Jennifer Jeffrey, Writer & Editor

Quickies

Going Back for Seconds

In March, after a disappointing birthday dinner at The French Laundry, my sweetheart took me to The Dining Room at the Ritz-Carlton to see if it might restore my spirits. And how! We went again last week (why did we wait so long?), and I can happily report that it was every bit as sigh-worthy and toe-wriggling-ly delicious as the first time. Highlights: butter-poached lobster adorned with shelled peas and a vivid carrot-Szechuan reduction; a tender hunk of veal on a pillow of chanterelle-sweet corn risotto with a crispy sweetbread hat; the hot foie gras; the cheese cart. Ron Siegel, you’re the man.

Feeding My Morocco Fixation

Whenever I start daydreaming about Morocco, I go to My Marrakesh. The fabulously talented Maryam spells Marrakesh differently than I do (I use the ‘c’ spelling) but she LIVES there. She is building a guest house, which I have no doubt will be gorgeous, and which I hope to visit some day (she has peacocks!); perhaps I’ll alternate between here and Ksar Char-Bagh?

You Only Think You’re Committed To Saving the Planet

Yes, I’ve given up bottled water. Yes, I'm increasingly incorporating more planet-friendly measures into my daily life. No, I don't deserve a pat on the back... I'm not quite ready to toss out this common disposable paper product. This same lovely family has a great source for locally grown produce.
 

The Best Meal in Morocco

Today's NYT article about communal ovens in Morocco brought back fond memories of my trip to Morocco in January, and especially of a meal we ate at a nondescript roadside stand on our way to Marrakech.

The stand was set behind a gas station, of all things. Imagine walking into a Chevron station in the middle of... say, Nevada... and instead of being greeted with sickly-pink hot dogs rotating inside a Plexiglas case, you find a butcher stand and a wood-burning oven, and people standing at the ready to cook your order as soon as you decide what you want.

We felt like we'd walked into an alternate universe. There we were, smack in the middle of the desert, tired and hungry, and minutes later we were sitting down to roasted lamb and hot, char-flecked bread, breathing in the heady scents of cumin and mint and hot, sharp peppers. To say that it was a restorative experience wouldn't do it justice.

I blogged about it then, but since I had so much fun going back through my pictures, I thought you might enjoy another peek as well.

P.S. I unwittingly had my camera on the wrong setting for most of the trip (grrr!), and many of the pictures came out grainy. Sigh. Guess that means I'll have to go back...?

The Smallest Art Gallery in the World

I took this picture in Rabat, Morocco back in January. This herb and produce purveyor is sitting beside a busy street; apartment buildings are clustered on either side of her, in front of her, and in back of her. She has arranged her goods in a slightly recessed area; it looks as if a building might have stood there some years ago. The pallets in front of her hold (from left) coriander, flat-leafed parsley, mint and cardoons.

She sits placidly throughout the day, chatting with the housewives who walk by and buy bunches of fresh herbs to take home with them. When I took out my camera, she turned her head and hunkered down a bit, but my sweetie said a few words in Arabic to her, and she sat up and smiled.

She might be surprised to know that she is currently on display in what I affectionately call the Smallest Art Gallery in the World – the room that opens off of my kitchen. Some people might call it the “family room,” but we call it the “gallery room.” Every 2-3 months, I take everything off of the walls and hang a new “exhibit.” Last weekend, I hung the Morocco exhibit, with 8 of my favorite photos taken from our trip in January, plus a few small paintings and a pair of embroidered Moroccan slippers.

Upcoming “exhibits” this year include a collection of words - type-driven posters, metal letters and signs – and my “girl power” collection of drawings and prints of powerful women.

I really enjoy the process of thinking through what to do next, and the changing space ensures that I always have something interesting to look at while I’m cooking.

In the area? Stop by for a look! (Psst: Cookie? Aren't you hunting for a certain something nearby?)

Hours: Whenever I’m dressed and presentable, and not gone to the farmer’s market or the bookstore or on a walk with Petra. Oh, and when there isn't any laundry waiting to be folded or dirty dishes in the sink.

Admission fee: Chocolate.

P.S. - I wanted to add that I've been using Mpix to print my photos, and I've become a huge fan. The paper is thick and gorgeous, the colors are true, and turnaround time is quick and efficient. Their Kodak Professional Metallic paper - yummy! The colors in the photo above just pop out - the coppery streaks on the wall behind the woman in the picture above really shine.

The Morocco Journals: Ksar Char-Bagh

We found Ksar Char-Bagh on the recommendation of a friend who is building an enormous maison just outside Marrakech.

“This place is something to see,” she told us, describing a small, exclusive palace outside Marrakech that functions as both hotel and restaurant. “You must go.” We agreed, and she made dinner reservations for the following night. When we asked for directions, she narrowed her eyes. “What kind of car do you have?”

A Clio, we told her. She shook her head dismissively. “You’ll never make it in that. You need a quatre quatre.” She explained that only way to get there was an unpaved dirt road, with no streetlights or signs to guide the way. She was adamant that we couldn’t make it on our own, and arranged to have her driver pick us up.

The next evening, the driver picked us up from our hotel, as arranged. Safely ensconced in the 4x4, we quickly left the paved streets for a pitted, dusty track that led straight into the desert. The headlights revealed the ridged trunks of palm trees all around us; small rocks pinged the windshield. I gripped my jaw to keep my teeth from clacking.

"Just you wait," the driver told us as we bounced about. "Next time you come to visit, this track will be paved, and all this land will have houses on it."

Twenty minutes later, reached a high wall lit with lanterns. A guard opened the enormous wooden door, and we stepped through onto sand-colored gravel that crunched beneath our feet. A small grove of olive trees led to a series of broad stone steps lit with candles. We walked up the steps to another door, this one made of dark wood decorated with silver studs. The door swung open just seconds before we reached it, this time by a man dressed in a flowing white jellaba and a red cap.