Cafe Clock & Fes Qadim

Our first proper outing, after quite a lot of sleep, was to Fez Qadim, or 'the Old City'. My brother S (the older of the two living in Morocco) wanted to take us to a particular cafe that he promised we would like. 

We entered through Bab Boujloud, right after Dhuhr time (around 3-ish) which is fairly near to the siesta time. The walls of the old city loomed above us in their ancient way. They look old, but beyond that they feel old, as though I'm looking at very still, very tired men, silent in their long vigil. 

Immediately beyond the gate were hordes of bees, a mess of ruins, garbage, the beginnings of the souq, and mules hitched to carts. I thought the bees were flies because I wasn't paying attention, until S told me not to swat them.

I distinctly remember a man selling wrenches neatly laid out in rows upon a blue tarp, and a white mule, too thin and very sad looking.

The cafe was called Cafe Clock, and was a beautiful place hidden deep in an incredibly narrow alley. You entered through its door and it bloomed beyond you, three stories tall and an artful collage in and of itself, with tasteful pictures of oriental art, various employees, and former guests (including Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall) on its walls. 

We climbed the tiny, towering stairs to the terrace, from which you could see the souq and the Old City roll out in all directions, like a frozen sea of whitewashed, square buildings. Nearly close enough to touch was a beautiful minaret.

the minaret near the cafe

It was a very hipster place, apparently, but I just found it really charming. There was calligraphy stencilled onto the walls, brightly coloured cushions, benches, and tarps, and a riot of airy, leafy plants in corners and winding around pillars. Nearly everyone there spoke English, including the servers, because so many of their customers were foreigners. 

The menu was delicious, perfectly suited to the place. 

I had a lamb tajin (a Moroccan dish named after its distinctive plate) and S had a camel burger, which tasted like a camel smells. That might sound unappetizing, only I like the way camels smell. My other brother 'A' had the same tajin as I, and my mother and sister 'K' ordered a Moroccan salad, from which we all sampled. I never liked beets until then, but the food in Morocco is bursting with flavour. (I could happily eat beets and nothing else). 

Upon S's recommendation, I also had the Iced Mint Lemonade, which is a little sour but incredibly refreshing, especially in the heat.

After we ate, S took us to visit the mausoleum of Moulay Idris II, winding through the souq streets. I remarked to my mother that I felt like Harry Potter first visiting Diagon Alley.

Moulay Idriss II was the son of the man who established Fez, the great-grandson of the Prophet Muhammed (صلی اللہ علیہ وسلم) and my great-great-etc. grandfather through my father's side. 

The last time my mother had visited Fez, large areas surrounding the mausoleum (or 'maqam' in Arabic) had been closed off for construction. I was blessed that for my first visit there, everything was open. 

We entered through the beautiful main door arching above us, took off our shoes, and carried them in across a thin red carpet. Old men, caretakers of the maqam, sat in corners or beneath the arches branching off into further rooms, and for a dirham at most (about $0.7 CAD) they'll pray for you. 

The centre of the maqam was a large and beautiful courtyard, the tiles blazing in the sun, with a singing fountain in its midst. To our backs was the minaret, ahead of us was the grave itself. I skirted the edge of the courtyard; it was too hot for my bare feet.   

I'll let the photos speak to the ornateness, the majesty, the loving veneration of the architectures who designed the maqam. Words really wouldn't do it justice. I will say that everything was hand carved and that the ceilings are beautifully painted wood.