I was going through customs in San Francisco a couple of years ago and the agent, casually flipping through my passport stopped upon seeing Arabic in smugged black ink. "Where was this from?" she demanded. "Morocco." I answered with the utmost respect. "What were you doing in Morocco?" she asked. This tested my travel worn patience just a little, what do you do is a question I always find maddening. I don't like to be asked to put myself into a box of a few frequent activities. Snarkily I shrugged and replied to the to her, "I don't know, eating couscous?" She was not amused, being like most police, fairly humorless.

Every six months or so my wrist starts to hurt and I am reminded of Morocco, where the train doors open even when the train is moving, and no one speaks enough English to convince you not to jump.

A couple of weeks ago I was in one of the numerous Middle Eastern markets that line Telegraph Avenue near my house in Oakland, a large bag of red spices labeled only Berbere caught my eye. It was huge and expensive and I couldn't bring myself to buy it, but I also couldn't get it off my mind. It reminded me of my friend's bargaining sessions in Morocco which usually ended in the shop keepers accusing my friends of being Berbers, and then often proposing marriage.

I had those friends plus a few others over for dinner last week and we had marinaded portobellos over couscous with a sauce of berbere spices, cashews and bourbon. It didn't blow me away. I served pickled black radish and radicchio on the side and for desert we had sherry and pears broiled in amaretto with Mexican chocolate.


Pears Broiled in Amaretto-3.3.10