The next afternoon, I picked some sour oranges.
Mixed grill and something called Dafina (we were told this plate was made especially for Jewish people. I don't know what that means). Five skewers and a lamb chop. Cubed and grilled meats are such a delight. These ones were particularly succulent, even the liver surprise.
The sights of the Medina, a generic name for a maze of storefronts hawking anything from knockoff football jerseys to sheep brains. It was Canal Street on steroids. I was told that Rabat's Medina was on the small side. I still got lost. I was also told by a lighter-wielding old man that I was "not a God" because I didn't want to see his spice store. Jerk.
Finally, a traditional Moroccan meal. Harira, a rich tomato-based soup served with plenty of bread for dipping, assorted salads--something like spinach but not really spinach, stewed eggplant, stewed tomatoes and peppers, and two tagines actually served in tagines--chicken and herbs topped with French fries (at least the cooking vessel was traditional), and "veal" with prunes in a sauce scented with cinnamon. I didn't quite understand the hard-boiled eggs, but I still ate them. This was the highlight of the evening. The slow cooked beef melted ever so slowly in your mouth, and as it dissolved gave way to a beautiful cinnamon finish. At the end of the meal, mint sweet tea poured from such great heights and served at the perfect temperature.
We did manage to track down an Irish Pub, and we were lucky enough to spot the elusive Moroccan Elvis belting out a Sinatra classic. This moment, caught on video, made the whole trip worthwhile. Buen provecho.