I had no idea why I was in Morocco.

            The woman I was dating was maybe ten years older than I was at the time. She was also a belly dancer. This already strains credibility, but it’s sadly true, as anyone who knows me can attest. I was 19 or 20, a stoned punk kid surfing the nerve-wracking beginnings of a tattoo career- exactly the kind of enterprising young shithead who goes to Morocco with a belly dancer. The gal, we’ll call her Mary, was also an artist (a good one), and a Southern California white girl whose hobbies, beyond belly dancing, included other guys and an earnest desire to impress her college pals with travel stories. One night someone knocked the side mirror off Mary’s new pickup truck and a week later the insurance company cut her a massive check. That very night she asked me an important question.

            “Where should we go?”

            “Whattay mean?” I didn’t really want to go anywhere. I was busy drowning at work.

            “With this money?” Mary was so excited. “Europe! Somewhere in Europe. Where did you always want to go?”

            I thought about it. “Maybe France. England would be cool.” I thought about the mohawk punks by the fountain in London, how nice it might be to sniff glue with them.

            That is how we went to Spain and Morocco.

            I was basically accompanying her on her dream trip, she was loaded and I was poor, so it was gonna be awkward. Spain proved to be a lean place for me, but most travelers in their late teens have the same hungry European experience, and I wound up only paying for about half of my ticket, so whatever. But I was delighted when we finally got the Moroccan part of her itinerary. I’d heard the food was cheap.

            That first day in Tangiers I was surprised. The port area was full of muggers in 1989, and I would have fared reasonably well there if I’d been alone. We rapidly forged on, deeper into the country, and important things began to happen. We hooked up with an older gay waiter from Maine, a guy named Richard, and Richard and Mary began to do the kinds of tourist things Mary lived for- sightseeing, eating at the kinds of theme restaurants that catered to visitors, and visiting museums. More power to them, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that kind of travel, but even then I was a people and culture brand of tourist. I bought a robe and this strange little hat and merged with the crowds. My disguise was half-baked in the beginning, but it got better. My shoes were already crappy, and without sunscreen, my face turned a deep, fried walnut. I grew a beard to protect my skin, but in truth I can’t really grow a beard, so I looked like a malnourished religious lunatic. I don’t know what the local people thought I was, they didn’t ask.

            It was in the mountain city of Chefchaouen that I discovered a breakfast treat that would delight me for years to come. I fell into the habit of spending the early hours roaming far and wide, in the cool period just before and after sunrise. Often, I would see groups of local laborers huddled around tents eating bowls of something served with communal sheets of flatbread. One morning I waited until the tables were emptying and swooped in and took a seat, then ordered with gestures and nods.

            What came was amazing! It was a fava bean soup, slightly spicy, with a thin sheen of olive oil on top and in the center of that, maybe half a teaspoon of white vinegar. I ate it fast. It was by far the best thing I’d had on that trip so far and at the equivalent of 10 cents it was smack dab in the center of my budget. Breakfast for the rest of the trip would be the most important meal of the day. Weeks passed. Great adventures happened. When pressed, Mary turned out to be a surprisingly broad and fast thinker, and she also turned out to be super tough, as in Pirate Bride of Conan gnarly. She eventually took to this soup, too, and woe was the sword-wielding fool who got his fingers close to her mouth while she was eating. Here’s how you make it.

BESSARA

Serves four

2 cups dried fava beans (about a pound)

6 garlic cloves (peeled and finely sliced)

8 cups water

2 1-2 tbs cumin seeds

1 tbs paprika

Pinch of cayenne

2 tbsp olive oil

1 lemon (juice)

Sea salt (to taste)

Soak the beans for 2-3 hours, then rinse well in cold water. Place in a large saucepan and cover with 8 cups of water, bring to a boil, lower to a simmer, and place a lid on. Leave to cook for 45 minutes or until soft, stirring now and then.

Toast the cumin seeds in a separate pan for a minute. You’ll smell it happening. Don’t burn them. Blend in spice grinder.

Add the oil and the garlic to the same pan, cook. Add the paprika, the toasted ground cumin, paprika, and cayenne as the garlic begins to golden. This should smell magnificent. Add this fried spice and garlic mix to the fava beans, stir and simmer for a few minutes, then add the lemon juice and salt. Taste. Good?

Last step, blend it until smooth. You can use a potato masher or a food processor. I use the masher for a rustic texture. You might need to add a little water.

Serve in bowls of course, but before you take them to the table, add a small swirl of olive oil just to be a dick. The splash of white vinegar is optional.

This is served at my house with flatbread, as it was there by the fine chefs who made this. Make that flatbread! It’s so easy you’d be crazy not to.

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