Boiled sheep's heads
Second night - and S's last one. I'm staying on an extra day. We're back in the Djemaa el Fna, determined to do the tourist thing and eat at an outside restaurant. They seem to be divided into tourist stalls (brochettes, Moroccan salads/fish) and local stalls (boiled sheep's heads, completed with dentally-challenged toothy smiles). Call me squeamish, but I don't much fancy food that winks and grins at me when I eat it, so a bit of a veto on those ones then.
As it's his last night, I tell S he can choose whatever he wants - and of course he calls my bluff, and opts for the sheep's heads, and after a bit of stamping my feet, I ....
ABSOLUTELY REFUSE!!
Then I give in, and say OK...
So then it's his turn to absolutely refuse... hahahahahahahahaha!!!
We're plagued by the touts, who try and find out what nationality we are - for me, their selling points are Rick Stein, Jamie Oliver and the Marks and Spencer of food stalls. When they squeeze out of S that he's from Oz, they're in overdrive: G'diy, mite! Put another shrimp on the barbie, dingo baby, Neighbours is shit!!
We end up at the M&S of outdoor restaurants, bearing a startling resemblance to the rest, and order brochettes of mixed meat, chicken and vegetables. The bill is already building - bowls of salads, and flat bread appear while we wait - and again, you can't refuse them - and again, why should you? The night is warm, if overcast, and it's wonderful to be eating outside under the flaring lights, especially in February.
After a while, we're joined on our bench by a real throwback to the days of Empire. My earlier thought is manifest in a particularly stalwart English lady, of uncertain age and income, a well-seasoned traveller, with suitably exotic tales to match. I never did ask her name, and she's so garrulous, she makes me look as if I've taken a vow of silence... Very entertaining, a right ole cheapskate, totting up her bill several times before admitting defeat, yes, a little of her went a long way, but someone you wouldn't want to miss.
As it's his last night, I tell S he can choose whatever he wants - and of course he calls my bluff, and opts for the sheep's heads, and after a bit of stamping my feet, I ....
ABSOLUTELY REFUSE!!
Then I give in, and say OK...
So then it's his turn to absolutely refuse... hahahahahahahahaha!!!
We're plagued by the touts, who try and find out what nationality we are - for me, their selling points are Rick Stein, Jamie Oliver and the Marks and Spencer of food stalls. When they squeeze out of S that he's from Oz, they're in overdrive: G'diy, mite! Put another shrimp on the barbie, dingo baby, Neighbours is shit!!
We end up at the M&S of outdoor restaurants, bearing a startling resemblance to the rest, and order brochettes of mixed meat, chicken and vegetables. The bill is already building - bowls of salads, and flat bread appear while we wait - and again, you can't refuse them - and again, why should you? The night is warm, if overcast, and it's wonderful to be eating outside under the flaring lights, especially in February.
After a while, we're joined on our bench by a real throwback to the days of Empire. My earlier thought is manifest in a particularly stalwart English lady, of uncertain age and income, a well-seasoned traveller, with suitably exotic tales to match. I never did ask her name, and she's so garrulous, she makes me look as if I've taken a vow of silence... Very entertaining, a right ole cheapskate, totting up her bill several times before admitting defeat, yes, a little of her went a long way, but someone you wouldn't want to miss.
posted by susyrosy @ 2:37 pm
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