As I was
stuffing the last bite of a scrumptious egg and potato sandwich into my mouth,
a middle-aged woman burst into the tiny grill joint where I was eating. She
gave me a wide, toothless smile and bellowed a friendly "Bonjour." I
liked her already.
Next, the
bubbly lady and the young man behind the grill had a heated conversation in
Arabic, which involved the usual amounts of wild gesticulation and apparent
argument. Afterwards, she left in a hurry. One minute later though, madam
dashed back inside with two goat livers in hand, tossing the meats over
the counter at the young man who began to cut them. This is about the time when
my brain successfully processed the conversation.
"Cut
horizontal, not vertical!" I like to think she used the word
"dumbass" somewhere in there.
The young
man seemed to be enjoying his customer's critiques, so he acceded to her
demands of cutting the "right" way. He then tossed the liver into the
fry pan and turned around in search of a fork. Big mistake. Barriers meant
nothing as the woman reached over the counter to grab his bottle of oil and a
handful of his salt, pouring both liberally over her soon-to-be lunch. When the
cook turned around, his eyes widened.
"Stop,
you crazy lady! You're using all my oil!" She just kept going, yelling
right back at him.
"I want
my meat to be tasty!" (Ok, she probably didn't say "dumbass"
this time.)
Things got
even funnier since there's an even more precise technique for frying liver.
When the inept cook wasn't getting it right, the pushy woman grabbed the fork
right out of his hand.
"Let me do it."
He picked up
a second fork and kept doing his job, so that both young and old were
energetically moving the meat around the oily frying pan crossing their forks
and alternately yelling in what quickly became a du
When the
meat was cooked and the duel had ended with no fatal wounds, the woman darted
out again. The cook looked over at me for sympathy and discreetly made the
"she's crazy" sign with his hands. Amazing.
At this
point, the food was ready, the hilarity had mostly subsided and I got up to
leave. Except now it was my turn to receive an order. The lady gave me another
huge grin, pointed to the chair and told me to sit my butt right back down with
the command "mange!" (the imperative for "eat.") I tried to
decline in French, but she insisted in Arabic. Somehow I understood. Plus, how
could I refuse a second lunch?
She pulled
up a chair next to mine, laid out the fries and meat, and graciously poured me
2/3 of her coke. I tried to take just a few bites, but every time I stopped
scooping up handfuls of liver, she hollered "mange!" It seemed to
make her happier seeing me enjoy the food than eating the lunch she'd worked so
hard for herself.
To the cook,
her antics might have been crazy, but it was all I could do to stop myself from
giving her an enormous hug when we parted ways in the medina alley. Oh, did I
mention that she ordered me a second sandwich to-go for my dinner?
