Marrakech part II.

Stepping out of the bar onto the street with our new friend, I turned to wink at the Count and warn him to keep his hand on his ha'penny. A paving slap the size of a toilet seat shattered on the pavement between us, and we both leapt back assuming a fighting stance (The Count had neglected to carry his usual walking cane, which would have offered us something of an advantage due to the eight inch blade concealed within its shaft). A cropped haired youth looked us up and down and laughed, before bending down to pick up brick-sized lumps of the paving slap. Two of his troglodyte friends followed suit and started lobbing the brick-grenades at another group of youths on the opposite side of the street. They returned fire and the Count and I beat a hasty retreat up the road. Rashid had disappeared.

Along the road we encountered the Chesterfield 'English Pub' and ducked inside to escape further cement bombardment. It was less of an English pub than a smartish hotel bar, serving pints of Moroccan brewed Flag Speciale with a soundtrack of expats and an unlimited supply of olives. Therein we relaxed and got quietly wasted, chugging back pints of flag. It was a long walk back to our respective riads, so we had one for the road, and made our way through a silent maze-like medina, where the only sounds where the rattle and scratch of hundreds of tramp-cats, the occasional murmur of a security guard reading his Koran in the darkness, and the thud of our feet on the cobbles.

Back to the food. I do strongly recommend trying a pastilla. Sort of a locally made flat pie resembling a large Eccles cake. The filling varies but often involves Chicken, egg and lemon, wrapped in a thin flakes of sweetened pastry dusted with icing sugar.

If you're looking for the best Tagines in the Medina I would stay away from the main tourist drag and find the filthiest, scariest looking shithole cafe you can. I can recommend a suitably wretched unnamed place: From the PLace Ben Yousef, head Northish through the Medina away from the leather souks. You'll pass a woman selling slices from a massive flat bread that resembles, and tastes like, a giant chapathi. There is a bit of street that smells of drains, and then directly ahead, where the street bears right, you will see a group of old men sitting around smoking, and a young chap with a grill and a dozen tagines chuntering away. Before you take a plastic chair you may encounter an aggressive alsatian dog, who responds promptly and respectfully to a sharp kick in the neck. Order a tagine and see what comes. I had a beautifully herby and tender lamb tagine which set me back about £1.50. Don't drink the water - it smells vile. A boy will run out and get you a bottle of lemonade or something for a small tip. Don't worry, its not a hive of scum and villainy - its all very friendly. Keep an eye on that dog though.

I did have something of a jam-related epiphany while staying at my Riad. Each morning I looked forward to our breakfast selection of jams. Not for the Moroccans the jellified, oversweetened petri-dish muck beloved of many British and Continental Bed and Breakfasts (an easy way to judge the standard of a British hotel is to inspect its preserves), proper compote-like jams - of figs, oranges and strawberries, unctious, almost drinkable, served in bowls with marvellous slightly chewy flatbreads. My mouth is watering at the mere thought of tearing apart the flatbread and ladling on a glossy vin rouge-coloured dollop. Watching as the pockets of air within the bread take up the sweet preserve, before wolfing it, greedily, with sticky fingers and chin.

Enough food porn. I'm thinking of getting into jam making at some stage. Sadly, here in Dakar tis the season for Watermelons, which I doubt will make good jam. Indeed, after the first slice of watermelon one has had enough and wonders what to do with the rest of the basketball. Mrs Jiffler has the perfect solution, and we're off to the roof of an office block downtown where, on a quiet day (perhaps during Friday prayers), you can drop your unwanted melons 18 stories onto the pavement below. They make a feck of a lot of mess I can assure you, especially if you get a bit of spin on them. I've heard rumours that the US Embassy downtown is building higher fortifications around its premises in the event of a watermelon catapult being employed in anger. I reckon a decent sized melon could take down a helicopter, so any Saigon-style evacuation would be thwarted.