I’d arrived in Essaouira the afternoon before, the Atlantic breeze ushering me through the medina’s winding lanes. My carossa – the quiet, determined man with his battered two-wheeled cart struggled to find Riad Malaika, its entrance hidden deep within a shadowed alley where not even the afternoon sun could reach. After a few wrong turns, some good-natured directions from locals, and a laugh at our shared confusion, we finally found the heavy wooden door. The riad welcomed me with its cool, tranquil courtyard, a secret oasis in the heart of the city.

Later, as dusk settled over Essaouira, I found myself alone at Butterfly Space. The hum of conversation and the clatter of cutlery were a gentle backdrop to my solitary meal, a plate of something vibrant and local, each bite a quiet celebration of arrival. The flavours lingered, weaving themselves into my first memories of the city.

That night, the riad wrapped me in its calm, the world outside fading into silence behind ancient walls.

At first light, the stillness was broken by a wild chorus of seagulls wheeling above the rooftops, their cries echoing through the medina and tugging me from sleep. Essaouira was waking, and so was I, drawn from dreams by the restless energy of the Atlantic and the city’s salt air. It was Monday, I think, though Morocco has a way of making days blur together. A new day had begun, one filled with promise, the memory of a solitary feast, and the wild, joyful chorus of seagulls overhead.

Breakfast was a delight, a celebration of Moroccan hospitality, almost too generous for the modest table. Jewel-like dried fruits and nuts waited beneath a glass-topped container, inviting discovery with every lift of the lid.

There was fresh bread, still warm and fragrant, perfect for scooping up the star of the morning: Amlou, that magical blend of roasted almonds, golden argan oil, and honey, rich and nutty, its flavour lingering long after each bite.

A single slice of crispy French toast, likely cut from a baguette, added a subtle sweetness and crunch, a golden accent among the morning’s offerings.

A variant of traditional Harcha, the rustic semolina cake, brought a tender, savoury note, its edges just crisp enough to satisfy. A glass of fresh fruit juice, vibrant and cool, stood alongside a beautifully prepared fruit salad, each piece glistening as if kissed by the morning sun.

Black tea, deep and fragrant, was served simply in a cup, its warmth and aroma a gentle comfort, mingling with the scents of homemade jam and honey from tiny pots nearby. A one-egg omelette completed the spread, a quiet companion to the abundance around it, and a reminder that simplicity can be its own luxury.

It was a breakfast to savour slowly, each element a note in a harmonious Moroccan morning, welcoming, generous, and filled with the promise of the day ahead.

As I carried my case down to reception, a gentle summons awaited me, Amanda, my guide and chef, and our driver had just arrived at the city’s edge. The hotel’s own carossa expertly appeared, his two-wheeled cart gliding through the labyrinthine corridors of the medina with a grace born of years navigating these ancient stones. We emerged at the medina’s threshold, where our new driver, Adil, greeted us with a beaming smile; kind, gentle, and unfailingly polite, his calm presence a welcome anchor amid the lively swirl of Moroccan traffic, which always seems to dance somewhere between chaos and choreography.

With my bags stowed in the 4×4, Amanda and I slipped back into the medina’s embrace, eager to explore its secrets and gather fresh produce for the day’s adventures. The morning air was alive with possibility as we wandered between sunlit alleys and cool shadows, pausing to admire the vibrant displays of local shops.

Our first stop, the legendary Pâtisserie Driss, was shuttered for Eid al-Adha, the sweet scent of celebration lingering in the air even as the doors remained closed. Undeterred, we wandered on and soon discovered Pâtisserie Boujemaa, its windows brimming with confections that sparkled like jewels in the morning light.

Stepping inside felt like entering a world of Moroccan enchantment, orange blossom and honey perfuming the air, trays laden with cornes de gazelle, glossy chebakia, crumbly ghoriba, and crisp briouats. Each pastry was a testament to Morocco’s centuries-old tradition of hospitality and artistry. For just 150 dirhams, we left with a full kilogram of these sweet treasures, each bite a celebration in itself, some sweet treats for rest of the week.

We wound our way through the medina’s twisting corridors until we reached one of the main thoroughfares, where our first snack stop awaited: maakouda. We enjoyed them just as they were, fresh from the fryer, golden and crisp, with no need for accompaniments. Eaten plain, the gentle warmth of turmeric and cumin took centre stage, allowing the comforting flavours of these humble potato fritters to truly shine. There’s a special charm in the simplicity of Moroccan street food, and with each bite of maakouda, we tasted that perfect balance of spice and tradition.

Shopping in Morocco is a true adventure for the senses. Here, the focus is on flavour rather than flawless appearance; tomatoes, courgettes, and carrots may not look perfect, but their taste is unbeatable. We delved deep into the medina, venturing into bustling corners where few travellers stray, on a mission to gather ingredients for our culinary explorations. This was a foodie holiday, after all, and Amanda, an exceptionally talented chef, was eager to discover every hidden gem. In one shop, chickens clustered together in a large open box, a scene both fascinating and distinctly local. The vegetable stalls were overflowing with vibrant produce, and we selected earthy beetroots for a trout cure back at the villa, along with fresh courgettes and carrots for the couscous we’d prepare later. Wandering through these tucked-away markets was both fun and eye-opening, the abundance of vegetables, the lively atmosphere, and the remarkably low prices all added to the magic of our Moroccan shopping adventure.

We settled in for a good half hour over a glass of steaming mint tea at a tiny café nestled beside a lively market stall, where great tubs of glossy olives in every shade of green and purple caught our eye. The stall was a paradise for any food lover; mounds of spicy green and red harissa, generous portions of rich, aromatic khlii (Moroccan preserved lamb), and an ever-changing parade of locals stopping by for their daily essentials.

As we lingered over our sweet atay b’naanaa, the air alive with the mingled scents of herbs and spices, we soaked in the vibrant scene. For anyone curious, atay b’naanaa simply means “mint tea” in Moroccan Arabic – atay is tea, and naanaa is mint, so there’s no banana involved, just a fragrant blend of green tea, fresh spearmint, and sugar. Here, at the heart of the medina, surrounded by the raw ingredients of Moroccan cuisine, each sip of tea felt like a celebration, a leisurely pause and a perfect window into daily life before our next culinary adventure.

After the excitement of selecting fresh fish and prawns from the morning’s catch and savouring them perfectly grilled over charcoal, we spent a wonderful few hours exploring the medina’s winding alleys. The markets brimmed with vibrancy, tubs overflowing with glossy olives, heaps of fiery harissa, and generous servings of khlii, all set to the backdrop of everyday Moroccan bustle. Laden with ingredients and inspired by the sights and scents around us, we set off for our next destination: La Fromagerie, an artisan goat’s cheese maker, where we hoped to discover yet another delicious facet of Morocco’s culinary heritage.

Leaving the bustle of Essaouira behind, we set out on a scenic 13-mile journey along the N8, turning onto the R301 as the landscape unfurled before us. Hidden well back from the road, La Fromagerie emerged like a serene oasis—so peaceful that the distant hum of traffic vanished completely. The air was fragrant with blooms from lush gardens, and vibrant flowers framed the entrance, setting the tone for what felt like a secret retreat.

We were welcomed with a fascinating tour of the goat cheese production unit, where the day’s fresh milk was being transformed into creamy rounds of artisan cheese. The resident goats, content and curious, grazed nearby, while chickens scratched in the shade, supplying eggs for the kitchen. It was a beautiful glimpse into the rhythms of living off the land—a place where sustainability and tradition go hand in hand.

The meal at La Fromagerie was a true celebration of local flavours and craftsmanship. We began with a tasting of goat’s cheeses at varying stages of maturity, each one offering its own subtle character and creamy tang. Next came a delightful starter: a round of grilled cheese, its molten centre wrapped in a delicate bread crust and crowned with a tangle of sprouting pulses, simple yet utterly irresistible. Layers of silky aubergine followed, perfectly cooked and infused with just a whisper of tomato and chilli, each bite a harmonious balance of earthiness and warmth. To finish, we savoured ‘lamb mechoui‘, tender, succulent, and deeply flavourful, a dish that lingered long in the memory. Every course was a testament to the art of rustic Moroccan cooking, and together they made for a lunch that was nothing short of perfect.

For those tempted to linger, La Fromagerie also offers charming rooms for an overnight stay, inviting guests to fully immerse themselves in this tranquil corner of rural Morocco.

On our way to Amanda’s villa, we couldn’t resist a stop at Carrefour, a ritual I love when traveling. There’s something fascinating about wandering foreign supermarket aisles, comparing the range of products and prices to those back home. Carrefour’s shelves were stocked with a surprising array of international treats and local staples.

The alcohol section was particularly impressive, boasting a wide selection of beers, wines, and spirits, a reminder of Morocco’s cosmopolitan side. Imported goods, as expected, came at a premium; seeing familiar British biscuits and condiments with their price tags in dirhams was both amusing and eye-opening. The meat counter, however, was nearly bare, a quiet testament to Eid Al-Adha, when families gather and butchers take a holiday. Only a few spicy Merguez sausages remained, hinting at the usual bustle of the market. Visiting a Moroccan hypermarket like Carrefour is more than just shopping, it’s a cultural experience, revealing the rhythms of daily life and the interplay between tradition and modernity.

Our home base for days three to five was Amanda’s beautiful villa outside Essaouira, a whitewashed haven with an airy, open-plan design that struck the perfect balance between light and cool comfort. The spacious kitchen, complete with a generous cooking top and ample prep space, was a dream for any food lover. Outside, a welcoming dining area invited us to linger over meals in the fresh air, while the thoughtful architecture let sunlight pour in without letting the heat intrude. It was the ideal setting for my first Moroccan cooking lesson: couscous, a true labour of love.

Preparing traditional Moroccan couscous with organic, coarse, dark grains is a soulful ritual, steeped in centuries of culinary tradition. It all begins in a wide, shallow gsaa bowl, where the couscous is gently sprinkled with water, a pinch of salt, and a golden drizzle of olive oil. With practiced, gentle hands, the grains are softly rubbed and rolled, their earthy aroma rising as each one is lovingly coated and separated. After a patient rest, the couscous is heaped into the top of a couscoussier, where it steams above a bubbling pot of homemade broth, fragrant with onions, garlic, and a medley of aromatics, perhaps a pinch of saffron or Ras el Hanout. Once the steam has worked its magic, the couscous is tipped out, allowed to cool just enough, and then gently hand rubbed again, breaking up clumps and coaxing the grains to lightness.

This meditative cycle of steaming and gentle hand rubbing is repeated three times, each round drawing out the couscous’s tender, fluffy character without ever becoming sticky. No further water is added after the first step; it is the steam, the touch, and the patience that transform the grains. For the final steaming, we nestled quartered courgettes into the simmering broth, letting their subtle sweetness and fresh green flavor infuse the steam and mingle with the couscous above. When the grains were finally ready, we finished them with a generous knob of butter, folding it through so every grain glistened and carried just a hint of richness.

To serve, we spooned over the meltingly soft onions and vegetables from the broth, then crowned the couscous with golden pieces of fried monkfish, their delicate flavour providing a wonderful contrast to the subtle, fragrant grains. The result was a dish that felt deeply rooted in Moroccan tradition, yet uniquely our own, capturing the spirit of hospitality and the joy of sharing something truly special at the table.

Whilst the couscous was going through its patient, time-honoured ritual, we turned our attention to another culinary experiment I’d long wanted to try: beetroot-cured trout. Earlier that day in Essaouira, we’d picked up some earthy, jewel-toned beetroots, their deep colour promising both flavour and drama. With a quick blitz in the blender, we combined the beetroot with equal measures of salt and sugar, creating a vivid, fragrant cure. We nestled the trout fillets flesh-side down in this mixture, ensuring every surface was in contact with the cure, and left them to work their magic overnight. By the following day, after a gentle rinse to remove the excess salt, we’d have slices of beautifully cured trout, vibrant in colour and delicately seasoned. There’s a special satisfaction in weaving new ideas into a tapestry of tradition, and this little project felt like the perfect companion to our day of slow, soulful cooking.

At last, it was time to sit down and savour the fruits of our labour. Glancing at the timestamps on my photos, I realised we had started at 17:57 and finished at 22:20, a full 4 hours and 23 minutes devoted to creating what was, without a doubt, the tastiest couscous I have ever eaten. The subtle lessons learned along the way were priceless: no shortcuts, no quick-cook grains, just patience, gentle hands, and respect for tradition. The result was light, fluffy, and full of flavour, healthy, satisfying, and a fitting finale to another long day of Moroccan adventure. There’s a special kind of joy in sharing a meal that has been crafted with care, and this couscous was a true celebration of time well spent.

Shukran bzaaf ʿla had nhar zwin, Allah yʿtik sseha ya Chef Amanda!

…………………………….Until next time………………….. L8ers……………………………..