar and a half bottle of vodka, our entree arrived, a whole roasted sterlet. Already smashed, Zamir and I were not off the hook. Even though we were well past the 'I love you, man' stage, exchanging slurred toasts every few minutes, our waitress returned to our table to admonish us.

'You will both be considered traitors to your countries and your people if you do not drink more!'

When we finally staggered out into the street, it was snowing hard, the wind howling off the river, a half bottle of Russian Standard sloshing around in our stuffed bellies. Zamir and I exchanged loud expressions of friendship and devotion, our coats flapping open in the frigid wind.

Reasons Why You Don't Want to Be on Television: Number Two in a Series 'We forgot to do the entrance scene,' said Chris, the producer, bundled up like some sub-Arctic smurf in Gore-Tex and stocking cap. 'We need to get you entering the restaurant. You know: "Where are we, why are we here, and what do we expect to find?" '

That all-important establishing shot had yet to be made, the part where Zamir and I, presumably sober, yet to eat that fine meal, are seen approaching the restaurant's door, opening it, and stepping inside. This sort of shot is necessary as has been explained to me repeatedly by one frustrated producer after another for purposes of continuity and edification for the viewing audience. 'We don't want 'em getting confused, thinking they're watching Emeril's Christmas Luau.'

This meant that while Igor and Chris shot, Zamir and I were to do our best to pretend that we had not just gorged ourselves on a large and luxurious meal, that we had not been forced into drinking about fifteen shots of vodka by a maniacal waitress.

Needless to say, it took a lot of takes. Most were scratched from the get-go by obvious slurring and stumbling, Zamir and I practically holding each other up as we lurched through the snow toward the increasingly blurry front door of the Russkya restaurant. By the second or third take, I was fully convinced there were, in fact, two doors.

'Shooo, Zhamir, ol' buddy, where we goin' now?' I'd burble in a hideous, inebriated parody of witless TV preamble, before staggering into a wall.

Finally, after many false starts, our lips freezing to our teeth, we had a near-flawless take: a few carefully enunciated remarks, some softball questions to my Russian friend and guide, the two of us picking our way down the street, Igor walking backward, with his camera facing us, Chris shooting from the side. Shoulder-to-shoulder we went, coats flapping, scarves blowing, two hungry, happy men about town, on their way to dinner.

In the finished shot, we appear to be doing everything right. I'm saying the right things, Zamir is responding appropriately; there are no obvious indicators of our total inebriation other than the fact that we both seem curiously oblivious to the cold and wind and snow.

And we were doing fine until the last second, when, midsentence, I disappeared out of the frame in a sudden exit stage left. Zamir shot out an arm, reached off-camera, and pulled me back into the frame, rescuing me from what was very nearly a headlong tumble off the curb.

'Let's do it again,' said Chris.

'Lesh fix it later . . . In the editing room,' I said. I was learning.

Something Very Special

'Here, this place . . . They have something very special,' said Abdul, a short, stocky Moroccan with a mustache, thick gold watch, and an alarmingly orange-and-green tweed sport jacket over a dress shirt. 'Very special' in Abdulspeak as I had quickly come to learn meant one of three things when talking about what to eat in Morocco: couscous, tagine, brochette. Morocco, while known for its excellent food and its many good cooks, is not renowned for its infinite variety of dishes. Or for its restaurants.

We were approaching the town of Moulay Idriss, an important spot in Morocco's introduction to Islam, a town named after a relative of the Prophet. It's a crowded but picturesque hill town, studded with box-shaped houses built at kitty-cornered angles, with narrow streets, high walls, and hidden markets. Until recently, nonbelievers like me were forbidden entrance. These days, as long as you're out by dark, it's okay to visit.

I'd frozen in Portugal and Russia, and been cold in Spain. I'd been cold and wet and wet in France, so I'd been looking forward to Morocco. I figured desert, right? Burning sands, a relentless sun, me in full mufti. I'd read about the Long Range Desert Group, a collection of British academics, cartographers, geologists, ethnographers, and Arabists who, during World War II, had put aside their Poindexter gla.s.ses and their public school mores and spent a few years doing behind-the-lines raids with the SAS, cheerfully slitting throats, poisoning wells, committing acts of sabotage and reconnaissance. In the photos, they looked tan, for G.o.d's sake! OK, that had been Libya. Or Egypt. I wasn't even in the Middle East. But the desert the sun, the heat I'd got that right, right? Morocco, I'd been sure, would be a place where I could warm my bones, brown my skin. in France, so I'd been looking forward to Morocco. I figured desert, right? Burning sands, a relentless sun, me in full mufti. I'd read about the Long Range Desert Group, a collection of British academics, cartographers, geologists, ethnographers, and Arabists who, during World War II, had put aside their Poindexter gla.s.ses and their public school mores and spent a few years doing behind-the-lines raids with the SAS, cheerfully slitting throats, poisoning wells, committing acts of sabotage and reconnaissance. In the photos, they looked tan, for G.o.d's sake! OK, that had been Libya. Or Egypt. I wasn't even in the Middle East. But the desert the sun, the heat I'd got that right, right? Morocco, I'd been sure, would be a place where I could warm my bones, brown my skin.

So far, I could not have been more wrong. It was cold. The best hotel in neighboring Volubilis was yet another damp, chilly, crummy hovel. On the fuzzy television, a male Arab translator did all the voices on Baywatch Baywatch from Ha.s.selhoff's to Anderson's the original sound recording still there in English, the Arabic just laid over and louder. An electric heater across the room from the bed threw off enough heat to toast a hand or a foot at a time. from Ha.s.selhoff's to Anderson's the original sound recording still there in English, the Arabic just laid over and louder. An electric heater across the room from the bed threw off enough heat to toast a hand or a foot at a time.

But no matter. I had not set out to eat my way around the world expecting nothing but 340-thread-count sheets. I knew it wouldn't all be blender drinks by the pool and chocolates on the pillow. I had fully expected to face extremes of temperature, unusual plumbing arrangements, dodgy food, and the occasional insect on the way to what I was seeking.

And what I was looking for here, ultimately, was yet another moment of underinformed fantasy. I wanted to sit in the desert with the Blue Men Tuaregs a once-fierce tribe of nomadic Berbers who'd drifted back and forth between Yemen and Morocco for centuries, raiding caravans, disemboweling travelers, and eating whole lamb in their desert camps. I wanted to squat in the desert beneath the stars, with nothing but sand from horizon to horizon, eating the fat of the lamb with my fingers. I wanted to smoke hashish under a brightly swollen moon, leaning against my camel. I wanted a previously unattained sense of calm in the stillness of the desert.

For now, however, I was in a minivan, climbing the hill to Moulay Idriss, with Abdul, a TV crew, and a cl.u.s.ter of very sinister-looking plainclothes detectives in wraparound sungla.s.ses, a.s.signed by the Ministry of Information, in the back. A tall man in a green fez and djellaba was waiting for us in the shabby town square. His name was Sherif. He operated what was as close to an authentic Moroccan restaurant as one is likely to find in Morocco a country where few natives would even consider eating indigenous cuisine in such an environment. By 'authentic,' I mean no belly dancing (not Moroccan), no tableware, no bar (alcohol forbidden), no 'tagine of monkfish,' and no women in the dining room. If you and your fraternity brothers are looking for a cool new spot to spend spring break, you can cross Moulay Idriss right off your list.

After a few salaam aleik.u.ms salaam aleik.u.ms, introductions, and gravely reproduced doc.u.ments and permits in French, English, and Arabic, we followed Sherif through a forbidding archway, squeezed past heavily laden donkeys and men in djellabas, and proceeded up Moulay Idriss's twisting cobbled streets. Street beggars and urchins began their approach, caught sight of our 'security escort', and quickly shrank away. Why the cops were with us, I don't know. They didn't talk. Abdul didn't talk to them. Sherif ignored them. They were just there.

Halfway up the hill, I smelled something wonderful and paused to take it in. Abdul smiled and ducked into an open doorway. It was a community bakery, dating back to the eleventh century, with a gigantic wood-burning oven, where an old man fed loaves of round, flat Moroccan bread on a long paddle, taking others out, sending them skittering across the bare floor. The smell was fantastic. Hooded, veiled women in long, shapeless robes arrived every few minutes with trays of uncooked dough.

Abdul explained: 'See here?' he said, pointing out three diagonal slashes on the surfaces of one batch waiting for room in the oven. 'These people everybody here every family makes their bread. In the house. Maybe two times a day. They bring here to bake. This mark. These marks, they are so baker can tell which family is the bread.'

I examined the shelves of coded dough, a few stacks of cooked loaves, fascinated by the nearly imperceptible but very real differences. Most of the loaves I saw had no identifiable markings that I could see.

'Many many no markings,' said Abdul, smiling. 'This baker . . . he work many years here. Very long time. For same families coming all the time. He can tell which breads for which families from the shape. He can tell.'

The setup was medieval: a dark room of bare stone, brick, fire, and wood. Not an electric bulb or a refrigerator in sight.

'Come see,' said Abdul. He showed me through another opening next door. We stepped down a few crumbling stone steps into near blackness, with only a bright orange flame winking from below. At the bottom of the steps, surrounded on all sides by a deep trench of firewood, a skinny, toothless old man poked long iron tongs into a pit of flame.

'This fire for bakery,' said Abdul. 'And for other place. There.' He indicated beyond a far wall. 'The hamam hamam. Sauna. Where peoples go to wash. For to sweat. Very healthy. We go later. This hamam hamam very old. Maybe one thousands of years.' very old. Maybe one thousands of years.'

Sherif's place, near the top of the hill, operated for the benefit of 'enlightened' tourists, was in what had once been a private home, built like most of Moulay Idriss in the eleventh century. It was a three-story structure rising around a small courtyard. The walls were covered with ornate mosaics of blue-and-white tile, lined by low couches covered with pillows and fabrics, a few low tables, and embroidered tuffeted stools. As soon as we entered, we were invited to sit and immediately brought sweet, very hot mint tea.

The kitchen was on roof level, where a team of white-clad women was at work preparing our meal: kefta kefta (a Moulay Idriss specialty), tagine of mutton, and a selection of salads and cold dishes. (a Moulay Idriss specialty), tagine of mutton, and a selection of salads and cold dishes. Kefta Kefta refers to spicy meatb.a.l.l.s of lamb and beef served en brochette (skewered), or, as for that day's meal, cooked in sauce and finished with beaten egg so it resembles a saucy open-faced meatball-studded omelette. The women cooked tagine, sauce, and meatb.a.l.l.s in pressure cookers over an open flame fed by roaring propane tanks. Laid out around the large white-tiled s.p.a.ce, open on one side to the sky, the elements of basic Moroccan refers to spicy meatb.a.l.l.s of lamb and beef served en brochette (skewered), or, as for that day's meal, cooked in sauce and finished with beaten egg so it resembles a saucy open-faced meatball-studded omelette. The women cooked tagine, sauce, and meatb.a.l.l.s in pressure cookers over an open flame fed by roaring propane tanks. Laid out around the large white-tiled s.p.a.ce, open on one side to the sky, the elements of basic Moroccan mise-en-place mise-en-place were arranged in seeming disarray: garlic, onion, cilantro, mint, c.u.min, cinnamon, tomato, salt, and pepper. There were no stoves, only hissing tanks of volatile-looking gas. Food was chopped using the old thumb against blade method, just like grandma used to. There were no cutting boards. There were only paring knives. The restaurant, I was informed, was quite comfortable serving up to three hundred meals out of this kitchen. That day, we were the only guests. were arranged in seeming disarray: garlic, onion, cilantro, mint, c.u.min, cinnamon, tomato, salt, and pepper. There were no stoves, only hissing tanks of volatile-looking gas. Food was chopped using the old thumb against blade method, just like grandma used to. There were no cutting boards. There were only paring knives. The restaurant, I was informed, was quite comfortable serving up to three hundred meals out of this kitchen. That day, we were the only guests.

From the mosque next door came the muezzin's call to prayer a haunting chant, beginning with 'Allahhh akbarrrrr' (G.o.d is great), which occurs five times a day all over the Islamic world. The first time you hear it, it's electrifying beautiful, nonmelodic, both chilling and strangely comforting. Upon hearing it, you understand on a cellular level that you are now 'somewhere else.' You are far from home and all the ambient noises of American life. Here it was roosters and the muezzin's call, the ululating sound of women talking on rooftops.

Sitting in a tiled dining area on comfortable cushions with Abdul and Sherif, the three silent coppers propped up in a row against a far wall, we were brought a silver tray and water pitcher with which to wash. One at a time, our waiter poured water over our hands, allowed us to scrub with a cake of green soap, then poured water again to rinse.

Bread arrived in a big cloth-covered basket the same flat bread I'd seen earlier at the bakery and Abdul broke off sections and placed them around the table. One does not simply reach for bread here; one waits to be served.

'Bismillah,' said Abdul.

'Bismillah,' said Sherif.

'Bismallah,' I said, quickly corrected by my hosts.

A large selection of salads was placed in a circle: potato salad, marinated carrots, beets, olives of many kinds, mashed okra, tomato and onion. One eats without knife or fork, or any other utensils, using one's right hand, always. There are no southpaws in Islam. You don't use your left at the table. You never extend it in greeting. You don't reach with it. You never, ever use it to grab food off the family-style platters of food. You don't eat with it. I was really worried about this. It's enough, one would think, learning to eat hot, often liquidy food with one's fingers but only one hand?

Practice was clearly required. I had to learn to use bits of bread, pinching the food between two and only two fingers and the thumb of the right hand, the digits protected by a layer of folded bread. Fortunately, I soon noticed that a lot of cheating goes on. Both Abdul and Sherif used quick moves with the bent fingers or knuckles of the left hand to push or position recalcitrant bits into the right.

Individual styles varied. I caught Abdul tearing the white centers from each little triangle of bread, creating an ersatz pita pocket of the crust, making it easier to scoop food. I called him on it, accused him playfully of cheating while I struggled with thick, not easily folded hunks. 'No, no,' protested Abdul. 'I do like this so I do not get fat. I am on . . . diet.' A little pile of white bread centers formed beside him.

After a peek at Sherif's technique, I decided to stick with the more traditional approach, forcing my fingers to learn. It was messy at first, and one does not lick one's fingers here as you are constantly revisiting the same communal platters as the others at the table. Napkins are rare. The bread, issued periodically throughout the meal, serves double duty as both utensil and napkin. It took me a while, but I got better over time.

The waiter brought a big tagine of bubbling-hot kefta kefta, set it down on the table and removed the top. A tagine I should explain to avoid confusion refers to the cooking vessel of the same name. Nowadays, since the introduction of the pressure cooker, it is used largely as a serving platter. The tagine is a large, shallow, glazed bowl, with a sloping, conical top like a minaret's peak. Nomadic peoples used to carry them from camp to camp, preparing slow-cooked meal-in-one fare over open fires, using the tagine as an all-purpose stewpot. It was a low-maintenance way for women to cook: Simply put the food on the fire, then move on to other pressing ch.o.r.es, like tending to livestock, gathering wood, nursing kids, making bread all this while the stew (also referred to as tagine) cooked. In Morocco, if you didn't know already, like the James Brown cla.s.sic, it's a man's, man's world. The women cook. The men often eat their meals separately. Should you be invited to the home of a Moroccan for dinner, the lady of the house will cook, hidden from view in the kitchen, with maybe a sister or mother to a.s.sist her, while you and any other male guests are entertained in the dining area. The women of the host's family will eat in the kitchen. The tagine was both boon and curse to women, in that the basic foods of the region lamb, mutton, fowl, couscous take a long time to cook. The pressure cooker cut serious cooking time out of the average workday, freeing the cook at least to dream of other activities.

I was getting pretty good at the pinch with my fingers. And just in time, as the next course was a searingly hot tagine of mutton and onion with green pea sauce. It tasted terrific dark, spicy, hearty, with big hunks of now-tender mutton shoulder nearly falling off the bone into screaming hot sauce. I managed to avoid scalding my fingertips, careful to eat a lot. Portions are large, as a good Muslim always prepares more than is required for immediate use, antic.i.p.ating that most important figure of lore the hungry traveler in need who might unexpectedly appear. It is considered an enn.o.bling act, a sacred duty, to provide hospitality to the needy. To waste even bread is a sin. A dropped piece of bread found on the street is often retrieved by a devout Muslim and left by the entryway to a mosque, as to leave food lying about like trash would be an offense to G.o.d. So I made sure to eat as much as I possibly could.

The three plainclothesmen sat impa.s.sively against the wall while the platters were cleared and a few plates of dates and figs were served with more of the sweet mint tea. At the end of the meal, the hand-washing procedure was repeated, followed by a presentation of burning incense. Sherif held his fez over the smoke from the burning sticks. Abdul wafted the fumes around his neck. A silver container was brought around and the three of us shook rosewater on our hands and clothes. The cops smiled, showing off their gold-capped teeth.

Abdul pulled the van to a halt just outside the walls of Fez el-Bali, the old city of Fez, an enclosed medina of ten thousand or so narrow, indecipherably arranged, completely unmappable streets, alleys, cul-de-sacs, pa.s.s-throughs, corridors, homes, businesses, markets, mosques, souks, and hamams hamams. Over thirty thousand residents live densely packed together in a labyrinth that a lifetime of exploration would never fully explain or reveal even to a native. Cars, motorbikes, and any other kind of vehicle are not permitted inside the city's walls, as they would be useless. It's too crowded, the streets too narrow, a busy rabbit warren of crumbling walls, sudden drops, steeply inclined steps, switchbacks, turn-offs and dead ends. A thin old man in a djellaba was waiting for us by the outer wall and promptly loaded our luggage into a primitive wooden cart, then headed to a slim break in the wall of what remains in form, if not in function a fortress city.

The old city dates back to a.d. 800 and many of its standing structures were built as far back as the fourteenth century. It has been the center of power and intrigue for many of Morocco's ruling dynasties. The fortress architecture is not just a style statement. The buildings, the layout, the walls, the location, as well as the city's agricultural and culinary traditions, all reflect an ancient siege mentality. As the Portuguese and Spanish have adopted bacalao bacalao a method of preserving fish for long periods as a way to ensure naval power, the citizens of Fez have a culinary repertoire developed around survival, food h.o.a.rding, preservation, and self-sufficiency. Back in the old days, marauding armies from other regions were common, and the standard medieval strategy for taking down a walled city was simply to surround it with superior force, choke off its supply routes, and starve the opponents out. Fez's mazelike walls within walls structure, surrounded by exterior fortifying walls, were constructed as defense against that tactic. Neither infantry nor cavalry would have had an easy time of it even once inside the outer walls, for troops would have had to divert constantly into narrow columns, vulnerable to attack from ahead, behind, and above. a method of preserving fish for long periods as a way to ensure naval power, the citizens of Fez have a culinary repertoire developed around survival, food h.o.a.rding, preservation, and self-sufficiency. Back in the old days, marauding armies from other regions were common, and the standard medieval strategy for taking down a walled city was simply to surround it with superior force, choke off its supply routes, and starve the opponents out. Fez's mazelike walls within walls structure, surrounded by exterior fortifying walls, were constructed as defense against that tactic. Neither infantry nor cavalry would have had an easy time of it even once inside the outer walls, for troops would have had to divert constantly into narrow columns, vulnerable to attack from ahead, behind, and above.

A building's exterior reveals nothing of what's inside. A simple outer door might open onto a palatial residence or a simple private home. Furthermore, between the floors of a building, many homes have hollowed-out areas suitable for stashing food and hiding fugitives. An early hub for the spice routes from south and east, Fez made use of the spices and ingredients from other cultures, particularly when it came to the practical necessities of repelling potential invaders. Air-dried meat, pickled vegetables, preserved fruit, cured food, a protein diet consisting largely of animals easily raised and contained behind high walls all remain features of Fez's cuisine. The preponderance of inaccessible wells and walled gardens are design features one might well find quaint and even luxurious now. Back then, they were shrewd and even vital additions to the neighborhood. Wealthier citizens of the old city still pride themselves on growing their own dates, figs, lemons, oranges, olives, and almonds, and pulling their own water out of the ground. Situated in the middle of a wide valley, surrounded by unforgiving hills and plains, invaders almost always began to go hungry before the residents and were forced to withdraw long before the food ran out inside the walls.

We followed our porter up and down nameless dark alleys, past sleeping beggars, donkeys, soccer-playing kids, merchants selling gum and cigarettes, until we arrived at a dimly lighted doorway in a featureless outer wall. A few sharp knocks echoed through an inner chamber, and an eager young man appeared to welcome us into a deceptively plain pa.s.sageway large enough to accommodate riders on horseback. Around a corner, I stepped into another world. A s.p.a.cious antechamber opened up onto a quiet enclosed patio, with a round breakfast table situated beneath a lemon tree. The air smelled of oleander and fresh flowers. Looming up in the center of a vast open s.p.a.ce of terraced patios with tiled floors rose what can only be described as a palace, a gargantuan high-ceilinged structure surrounded by outbuildings, a large garden with fruit trees, a small pond, and a well the residence, it appeared, of a medieval merchant prince, all within the impenetrable walls of the crowded medina.

My host was Abdelfettah, a native of the old city of Fez. Educated in Britain, he spoke with the unmistakable accent of the British upper cla.s.ses but is, as they say there, quite the other thing. A few years ago, with his English wife, Naomi, and two children, he'd returned to his beloved hometown and begun work restoring this magnificent estate tile by tile, brick by brick, doing much of the work himself. He now wore only traditional garb, djellaba and babouches babouches (pointed yellow slippers), having turned his back on the world outside his walls. Abdelfettah and Naomi have dedicated themselves to preserving the ancient culture and traditions of Fez and their own luxurious piece of that tradition. No television and no radio were on the premises. Outside the main house and kitchen annex, Abdelfettah maintained a studio, where he spent hours each day creating indescribably intricate reliefs in white plaster, hand-carving endlessly repet.i.tious non-representational designs and patterns into its surface. At the far end of the garden, construction was under way for a center for Moroccan music, where local musicians and aficionados will a.s.semble and work. (pointed yellow slippers), having turned his back on the world outside his walls. Abdelfettah and Naomi have dedicated themselves to preserving the ancient culture and traditions of Fez and their own luxurious piece of that tradition. No television and no radio were on the premises. Outside the main house and kitchen annex, Abdelfettah maintained a studio, where he spent hours each day creating indescribably intricate reliefs in white plaster, hand-carving endlessly repet.i.tious non-representational designs and patterns into its surface. At the far end of the garden, construction was under way for a center for Moroccan music, where local musicians and aficionados will a.s.semble and work.

I was taken through a well-equipped kitchen and breakfast area to the main building. It was a towering square structure, built around a large interior courtyard. The inner walls rose over a hundred feet in a wide, wide shaft to the roof and sky, every inch decorated with precise hand-painted and -a.s.sembled mosaics of small white and blue tile. The cedar doors to my room on the ground floor, which opened onto the courtyard and a gurgling fountain, were at least six times my height, and carved with the same kind of skillfully executed patterns as Abdelfettah's plaster reliefs, many of which occupied s.p.a.ces over entryways and interior windows. I could easily imagine two big bald guys, shirtless and wearing silk pantaloons and fezzes, flanking each side of the almost ridiculously tall doors, opening them to the accompaniment of a hammered gong.

My residence contained a sitting room and a bedroom, with elaborately handcrafted bookshelves, couches covered in embroidered cushions, and Berber rugs on the floors. Upstairs, beyond the top of the estate's walls, no windows opened onto the outer world. Those peeking in from a vantage point on the hills outside the city would see only a bare white surface. As I unpacked my belongings, the muezzin's call from the mosque next door resonated through the hard-tiled courtyard. It was easily the most fantastic residence I had ever seen, much less stayed in, a building many times older than my whole country.

My host was a serious man, although he possessed a well-hidden whimsical streak. His former life revealed itself only in flashes a spark of interest in the mention of a Western film, a sudden yen for an American cigarette. Other than that, he was concerned only with his home, his lifestyle, and the preservation of Fez's traditions. He was resolute in his determination to restore the property fully to its former glory, and, if possible, to influence others to do the same. Fez is now under siege of a different sort, as hundreds of thousands of Moroccans, dispossessed from their rural homes by drought or poverty, have flooded the old city in recent decades. The buildings are filled with squatters; the infrastructure is crumbling. The tendrils of the Great Satan Internet cafes, housing developments, fast-food joints lick at the outer walls. The once-proud elite of political thinkers, philosophers, and merchants has largely fled elsewhere.

It was my host's work with plaster that spoke most articulately of his seriousness and dedication. There are no faces in Islamic art, nor any images of animals, plants, historical tableaux, or landscapes. Anything G.o.d created is a taboo subject for an artist. The artist must speak in severely constrained fashion, within the framework of centuries-old traditions and practice. Yet despite those constraints, I saw in Abdelfettah's work and, later, in the works of other Islamic artists a universe of possibilities for beauty and expression. I was reminded of Moroccan food, where there may be only a few standard dishes but infinite room for subtle variations exists. Abdelfettah showed me how he did the work, allowed me to feel as the metal tools pushed through one section of softly yielding plaster, routing delicately into the pristine white surface. Again and again, I saw those tiny repeating patterns, never varying from G.o.d's plan, always within the controlled borders of the design, kept firmly in control yet emanating outward, layer upon layer, ring around ring. It takes a long time to do a single piece how long, I have no idea. And there were scores of them all over the house. (On occasion, Abdelfettah worked for others. He did, he confided, Mick Jagger's bathroom recently.) The challenge of all that work, all that elaborate detail, and his unwavering faith in what he was doing, his discipline, his certainty that he'd chosen the right path, provoked and disturbed me in new ways. Why couldn't I be that certain about anything? Why had I never found anything that so commanded my attention and effort, year after year after year? I looked at Abdelfettah, wondered what he was really seeing in all those tiny grooves and repeating patterns, and I envied him. The professional kitchen has always provided me with my own measure of certainty, a thing to believe in, a cause. Cooking, the system, has been my orthodoxy but never like this. Mine has been a sloppy, dysfunctional life. I yearned for whatever it was he had that I didn't, imagining it could only be peace of mind. My efforts, during a lifetime of cooking, have all been eaten by the next day, a memory at best. Abdelfettah's work will live on forever. I spent the evening reading the Koran, moved by its seductive, sometimes terrible severity, its unquestioning absolutism, trying to imagine the people within its pages, their very human problems and their extraordinary, often cruel solutions.

I woke up the next day under three layers of blankets, the toaster-sized electric heater on my nightstand warming my left ear and little else. My host had dragooned his mother, sister, a housekeeper, and a servant into preparing two days of meals, a full overview of the cla.s.sic dishes of Fez. I was in the perfect place to enjoy Moroccan food. Ask just about anyone in the country where the best food is and they'll tell you Fez. Ask where you should eat this food in Fez and they'll invariably tell you to eat in a private home. Certainly, if you want to eat Moroccan food like Moroccans eat it, you're not going to find it in a restaurant.

When I went for coffee in the kitchen, Abdelfettah's mother was already hard at work, rubbing and kneading freshly made pellets of semolina between hands decorated with the reddish purple designs you see on elderly women, making couscous from scratch. His sister was making waqa waqa, a crepelike substance used for wrapping pastilla pastilla, a much-loved pigeon pie. Pigeons were marinating, almonds toasting in the controlled chaos of the crowded kitchen. I had a light breakfast of curds and dates, a few pastries, then decided to explore the medina. To have done so alone would have been madness. I never, and I mean never, would have been able to find my way home. Abdul was not a native of Fez and would have been a bad choice as guide. I relied instead on a friend of Abdelfettah's; let's call him Mohammed.

When you're in Fez's old city, picking your way carefully down steep steps, hunching to scurry through tunnels, squeezing past overloaded donkeys in dark, narrow shafts, ducking beneath strategically placed logs that had been cemented into opposing walls to discourage mounted riders hundreds of years ago, it looks the way they tried but failed to make it look in a hundred movies. You can't stand; you have to keep moving, or you're in somebody's way. In the medina, just to look around is to feel how far you are from everything you know.

The smell of the tanneries is intense. Leather is 'cured,' according to Mohammed, in pigeon s.h.i.t. If you want to know why that Jerry Garcia hat your old pal from the ashram brought you when he returned from here back in the seventies still smells like s.h.i.t, now you know. One encounters a tantalizing mixture of fragrances spices, food cooking, the dyeing pits, freshly cut cedar, mint, bubbling hookahs and as one approaches the souk, the smells only get stronger. The souk, or market, is laid out according to an ancient guild system. This means that merchants or tradesmen of a particular kind still tend to flock together, grouping their businesses in one area. We pa.s.sed a whole street of knife sharpeners, grimacing old men pumping foot-cranked stone grinding wheels with one leg, sparks flying. They looked like mad one-legged bicyclists. Carpet merchants were clearly at the top of the hierarchy these days, maintaining whole buildings covered floor to ceiling with mounds of Berber rugs, carpets, runners, and blankets. I submitted to an invitation to take a look. Seated at a low table, I was 'pulled' by the offer of mint tea, 'hooked' by the inevitable offer to show me a few particularly beautiful carpets, and 'closed' when I ended up blowing eight hundred smackers on stuff I had never intended to buy. After ensuring that every inch of my apartment would soon be filled with livestock-scented floor coverings and itchy blankets, I stepped, blinking, onto the streets. As Mohammed had probably had a profitable morning from the referral, I figured he'd be suitably motivated to find me the cannabis products Morocco had once been famous for. He smiled at my request, disappeared for a few moments, and returned with three thumb-sized hunks of hashish and a piece of kif, the sticky pollen cake made from the marijuana plant.

Feeling good about things, I continued exploring the market. Butchers occupied a long thatch-covered strip of street, their hunks of bleeding meat slung over counters or hanging from hooks much of it cut into segments I could identify from no meat or cookery chart I'd ever seen. Piles of sheep's heads, still woolly and caked with blood, lay in pyramids; carca.s.ses hung in the humid stillness, drawing flies. Meat cutters hacked with cleavers and scimitars. People bullied through the crowds atop their beasts of burden, and pedestrians paused to poke, prod, fondle, haggle, and taste. Baskets of snails and periwinkles gurgled in wicker baskets at the fish vendors. Stalls displayed dried beef and jerky, photogenic piles of spices and herbs, counters of fresh cheese, leaf-wrapped wheels of goat cheese, tubs of curds, olives every hue and type of olive filling barrel after barrel dried fruit and produce, preserved lemons, grains, nuts, figs, dates. A woman made waqa waqa, peeling the filament-thin crepes off a hot plate with her fingers. Another woman made slightly thicker, larger crepes on a giant cast-iron dome, pouring batter over what looked like an oversized wig stand in a department store window. They blistered and bubbled until solid; then she would peel them off and slather them with a sweet spreadable paste of ground nuts and dates. She folded up one of these great floppy objects and presented it to me. Delicious.

Turbans, fezzes, kepis, keffiyehs, bangles, chadors, and baseball caps bobbed above the shoulders of the crowd, a sea of headgear moving slowly through the confined s.p.a.ces. It was work just walking a block. Nudged by the tide to the outer margins of the souk, I saw tailor shops with whole families kneeling inside, sewing. Carpenters lathed and sanded pieces of furniture, metalworkers hammered and tapped, and women filled buckets from community fountains. There were shoes, toys, jewelry, pressed tin, gold, wood, leather, and clay handicrafts much, if not most, of the same stuff you see in dusty storefronts in the East Village. Believe me, you have, or at least have had, most of this stuff. Those groovy little inlaid boxes you used to keep your stash in? The stash pouch your first girlfriend gave you? They still have them in Fez, if you need new ones. I have come to believe, after traveling all over the world, that there's a giant factory complex in Macao or Taiwan where all the world's native handicrafts come from, a vast a.s.sembly floor where workers string seash.e.l.ls and beads for sale everywhere from Rio de Janeiro to the Caribbean to Da Nang, thousands of Chinese convicts s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g together Moroccan rifles, carving Mexican chess sets, and slapping paint on novelty ashtrays.

Returning to the walled idyll of Abdelfettah's home, I hurried to the rooftop and rolled a fat spliff of hashish-laced tobacco. I smoked deeply while the muezzin's call echoed through the courtyard. Abdelfettah's children were playing with 'Torty,' their pet turtle, by the fountain. I peered lazily at the rooftops of the medina and gazed at the cemeteries and hills beyond.

Reasons Why You Don't Want to Be on Television: Number Three in a Series Goofy with hash, I was worthless as a television host. I sat at the table with Abdelfettah and his wife, Naomi, eating a spectacular meal of wonderful thick harira harira, a lamb and lentil soup traditionally served to break the fast of Ramadan. There were salads, brochettes, and an absolutely ethereal couscous served with Fez-style tagine of chicken with raisins and preserved lemon. While we ate, Matthew and Global Alan stood directly across from the table, both their cameras pointed from the hip straight at us, expectantly. Under the unblinking gaze of their lenses, I felt unable to say a single enlightening or interesting thing. Repartee with my kind hosts was beyond me. I shrank from the artificiality of the whole enterprise, the forced nature of turning to Naomi, for instance, and casually inquiring, 'So, Naomi, maybe you'd like to tell me about the entire history and culture of Morocco, its cuisine, and, uh, while you're at it, could you explain Islam for us? Oh, pa.s.s the chicken, please. Thanks.' I was enjoying the food, competently s.n.a.t.c.hing fingerfuls of couscous and tagine between the excellent bread. But I couldn't talk.

Next to me, Naomi radiated unease. Abdelfettah looked, understandably, bored. Matthew cleared his throat impatiently, waiting for me to elicit a few recipes, some anecdotes. I liked my hosts, but Naomi, while quick, articulate, and informative off-camera, froze when the cameras turned on. I couldn't do it to her. In my state of neurotic, hash-heightened sensitivity, I just couldn't put her on the spot, knowing the cameras would then move in for a closer shot. I I certainly had nothing to add to the world's knowledge of Morocco. I was just finding a few a precious few things out myself. Who am I, Dan Rather? I'm supposed to face the camera and spit out some facile summary of twelve hundred years of blood, sweat, colonial occupation, faith, custom, and ethnology as it relates to a chicken stew all in a nice 120-second sound bite? I'm not even Burt Wolf, I was thinking. And I hate Burt Wolf. Watching him in his flawlessly white chef's coat, with his little notepad, pretending to take notes for the camera while he leans inquisitively over some toiling chef in a French country kitchen, the voice-over giving the viewing audience the short course on the French Belle Epoque. I used to watch those shows and want to leap through the TV screen, grab a fistful of Burt's chef's jacket, and scream, 'Take that off, you useless f.u.c.k! Give the man some room, for G.o.d's sake! Let him work!' But I was Burt now. Worse than Burt because I had no idea, no clue, what I was doing. In my madcap lurch around the world, I'd done no preparation. I knew nothing. About anything. certainly had nothing to add to the world's knowledge of Morocco. I was just finding a few a precious few things out myself. Who am I, Dan Rather? I'm supposed to face the camera and spit out some facile summary of twelve hundred years of blood, sweat, colonial occupation, faith, custom, and ethnology as it relates to a chicken stew all in a nice 120-second sound bite? I'm not even Burt Wolf, I was thinking. And I hate Burt Wolf. Watching him in his flawlessly white chef's coat, with his little notepad, pretending to take notes for the camera while he leans inquisitively over some toiling chef in a French country kitchen, the voice-over giving the viewing audience the short course on the French Belle Epoque. I used to watch those shows and want to leap through the TV screen, grab a fistful of Burt's chef's jacket, and scream, 'Take that off, you useless f.u.c.k! Give the man some room, for G.o.d's sake! Let him work!' But I was Burt now. Worse than Burt because I had no idea, no clue, what I was doing. In my madcap lurch around the world, I'd done no preparation. I knew nothing. About anything.

I could have pointed out, I guess, that the raisins and preserved lemon were distinctive of Fez-style tagine. I'm sure I could have described for the viewing audience the difference between couscous made from scratch and couscous made out of the box, talked about the way it's cooked in the couscousire steaming over the simmering sauce from the tagine. I'm sure, if I'd st.i.tched a smile on my face and gathered my thoughts, and had the heart to do it, I could have gotten Abdelfettah to discuss his hopes for his city, his planned music center, his art, knowing full well that that would have ended up on the cutting room floor. As Matthew squirmed and fumed, the clock ticked, each second dropping like molten lead into the vast pool of unusable footage. What was I going to say? Abdelfettah had found something here, but however beautiful, however righteous and unpolluted by the outside world it was, I knew I could never live this way. Maybe, I mused, if the cameras were gone, maybe then I could give myself over more wholeheartedly to the experience. Maybe I'd be more able to relax. But I knew better. Even with the added conveniences of a high-speed modem, hot tub, bowling alley, regular deliveries of deli food and pizza from New York, and Krispy Kreme doughnuts, I couldn't live like this. Ever. My hosts seemed so content and at home within the context of their city, their family, and their beliefs that I felt it completely inappropriate to nudge them into the automatic dumb-down that comes with addressing a lens.

My last meal at Abdelfettah's was pastilla pastilla, the delicate, flaky pigeon pie, wrapped and baked in waqa waqa with toasted almonds and eggs, then garnished with cinnamon. Like everything I'd eaten, it was wonderful. But I felt pulled in twelve directions at once. I was not happy with being the globe-trotting television shill. I had been cold and away from home for far too long. I yearned for the comfort and security of my own walled city, my kitchen back at Les Halles, a belief system I understood and could endorse without reservation. Sitting next to these two nice people and their kids, I felt like some news anchor with a pompadour, one of the many gla.s.sy-eyed media people whom I'd flogged my book with around the United States. 'So, Anthony, tell us why we should with toasted almonds and eggs, then garnished with cinnamon. Like everything I'd eaten, it was wonderful. But I felt pulled in twelve directions at once. I was not happy with being the globe-trotting television shill. I had been cold and away from home for far too long. I yearned for the comfort and security of my own walled city, my kitchen back at Les Halles, a belief system I understood and could endorse without reservation. Sitting next to these two nice people and their kids, I felt like some news anchor with a pompadour, one of the many gla.s.sy-eyed media people whom I'd flogged my book with around the United States. 'So, Anthony, tell us why we should never never order fish on Monday.' My spirits were dropping into a deep dark hole. order fish on Monday.' My spirits were dropping into a deep dark hole.

I was being 'difficult.' I was being 'uncooperative.' I really was. An executive producer was flown out from New York to soothe my troubled conscience, to help me feel better about the enterprise. She showed me some rough cuts of earlier shows, pointed out that I wasn't doing that badly, if I remembered to look at the camera, if I'd only stop cursing and smoking and slagging other Food Network chefs all the time, maybe look at a map before visiting a country. Three minutes into this motivational meeting, the producer mentioned that her boyfriend had been kidnapped by aliens. She said this casually, as if mentioning that she'd seen the Yankees/Red Sox game last week. He'd built an alien landing strip in their apartment, she added, her tone frighteningly devoid of irony or skepticism. I waited for the part where she'd say, 'Oh yeah, I know. He's nuts. Barking mad. But I love the big lug.' That would have been enough for me. I waited, but nothing came. She continued gently pointing out my many deficiencies while urging me on. I think I even jokingly inquired if her boyfriend had mentioned any rectal probing being involved, a suspiciously regular feature of rural alien abductions. She didn't laugh.

I was alone.

I spoke with Naomi before leaving, apologized for myself, thanked her for enduring the crew, and the cameras, expressed regret that I was leaving her beautiful home, and this amazing city, without really having gained any knowledge or real insight. She handed me a small piece of paper on which she'd copied a verse by Longfellow: 'And the night shall be filled with music,/And the cares, that infest the day,/Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs/And as silently steal away.'

I hoped so. I truly did. I had very high hopes for the desert. I needed it.

It was a nine-hour drive from Fez to the desert. We pa.s.sed through snowcapped mountains with Swiss-style vacation homes a remnant of the French occupation through forests and valleys, across the Moyen-Atlas, and down onto mile after mile of absolutely flat, hard-packed, pebble-strewn dirt. One long, undulating ribbon of asphalt stretched on and on for hundreds of miles. Occasionally, we glimpsed in the distance wadis, mesas, mountains, cliffs, great mounds of packed dirt. Every fifty miles or so, an oasis appeared. Some oases were simply small cl.u.s.ters of the ubiquitous sand and mud castles, while others were vast wedding cake-like Casbahs, groupings of homes and mosques, schools and markets, small plots of green crowded around tall palms, clinging to where water pa.s.sed, or had once pa.s.sed, or was likely to pa.s.s again. Coming from New York, one tends to take water for granted. Here in the desert, it's life or death. One builds where water flows or trickles. One pulls it from the ground. Some of the larger oases stretched for miles in the wide, deep crevices where the earth, thousands or millions of years ago, had split open, cracked like an overcooked brownie.

I began seeing camels with regularity alongside the road, with blue- or black-clad Berbers holding the reins or riding on top. I saw women with tattooed faces in the same black or blue scarves, the colors and markings denoting tribe. And I saw something else again and again in the middle of the vast, monotonous expanses of hard, waterless desert, where for thirty miles we'd pa.s.sed nothing not a house, not a single structure, no stick of wood or blade of gra.s.s to distract the eye from horizon to horizon. There, sitting by the side of the road, were lone watchers, people who'd hiked for miles from beyond the curve of the earth to sit and watch the occasional car or truck blow past them at eighty miles an hour, never slowing. These people didn't beg, or wave, or even raise their heads to smile. They sat impa.s.sive, watching in silence in their rags as evidence of the modern world roared past, leaving them in a cloud of dust.

Abdul owned only one ca.s.sette tape: Judy Collins's Greatest Hits Greatest Hits. I tried sleeping. I tried shutting it out, but, in the end, the soulless trilling and warbling of 'Both Sides Now' slowly ground me down to a state of near-hysterical desperation. The road to Risani seemed to go on forever especially with Judy exercising her pipes. The scenery changed gradually from the uninterruptedly ba.n.a.l red-pebbled desert to breathtaking Martian landscapes of mountain peaks, flat b.u.t.tes, deep wadis, and cliff towns. Mostly, however, it was dirt. At times, nothing identified what was out the window as being anywhere on earth. Not a living thing. Occasionally very occasionally there would be a mud farm, where deep trenches had been dug for building materials, and a few forlorn-looking goats. Seemingly nonsensical property dividers, irregularly piled baseball-sized stones, indicated boundaries between nothing and nothingness. No water, no trees, no animals, and yet there they were, mile after mile of precariously balanced rocks. Finally, Risani appeared, a sun-bleached, dusty, desultory town of dirty streets and disheveled citizenry. We checked into the 'best' hotel, a faux Casbah of mud and cinder block, the familiar combo of inadequate electric heater, mushy bed springs, and lime-encrusted showerhead. Beer, at least, was available in the lobby along with a very special menu of tagine, couscous, and brochette.

I had come to Risani to find meshwi meshwi, the whole roasted lamb so integral to my delusions of desert adventure. It had been arranged in advance over the phone with a group of Tuaregs who guided people around the Merzouga dunes as a business concern. But after a conversation on his battered cell phone, Abdul was telling me that the next night's dinner in the desert would be 'something very special.' I knew what that meant: The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were planning a big meal of couscous, brochette, and tagine. I was furious. I had not come all this way to eat couscous again. I could eat that in the lobby with the j.a.panese and German tourists. I'd come for whole roasted lamb, Berber-style, tearing at fat and t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es with my bare hands around a bonfire with the Blue Dudes, the whole beast, crispy and delicious, laid out in front of me. 'But, but . . .' I stammered, 'I wanted meshwi meshwi! I was getting meshwi meshwi!' Abdul shook his head, whipped out his cell phone, made a call, and spoke for a few minutes in Arabic. 'They don't have whole lamb,' said Abdul. 'If you want, we must bring ourselfs.'

'Fine,' I barked, irritated. 'Call them back. Tell them tomorrow morning we'll go to the market, buy a whole lamb, dressed and cleaned, and anything else they'll need. We'll throw it in the back of the car and take it on out. All they've gotta do is the voodoo that they do cook the d.a.m.n thing.' The plan was to get up early, swing by the market, buy lamb and supplies, load it all into the back of a hired Land Rover and rush out to the desert before the food began to rot.

Abdul looked dubious.

The next morning, we arrived as planned. The ground meat, vegetables and dry ingredients were no problem. The lamb, however, was proving to be difficult. At a butcher counter down an alleyway to the rear of a flyblown souk, a gold-toothed butcher considered our request and opened his ancient nonfunctioning stand-up fifties-era Frigidaire, revealing one hapless-looking leg of lamb, cut rudely through the hip and leeching blood.

'He has only the leg,' said Abdul.

'I see that,' I said irritably. 'Tell him I want the whole thing. What do I have to do to get the whole thing?'

'It is bad day,' said Abdul. 'The sheeps, they come to the market Monday. Today is Wednesday. No lamb comes today.'

'Ask him . . . maybe he's got a friend,' I suggested. 'Tell him I'll pay. I'm not looking for a bargain here. I need a whole f.u.c.king lamb. Legs, body, neck, and b.a.l.l.s. The whole animal.'

Abdul embarked on a long and contentious new tack one that was of clear interest to the butcher, who raised an eyebrow. I imagine Abdul was saying something like 'You see this stupid American next to me? He has no sense at all! He'll pay a lot of money for his whole lamb. It'll be worth both our whiles, my friend, if you can hook us up.'

The conversation became more animated, with multiple rounds of negotiation. Others joined us, materializing from dusty, trash-strewn alleyways, getting involved in the discussion, offering suggestions and strategies as well as debating, it appeared, their respective cuts of the action. 'He say one hundred dollars,' said Abdul, uncertain that I'd go for such a figure.

'Done,' I replied without hesitation. Not too terribly far from New York prices, and how often would I get to eat fresh whole lamb in the Sahara?

The butcher abandoned his stall and led us down the sun-streaked streets, deep into a maze of buildings that seemed to go on forever. People came to upstairs windows to look at the strange procession of Americans, Moroccans, and TV cameras below. Children and dogs joined us as we walked, kicking up dust, begging and barking. I looked to my left and noticed a smiling man holding a large, menacing knife. He grinned, gave me the thumbs-up sign. I was beginning to get an idea of what it means when you say you want fresh lamb in Risani.

We arrived at a low-ceilinged manger, surrounded by worried- and unkempt-looking sheep. Our party had shrunk to four people and a TV crew. The butcher, an a.s.sistant, Abdul, and I crowded into a tiny mud and straw structure, sheep jostling us as they tried to look inconspicuous. A particularly plump beast was grabbed by the scruff of the neck. Abdul pinched his thigh and then rib sections; a new round of argument and negotiation began. Finally, consensus, and the poor animal was dragged, protesting, out into the sunny street. Another man was waiting for us with a bucket of water and a length of rope. I watched queasily as the intended victim was brusquely pointed toward Mecca. The man with the knife leaned over and without ceremony quickly cut the sheep's throat.

It was a deep, fast, and efficient movement. Were I, for one of many good reasons, condemned to die in the same fashion, I doubt I could have found a more capable executioner. The animal fell on its side, blood gurgling into the alley. There had been no cries of pain. I could readily see the animal's open windpipe; the head appeared to have been d.a.m.n near cut off. But it continued to breathe, to twitch. While the executioner chatted with his cohorts, he held his victim down with a foot on its head.

I watched the poor sheep's eyes a look I'd see again and again in the dying as the animal registered its imminent death, that terrible unforgettable second when, either from exhaustion or disgust, it seemed to decide finally to give up and die. It was a haunting look, a look that says, You were all of you a terrible disappointment. The eyes closed slowly, as if the animal were going to sleep, almost willfully.

I had my fresh lamb.

My new pals strung up the body by the ankles, letting the blood drain into a pail. They cut the woolly pelt at one ankle and the butcher pressed his mouth to the opening and blew, inflating the skin away from the meat and muscle. A few more quick cuts and the skin was peeled off like a dancer's leotard. Stray dogs looked on from the rooftops as blood continued to drip, more slowly now. The a.s.sistant poured water constantly as the carca.s.s was worked over, the entrails removed and sorted. The head was removed, heart put aside for the butcher, intestines and crepine crepine (stomach-membrane) saved for merguez and sausage. Soon, the sheep looked comfortably enough like meat, save for two mango-sized t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es that hung upside down from the inverted carca.s.s in distinctly separate blue-veined scrota. The butcher winked at me indicating, I gathered, that this part was indeed very good and should be protected during the long ride out to our camp in the dunes and made two slashes in the animal's belly, tucking a t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e in each. (stomach-membrane) saved for merguez and sausage. Soon, the sheep looked comfortably enough like meat, save for two mango-sized t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es that hung upside down from the inverted carca.s.s in distinctly separate blue-veined scrota. The butcher winked at me indicating, I gathered, that this part was indeed very good and should be protected during the long ride out to our camp in the dunes and made two slashes in the animal's belly, tucking a t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e in each.

There was more washing, a fidgety moment during the de rigueur postmortem enema, and then more washing. They were fast. The whole procedure, from 'Baa-baa' to meat, took maybe twenty minutes. I walked back to our Land Rover, retracing my steps with my new buddies in tow. With my hundred-dollar bill in the butcher's pocket, and the eerily bonding experience we'd just shared, they seemed to like me a lot more. The carca.s.s was wrapped in a clear plastic tarpaulin, like a dead wise guy. I got a strangely pleasurable thrill hearing the thump as the body's dead weight flopped into the back of the Rover.

We filled in a few holes in our mise-en-place mise-en-place at the souk, ga.s.sed up, and headed for the Merzouga dunes. I was looking forward to seeing clean white sand, free of the smells of sheep and fear, far from the sounds of dying animals. at the souk, ga.s.sed up, and headed for the Merzouga dunes. I was looking forward to seeing clean white sand, free of the smells of sheep and fear, far from the sounds of dying animals.

For a while it was more hard-packed lunarscape, until suddenly I felt the tires sink into softer ground, and soon it was sand, sand, and more sand, the vehicle gliding through the frosting of a giant cake. On the horizon were the mammoth red peaks and dips of the Merzouga dunes the real Sahara of my Boys' Own Boys' Own adventure fantasies. I felt exhilarated and relieved, considering, for the first time in a while, the possibility of happiness. adventure fantasies. I felt exhilarated and relieved, considering, for the first time in a while, the possibility of happiness.

A small sandstone hut with blue-clad Berbers sitting on couches awaited us. A camel train had been a.s.sembled nearby, the big animals kneeling and ready. We mounted up and set out across the dunes, single file, a lone Tuareg in head-to-toe blue leading on foot, another to the rear. Global Alan rode on the lead camel, just ahead of me, Abdul, still in his orange-and-green tweed jacket, behind me. Matt and the a.s.sistant producer rode farther back.

Riding a camel, particularly if you're comfortable on horseback, is not hard. I was real comfortable, cradled behind the animal's hump on a thick layer of blankets, my beast gently lurching forward. My legs rested in front of me. It was a long ride and I had in an unusually lucid moment made proper prior preparations: briefs instead of boxers.

Global Alan, however, had not chosen his undergarments with comfort and security in mind. Already in the awkward position of having to ride half-turned with a camera pointed back at me for those all-important Tony of the Desert shots he was not having an easy time of it. Whenever his camel would descend at a steep angle into the deep hollows between dunes, I could hear him grunting and whimpering with pain as his b.a.l.l.s were pinched by the saddle. Alan hated Morocco. He'd hated it before we'd arrived, having been there before on a.s.signment. Whenever I'd complained in France or Spain or Portugal about crummy bathrooms, uncomfortable rooms, rude waiters, or cold climate, Alan had just smiled, shaken his head, and said, 'Wait till Morocco. You're gonna hate it. Just wait. Buncha guys who look like Saddam Hussein, sitting around holding hands. Drinking tea. You're gonna hate it. Just wait.'

In fact, I was really beginning to enjoy myself. This was exactly the sort of scenario I'd envisioned when I'd dreamed up this scheme. This This was what I was here for! To ride across desert sands with blue-clad Berbers, to sleep under the stars, surrounded by nothing, to eat lamb t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es in the middle of nowhere. Not to sit stiffly at a dinner table like a pinned moth, yapping at the camera. was what I was here for! To ride across desert sands with blue-clad Berbers, to sleep under the stars, surrounded by nothing, to eat lamb t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es in the middle of nowhere. Not to sit stiffly at a dinner table like a pinned moth, yapping at the camera.

After a few hours, we made camp at the foot of a huge dune. The sun was setting and long shadows appeared, growing in the hollows and swells of sand as far as the eye could see. The Blue Men got busy working on a late snack, something to keep us going until we hit the main encampment, where we'd spend the night. One of them built a fire out of a few sticks of wood and dried gra.s.s. While the flames burned down to coals and tea was made, the other Berber made bread dough in a small bowl, mixing and working it by hand. He covered it for a while, allowing it to rise under a cloth, then wrapped it around a filling of meat, onion, garlic, c.u.min, and herbs. Judging the fire to be ready, he brushed aside the coals, dug into the hot sand beneath, and dropped the fat disk of meat directly into the hole, covering it back up immediately. Time to wait, said Abdul.

Warm enough for the moment to remove shoes and socks, to strip down to a single layer of shirt, I climbed the big dune, dragging my tired, wheezing, and hideously out-of-shape carca.s.s up the most gradual incline I could see, feeling every cigarette and mouthful of food I'd had in the last six months. It took me a long time. I had to rest every fifty yards or so, gasping, trying to summon the strength for the next fifty. I picked my way slowly along the soft but dramatic edge of a sharply defined ridge, then fell onto my back at the highest point. Rising after a few moments onto my elbows, I looked, for the first and probably last time in my life, at something I'd never seriously imagined I'd cast eyes upon: a hundred miles of sand in every direction, a hundred miles of absolutely gorgeous, unspoiled nothingness. I wiggled my bare toes in the sand and lay there for a long time, watching the sun drop slowly into the dunes like a deflating beach ball, the color of the desert quickly transforming from red to gold to yellow ocher to white, the sky changing, too. I was wondering how a miserable, manic-depressive, overage, undeserving hustler like myself a utility chef from New York City with no particular distinction to be found in his long and egregiously checkered career on the strength of one inexplicably large score, could find himself here, seeing this, living the dream.

I am the luckiest son of a b.i.t.c.h in the world, I thought, contentedly staring out at all that silence and stillness, feeling, for the first time in a while, able to relax, to draw a breath unenc.u.mbered by scheming and calculating and worrying. I was happy just sitting there enjoying all that harsh and beautiful s.p.a.ce. I felt comfortable in my skin, rea.s.sured that the world was indeed a big and marvelous place.