Have you ever noticed when you ask someone about their favorite meal or favorite cup of coffee, etc. there’s always a lot more involved than simply food? When I think about my favorite restaurant meals, inevitably it involves travel. And I’m a firm believer in eating the food wherever I go (and bringing the Pepto just in case). Here are two of my favorite dining experiences.
Guatemalan Hotdogs
I was visiting extended family in Guatemala City. While out and about one day my prima says to her mom, “can we pleeeeaaase get hot dogs on the way home? April – Shucos del Liceo is my FAVORITE place, I always have to go when I’m home”. And I say (with slightly nervous/horrified look), “Okay(?)”. I reassure myself that this is a classy family with good taste (every other restaurant we’ve been to has been “Central America’s best Italian/Steak/Seafood etc. restaurant”). These hot dogs must be Central America’s finest.
We zig-zag around the city, dodging other cars and chicken-buses and finally pull up along the curb in a very “authentic” looking part of the city. Up ahead at the end of the block and across the street there’s a Coca-Cola sign on a white washed building. This must be the place. I assume we’re getting out, but then realize we aren’t really parked, we’re just in line. Cars seem to be flocking from every direction, crowding their way into a line of sorts on either side of the street.
Soon a boy from the street comes up to the driver side window. I wonder if he’s asking for money or selling something (after all, we just passed a man selling lamp shades in the median of the highway!). The window rolls down and I realize he’s here to take our order. My prima orders and so does her mom, 2 “shukos” each, and a coke. I say I’ll have the same. The boy runs off.
While we wait for our food to arrive I notice more boys out in the street. They’re running up to other parked cars taking orders. Two of them (they must be the new guys) seem to be tasked with drawing in more business. They’re zooming out into the busy road flagging down cars, chasing cars, being very nearly hit by cars. I can’t take my eyes away. Do they do this just to entertain the tourists? I don’t think so – I seem to be the only tourist around.
Our food arrives. Glass coke bottles are passed through the window first. Then the hot dogs. The buns looks suspiciously unlike a normal hot dog bun and more like a flat toasted hoagie roll. The filling is a chopped up hot dog with cabbage, guacamole, mayo and mustard. It’s weird. Not bad, but weird. Maybe it’s just the cut-up hot dog. My prima and her mom flag one of the boys down to order one more shuko each. I pass on seconds, and figuring I have a little more time, pull out my camera and start snapping away photos of this crazy hot dog street scene.
Moroccan Hospitality
My brief visit to Morocco started with a tour guide that never showed up. It was punctuated by a man who offered to give me a very nice hand-woven rug (it was teal/blue and oh-so-pretty!) in exchange for my sister (also quite pretty). And it ended with a kind act of hospitality following what is still probably the best meal of my life.
We arrive at the restaurant tired, and very hungry. Half of our group has left us – fearful to eat in a place where everything we’ve seen has been so dirty. So aromatic. We’re seated at a long table, already set with plates out as if they had been waiting for us. The waiter says he will order us a “traditional meal” and we agree with the plan, which seems much easier than making any decisions at this point.
The waiter leaves and I look down at the plate before me. It’s pretty – like someone’s old china. It also looks dingy – like someone’s very old china. I wonder if it’s clean and despite not really wanting to know, I decide to wipe the plate with my napkin. It comes up black (or maybe very dark grey). I gulp. Take a deep breath. Maybe these plates are decoration.
Our waiter returns with an appetizer for sharing: a large puffed pastry sprinkled with cinnamon and powdered sugar. It looks like dessert, but I can tell by the savory smell of the onions and saffron that it’s not. The waiter tells us we can use our fingers to pull away our own portions. I’m nervous when I see that it’s filled with meat and my memory flashes to a rabbit hanging in the market we had just visited. I decide it’s probably best not to think about it and I take a bite. The combination of sweet and savory, poultry and cinnamon, powdered sugar and saffron fill up my senses. This is the best thing I have ever tasted. [I learned later it is called b’stilla].
After we’d devoured every last bit of the b’stilla our waiter brings out the main course: chicken tagine with rice. I enjoy this too, but secretly hope he will return with another plate of b’stilla just for me. Dessert, of course, is baklava – perfectly sweet and perfectly portioned – and hot peppermint tea to leave us feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.
As we wrap up our meal we are aware of the time, and the fact that our ferry sailing back to Spain leaves within the half hour. Our waiter starts to give us directions on the fastest way to the marina, but notices our blank stares, quickly gives up, and waves for us to follow him. We follow him out of the restaurant and hustle behind as he leads us through narrow winding roads to a point where we can see the ferry terminal. We thank him with a nod, part ways, and run inside to join our famished friends waiting to board the boat.
*I did eat my b’stilla off of that dusty plate. Maybe it added to the flavor and that’s why I’ve never been able to fully recreate the dish at home.