Yes, yes... its been about 6 months since the last post, but I've been in Rwanda: the land of a thousand hills, with work. Rwanda is also known in the jiffler household as the land of a thousand mediocre meals. This otherwise fine country was after all the scene of the goat'n'chip omlette, served to a bleary eyed Monsieur et Madame Jiffleur prior to a trek through the bush in search of gorilla action. I haven't forgetten about that, oh no.
Now back in Dakar, its time to renew-things blogwise. I've feck all else to do until the next contract, so this should keep me out of trouble (thinks Mrs Jiffler).
Hmm. we'll see.
Anyhow, I've accidentally imbibided the spirit of Hunter S Thompson while I've been away, so forgive me if some or all of the blog is made up gonzo bollocks. It will only get worse as things proceed. There will still be recipes, but they will be gonzo recipes. OK?
Back in Senegal things are different to Rwanda - the Francophones hung around here and didn't play nasty games with the lives of innocents. There are nice beaches here, so Jacques and friends have bought up the best stretches, and withered ballbag-like French matriarchs can now enjoy front row deckchairs on the sand.
On the plus side, this means the restaurants outshine our friends in the Great Lakes region. There is good bread, an abundance of seafood, and mayonnaise with your frites. Tres Bon.
But before that even, there was a trip to Marrakech, for a neb around the souks and some general loitering in the Djemma el fna. A certain distinguished Count Parker accompanied me on this particular trip, and it was non-work related I'm pleased to say.
A talentless chef swine once said that Moroccan food was the 'fourth of the three great world cuisines'; the three being French, Italian, and Chinese (honestly, if I ever meet said chef I shall set about his hands and face with a stale baguette). I'll concede that Moroccan food does have a certain something though, if you can find your way around the blanded-out tourist slop and ubiquitous pizza margherita. Better still though, Morocco is a great place for eating, rather than just the food.
Sitting on the top floor of the Cafe de France in the grand place Djemm el fna, watching the ebb and flow of the masses in the market area below more than makes up for chewy beef brochettes. Snake charmers charm, little feckers with manky monkeys on strings creep up on, and scare the living shit out of tourists, and everything is for sale... you want hashish? Hashish my friend, very good hashish, best hashish, good price for you my friend. Hashish?
Or perhaps a supper in the place itself? If you're not brave enough to pop a sheep's eye ball in your mouth, or even work your way through the whole head, you can scuttle over to stall number 114 of the many identical food stalls. There, the tout speaks some Welsh, enjoys watching Only fools and horses, and (if he is to be believed) is the love-child of Jamie Oliver and a Berber. Make your own dirty minds up. It'll be in Heat magazine next week no doubt.
Stall 114 serves up an array of cheapo dishes. Order all your bits separately - roasted sweet peppers with a dash of crunchy sea salt is worth ordering twice, between little bowls of spicy sausages, aubergine, squid, and tomato salad. These were shared with the Count while we watched tourists and touts fight it out in the grand place. I'm amazed by the ability of the touts to determine the nationality 9 out of 10 of the tourists walking past, and then call out to them in their native tongue. The count and I mused on this for a while, but I'll save our conclusions for the pub.
Ah yes, the pub. There we find the fundamental flaw in Marrakech's nightlife. Unless one wishes to go to some of the finer hotels to sit with the tourists and the occasional braying expat shite (I can spot my own kind a mile off), there is little choice but to enter into a sort of grotty tobacco stained underworld of sullen-looking middle aged Moroccan gentlemen in grey anoraks and dirty moustaches. The Count and I entered one such establishment, chests out, with an eye on the exit. We were left in peace for the first half of a rather violent local football match on TV, before being accosted by one of the moustaches at half time. After three bottles of Stork lager my bad French is pretty appalling, and the Count merely nodded and muttered 'Oui' occasionally, while maintaining the air of an aristocrat.
Our new friend, Rashid, was a friendly sort, if a little inebriated. He earned his beer money by fixing the many pinball machines to be found in Marrakech. After some messy communication and the appropriate hand signals, he offered to take us to a nearby club where there is belly dancing of the sort where you can both look and touch. The Count is the sort of chap who couldn't possibly be seen dead in such a place, and I've had to fight my way out of such places in the past.
So we agreed to go.
Now back in Dakar, its time to renew-things blogwise. I've feck all else to do until the next contract, so this should keep me out of trouble (thinks Mrs Jiffler).
Hmm. we'll see.
Anyhow, I've accidentally imbibided the spirit of Hunter S Thompson while I've been away, so forgive me if some or all of the blog is made up gonzo bollocks. It will only get worse as things proceed. There will still be recipes, but they will be gonzo recipes. OK?
Back in Senegal things are different to Rwanda - the Francophones hung around here and didn't play nasty games with the lives of innocents. There are nice beaches here, so Jacques and friends have bought up the best stretches, and withered ballbag-like French matriarchs can now enjoy front row deckchairs on the sand.
On the plus side, this means the restaurants outshine our friends in the Great Lakes region. There is good bread, an abundance of seafood, and mayonnaise with your frites. Tres Bon.
But before that even, there was a trip to Marrakech, for a neb around the souks and some general loitering in the Djemma el fna. A certain distinguished Count Parker accompanied me on this particular trip, and it was non-work related I'm pleased to say.
A talentless chef swine once said that Moroccan food was the 'fourth of the three great world cuisines'; the three being French, Italian, and Chinese (honestly, if I ever meet said chef I shall set about his hands and face with a stale baguette). I'll concede that Moroccan food does have a certain something though, if you can find your way around the blanded-out tourist slop and ubiquitous pizza margherita. Better still though, Morocco is a great place for eating, rather than just the food.
Sitting on the top floor of the Cafe de France in the grand place Djemm el fna, watching the ebb and flow of the masses in the market area below more than makes up for chewy beef brochettes. Snake charmers charm, little feckers with manky monkeys on strings creep up on, and scare the living shit out of tourists, and everything is for sale... you want hashish? Hashish my friend, very good hashish, best hashish, good price for you my friend. Hashish?
Or perhaps a supper in the place itself? If you're not brave enough to pop a sheep's eye ball in your mouth, or even work your way through the whole head, you can scuttle over to stall number 114 of the many identical food stalls. There, the tout speaks some Welsh, enjoys watching Only fools and horses, and (if he is to be believed) is the love-child of Jamie Oliver and a Berber. Make your own dirty minds up. It'll be in Heat magazine next week no doubt.
Stall 114 serves up an array of cheapo dishes. Order all your bits separately - roasted sweet peppers with a dash of crunchy sea salt is worth ordering twice, between little bowls of spicy sausages, aubergine, squid, and tomato salad. These were shared with the Count while we watched tourists and touts fight it out in the grand place. I'm amazed by the ability of the touts to determine the nationality 9 out of 10 of the tourists walking past, and then call out to them in their native tongue. The count and I mused on this for a while, but I'll save our conclusions for the pub.
Ah yes, the pub. There we find the fundamental flaw in Marrakech's nightlife. Unless one wishes to go to some of the finer hotels to sit with the tourists and the occasional braying expat shite (I can spot my own kind a mile off), there is little choice but to enter into a sort of grotty tobacco stained underworld of sullen-looking middle aged Moroccan gentlemen in grey anoraks and dirty moustaches. The Count and I entered one such establishment, chests out, with an eye on the exit. We were left in peace for the first half of a rather violent local football match on TV, before being accosted by one of the moustaches at half time. After three bottles of Stork lager my bad French is pretty appalling, and the Count merely nodded and muttered 'Oui' occasionally, while maintaining the air of an aristocrat.
Our new friend, Rashid, was a friendly sort, if a little inebriated. He earned his beer money by fixing the many pinball machines to be found in Marrakech. After some messy communication and the appropriate hand signals, he offered to take us to a nearby club where there is belly dancing of the sort where you can both look and touch. The Count is the sort of chap who couldn't possibly be seen dead in such a place, and I've had to fight my way out of such places in the past.
So we agreed to go.
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