This past summer, my mom and I had the opportunity to visit Tangier, Morocco—a city, country, and continent neither of us had been to, and a place we didn’t know much about. We’re both big foodies, and some of our most eye-opening travel experiences have involved food, so we decided to take a cooking class geared toward introducing curious travelers to the customs and techniques of Moroccan cuisine. Taught by local women and paired with a trip to the souk, it was as a completely immersive experience and helped me realize that seemingly different cultures share more with us than we may think—like the powerful and uniting love of food.
Before my visit, I held all the typical stereotypes about women in Muslim countries: that females are forced to be subservient, subdued, and unhappily bound within limited domestic opportunities. I perceived the world of Moroccan women as passive, disadvantaged, and rural, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. The instant we were greeted by our lovely instructors, my trite and misguided views changed completely. Although female oppression does continue in Morocco and throughout the world, these women were warm, lively, and accomplished—many had gone to college and worked outside the home. They had goals and big plans, talked like us, and shared our passion for cooking. They were confident and fun, intelligent and enthusiastic. Creativity and skill in the kitchen were certainly not lost on them either.
After chatting with us outside, they led us in for a traditional welcome of dates and milk. The chewy, intensely sweet date paired perfectly with creamy milk—so fresh it still had a grassy essence (nothing like U.S. dairy). After washing up, we made our way to our cooking stations and started the main course of chicken tagine. Most of the ingredients were familiar: onion, parsley, garlic, turmeric. But other uncommon add-ins made the dish unique: ras el hanout (a distinctive spice blend typical in North African cuisine) and smen (fermented butter with a cheesy, tangy flavor). The instructors explained that cooking with an actual clay tagine takes several hours, so this method is used only on special occasions. For the class, we implemented the equally tasty but speedier option of a pressure cooker.
Next, we mixed the dough for our traditional Moroccan bread, or khobz. The bread is a staple in Moroccan homes. It’s either made daily from scratch or purchased at local bakeries that set up huge stacks of the round, semi-flat loaves. Our recipe used both white and whole wheat flour and involved typical hand-kneading and rising methods.
After, we stepped outside for a walking tour. The usually packed streets were nearly empty because it happened to be Throne Day, a national holiday celebrating King Mohammed VI’s coronation. Luckily, the souk and nearby markets stayed open, and a few locals mingled about. The Moroccan grocery experience was completely different than what I was used to. Instead of fluorescent aisles of prepackaged everything, the covered souk had a labyrinth of stalls where local farmers sold strange and seasonal produce, harvested that same day. Instead of vacuum-sealed poultry cuts, whole chickens hung from butchers' stands, the smell of raw meat clashing with the perfume of fresh-cut flowers in the neighboring stall.
My favorite stop was definitely the spice shop, where pungent and earthy scents tickled our noses. Big bins and sacks were filled with dozens of totally unfamiliar spices: giant woody sticks, herby green leaves, fragrant powders, and mossy clumps. Throughout our walk, I was struck by the lack of other tourists or tacky souvenir stores; everything was authentic, and the color and excitement of Moroccan life was vividly illuminating my concept of the nation.
Returning to the cooking class, we learned about the traditional preparation of Morocco’s famous mint tea. Brewing the green tea was a multi-step process, and afterward, it was infused with huge handfuls of fresh mint and a cragged block of sugar. Served hot in small glasses, it was incredibly refreshing.
We sat down to enjoy our finished tagine and bread, both of which were heavenly. Aromatic and warm, the tagine had salty acidity from preserved lemon and briney bite from mixed olives. The chicken was fork-tender, and the soft, dry bread was perfect for sopping up the savory stew base. Nectarish guava juice cleansed our palates, and small bowls were set out with toppings for the bread like a zesty beet salad, garlicky carrots, ricotta-like cheese, olive oil, honey, and silky almond butter.
When the feast concluded, we said our thanks and goodbyes, and I was sad to go. The food was delicious, but what I'll remember best is the immersive lesson in culture—one different from my own yet still accessible and relatable. Visiting the local markets filled with colorful ingredients and meeting the local women reminded me how wonderful diversity is and how easy it is to forget it exists. No matter where I go, I love to see the way other cultures do life, especially how they eat. And it never ceases to amaze me how food acts as a bridge between time and place. Now, when we make chicken tagine at home, I’m transported back to that day in Morocco, complete with the smiles of the women and my wonder at a part of the world so new to me.