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Mitchell, Fanny Todd. 1972November. Tastes of Tunisia. Gourmet 32(11): 19. [Excerpted from article.]
THE HEART AND SOUL of Tunis are in the medina -the old Arab town-and so is the Cafe M'Rabet, the most fascinating restaurant I was to encounter in Tunis and certainly one of the most unique anywhere. I shall never forget it. M'Rabet is hidden in a labyrinth of winding streets, and very few Tunisians are able to explain exactly where it is located, or even its name. In discussing places to dine they will say, "And there is an excellent restaurant somewhere in the souk [market area]," making it sound like the scene of a whodunit.
At the end of the Avenue Habib Bourguiba, with its modern stores, banks, and government buildings, is the Porte de France, dividing the old and the new Tunis. A triumphal arch stands in the middle of the wide boulevard and beyond that sprawls the medina, where the individuality of the Tunisian people has been preserved throughout centuries of foreign occupation. Surrounding its dark, narrow streets, with their scent of Oriental spice, is the glaring white Euro-Mediterranean city installed by the French. Unlike Algeria, Tunisia was never a colony of France; it was always a protectorate. It became a French protectorate in 1881 and in that way was able to retain a vestige of its character. And its character is best expressed in the medina, where men still wear a fez and djellabah and women go about swathed in a sifssari, an off-white cloth that shrouds them from head to heels. They peek out at passersby with the sifssari held grimly in their teeth.
As is customary for a medina this one is set on a hill, and no taxi can penetrate its narrow streets: They must be negotiated on foot. The Cafe M'Rabet is in the middle of the souk. How best to reach it without having to walk up the hill was explained to me by a friend who lives in Tunis. "The way to beat the hill," he told me, "is to begin at the top. Take a taxi to the Place du Gouvernement and walk down the hill to the Souk el Trouk (souk of antiques), keep walking, and you will see M'Rabet."
I did all of that. The taxi took me to the Place du Gouvernement, dominated by the Mosquee de la Kasbah, where I got out and began to walk. I was alone that day,
with no one to keep me on course, and before reaching the Souk el Trouk I ran afoul of the Souk el Berka, once the old slave market and now the jewelry souk. It beguiled me so that I could have prowled there all day, getting no
farther than the windows. A collier I can still see: Bands of turquoise and diamonds formed a high collar for a neck the size of a child's. It must have belonged to some lady of a harem during the Turkish occupation. There
were jewels in those windows too wondrous to be believed. Finally I tore myself away and proceeded to the Souk el Trouk.
M'rabetM'rabet is the plural of marabout, the white-domed mausoleum of a saint or holy man seen throughout the Maghreb (Arab North Africa). In the case of the restaurant the plural is apropos because it is built over the m'rabet of three holy men. The Cafe M'Rabet, or Cafe of Three Saints, has been tastefully created in this old Turkish quarter of the medina. The pious personalities who for centuries reposed peacefully in their white-domed sepul(fig brandy), which is a specialty of Tunis that tastes somewhat like a good Polish vodka. Served with the boukha were some quite indescribable, but delicious, small hors d'oeuvre called kemia.
The meal itself began with a brik oeuf avec viande. Brik appears in various guises: Folded into a square of flaky pastry is a spicy stuffing-in this case chopped meat-to which a raw egg is added. The pastry is then folded into a
triangle, sealed at the edges, and fried in hot olive oil. At M'Rabet the brik, its edges fried to a crisp, is presented looking like a sailboat in a sea of parsley, balanced within a wedge cut in a whole lemon. Eating this boon to the dry cleaners without getting egg on one's face or clothes involves two hands. However one manages, he must not be caught attacking a brik with a knife and fork. A finger bowl accompanies it.
Tajine aux fromage followed the brik. Tajine is another dish peculiar to the Maghreb that varies in every country. In some it is a spicy stew, but in Tunis it is served in a baking dish and looks like a sort of stew-souffle. There are many kinds of tajine: Lamb, chicken, parsley, cheese, and anchovy are only the more popular items in a list that goes on and on.
I completed my lunch that day with delicious patisserie tunisienne: a piece of baklava, a samsa cake, and a coconut confection. Then came the Turkish coffee. It was a satisfying meal from every point of view. But to sense the illusion of this delightful restaurant one should visit it twice: once for lunch and again for dinner, when the candles are lighted and there is music.
As I passed through the cool, dark coffeehouse below I should have enjoyed taking off my shoes and reclining on a mat with a cup of coffee. But as there were no ladies present I resisted and strolled out to the souk.
It is in the medina that one is reminded of Tunisia's past, the composite of races, civilizations, and religions that have gone into its makeup. Tunisia is a small slice of prime land sandwiched between Algeria and Libya. The part near the coast is as verdant as the garden of Allah; the other part, bordering that vast enigma, the Sahara, is desert except for a few lush oases planted with thousands of date palms and fruit trees. For millenia Tunisia has been a target for adventurers. In the beginning there were the Berbers; then came the Phoenicians, Romans, Vandals, Spaniards, Arabs, French, and Turks, not to mention the Moors who sought refuge there when they were expelled from Spain. The Andalusian section of the medina, the rue du Divan and the rue des Andalous, attests to this background with the grill-work on the houses. The influx of Andalusians had a tremendous impact on the country, contributing to the Tunisian gardening genius, the music, and the trading styles.
There are about twenty mosques in the medina, all within earshot of one
another. At sundown the signal mosque, La Mosquee de la Kasbah, waves a white flag, and the call for prayers begins there and then moves in succession from one minaret to another, in order to avoid the chaos of having them all commence at once. There is a rug dealer, a vendeur tapis, in the souk named Salem Ben Salem Garbal whose roof is higher than the others, and from his roof one
can view the full sweep of the medina and all the minarets. People go there at sundown to watch the spectacle, but the roof itself warrants a visit. It is enclosed by a wrought-iron grill of stunning design and decorated entirely in lovely tiles, some, ancient ones from Carthage.
On leaving the Cafe M'Rabet I wandered downhill through the spice market and past innumerable men hammering at pieces of brass. There was only one thing I was interested in buying, and I didn't see it anywhere. I stood for a moment as I passed the Souk el Attarine where the merchants of perfume are located. Very Oriental and heavily scented with roses, jasmine, and incense, it is one of the oldest souks in the medina, having existed since the thirteenth century. Here the merchants will brew special scents, but it wasn't perfume I
sought. It was a small, square, leather coin purse that folds together and is
etched in gold. As I paused before a shop featuring blankets, rugs, and rayon
caftans, the owner approached me.
"What is it you are looking for, Madame?" he asked, smiling.
The market area in Tunis is considered one of the best, and unlike many in
the Maghreb it isn't noisy. People don't pop out and grab the strollers, but a
flicker of interest could bring on an entire family of salesmen, from smiling
father to teen-agers to small children. In this case a little child did most of the talking, assuring me that they were practically giving things away. I told him
what I wanted and that I didn't see it. But there were tiers of drawers in the place, and out of one came precisely the item I had in mind.
"Anything else?" the family wanted to know.
Actually I did fancy a collar and cuff set of gold paillettes on a black background, but I doubted if they had one. However, another drawer produced the
most stunning example I'd seen. I speak French well enough to engage in a little
horse trading, and I proceeded to make an agreement that included the coin
purse and the trimmings.
"Anything else?"
"Well, yes, I would like to find a plain white cotton ghalaba."
Discreet signals in sign language produced a response in the souk, and in no time the lad returned with exactly what I had described, and in my size. I asked the price, and we went through the entire transaction again, beginning with
the little coin purse, which by now had dwindled in price to almost nothing.
When I emerged from the medina into the bright sunlight of the Avenue
Habib Bourguiba it was as into another world-like coming out of the tunnel of a scenic railway. Farther down the avenue was my hotel, the Claridge, one of those once-glamorous hotels in the heart of activity. I favor such establishments, and this one was not only comfortable, but it boasted a good restaurant, the Pomme d'Api, and some of the best patisserie in town was to be found in its
tearoom. There were none of my fellow countrymen in the Claridge. It was patronized for the most part by young Frenchmen (looking like Zouaves in
mufti) and Arabs, many of whom wore embroidered cream-colored robes and matching hattas that fell over their shoulders. Some were provincial potentates in Tunis for a political parade that had taken place on the day of my arrival. Flags were flying, and life-size photographs of the President hung on every corner. As the cavalcade passed, women concealed in sifssaris let out the strange,
eerie call of the Arab women, a call that chills the air.
A short walk from my hotel was the Restaurant Malouf, at 108 rue de Yugoslavie, considered by some to be the most elegant restaurant in Tunis. Malouf means musical session, and at the restaurant one finds Oriental dancers and
Andalusian music. Some of the specialties at the Malouf are akbab (lamb and
liver with saffron sauce), mechmechia (meat with apricots), sole or loup (sea bass) cooked in fennel with creamed lobster sauce, and maahouda (brains au gratin). The restaurant is a must for travelers to Tunis.
The most colorful restaurant in Tunis is Chez Slah, at 14 bis rue Pierre-de-Coubertin. It is run by Italians and frequented by la jeunesse doree. At night one sees parked cars many blocks away. The food is excellent. Grilled fish and large prawns are a specialty, and nothing excels the exquisite simplicity of
grilled or pan-fried fish in the hands of a good Tunisian chef. At Chez Slah it is
served without sauce, only lemon.
The transition of Tunisia from protectorate of France to independent country was such that when it occurred many French people remained to operate restaurants. Thus, the Strasbourg,100 rue de Yugoslavie, the Hungaria, 11 rue All Bach Hamba, and Mon Village, 3 rue de Grece, possess the atmosphere and cuisine of Africa as it existed during the French regime. They are French and very good.
My first visit to Abdullah's house was on a night illumined only by clusters of light from the nearby coastal towns and by stars so bright that they were like small moons. It was dark when we passed the Gulf of Tunis, Carthage, and La Marsa on our way to Gammarth. We drove up to a white stucco house stacked in tiers against a hillside and brilliantly lighted. Inside there was a large living room with a wide window that looked out over the Mediterranean and the distant lights of Sidi Bou Said.
A long circular divan faced the window as if it were a stage. In front of it was a
round table painted in a Persian flower design, and on its round lace cloth the
kemia were spread. Freshly roasted almonds, several varieties of spiced olives, and the local caviar, la boutargue (dried and salted mullet eggs possessing a delicate flavor), were served with the drinks. There were five of us, three Tunisians and two Americans, all equally voluble and making good conversation.
A chef did the cooking; a pretty young maid served. And if curtain time
seemed late it was understandable, because when the opening act appeared it
turned out to be the most spectacular couscous I had ever seen. When properly prepared couscous is delicious and possesses great subtlety of flavor. Heaped in the center of an enormous platter were the grains of couscous. (I say "grains" although in truth couscous is a pasta.) Surrounding it at one end of the dish were small pieces of lamb, and on the other end was a mound of assorted vegetables made lively by red pimiento, tomatoes, and an orange-colored gourd known as calabash. Long, fresh, hot red peppers were stuck in the couscous like porcupine quills and with it was served a sauce made of the reduced stock and harissa (hot pepper sauce), that high-powered addition to most Tunisian cooking.
The couscous proved to be as delectable as it looked but left little room for
the dish that followed, a star in its own right-boned chicken stuffed with layers
of varied nuts and accompanied by green beans cooked to perfection. The chicken
was followed by cheese and fruit. Roussel, a vin rose, was served throughout the meal.
Dinner completed, we drove to Sidi Bou Said, an exquisite tree-filled white-
blue Arab town on the nearby coast. We were shown where Andre Gide had
lived, and then Abdullah took us to the house of a painter friend who had built
a stunning room of glass and tiles on his roof, with gold chairs shaped like sea-shells. From there we could see for miles. Belatedly, the moon put in its appearance, frosting everything in silver light: Carthage, the gulf, and all the
white towns of the coast. After leaving the artist's house we moved on to a cafe
where we listened to the end of a malouf. There the Andalusian music was exceptionally lovely and complex, and it brought to a close an evening that was
the Tunisia of today-a melange of old and new.
My final visit to Abdullah's house was for luncheon on the day of my departure for Paris. My host came to the Claridge to collect me, and on our way out of town we passed the marche central, where he did some last minute shopping. In this fabulous market everyone is a specialist. A mushroom market had on display an amazing variety of fungi; the escargot market presented nothing but live snails; and the vegetables were exhibited as if they were hothouse flowers. Turnips, a favorite in Tunisia, were young, pink and white, scoured to a gloss, and tied in bunches with their green tops spread out like skirts. The tomatoes were even redder than those of Italy and nearly bursting with juice. For some reason the lemons are picked before they are fully ripe; strawberries come large and luscious; and tiny round melons are sand-colored on the outside, bright orange within. There is a special market for game, and stalls are filled with cheeses and olives of every size and description. There are three domestic cheeses available: Numidia and carre de Mateur (similar to Roquefort) are goat cheeses, and the third is a good Camembert.
When Abdullah had finished his marketing we sped off toward Gammarth along the lake that separates Tunis from the gulf. Lac de Tunis is filled with a bright green vegetable growth that forms a green line running parallel to the sky-blue water of the gulf. A strange blue-green haze, made luminous by the sun, hung over it like a mirage. Hazily silhouetted in the distance was Djebel Bou Kornine (Father of Two Horns), the mountain in the shape of a camel.
There are some delightful restaurants along this coast. In Gammarth there is L'Auberge des Dunes and Le Diplomate; in Carthage is Le Neptune, the best fish restaurant on the coast and very pretty, with a view of the Gulf of Tunis. And La Marsa has a place that is very good called Le Pecheur. In Sidi Bou Said there is Le Pirate.
It was in this region of the North African coast that corsairs spun out their legends. Its azure bays and intricate shoreline provided shelter for the galleys of Barbarossa, Dragut, who served the sultan of Turkey, and Andrea Doria, who served Charles V of Spain. Looking at the harbor of Tunis today, with its cruise ships and its freighters plying their goods, one reflects on the fleets of the corsairs and, even further back, on the Fatimid caliphs, who kept two hundred galleys in the harbor until the crafty Barbarossa banished them by making a bargain with the king. Shortly thereafter every port on the North African coast was appropriated by pirates.
But long before any of that happened there was Carthage. On the road to Abdullah's house one passes its melancholy ruins stretching over the flat, brooding plains of what was once the Gulf of Carthage and is now the Gulf of Tunis-all that remains of the site where this most sumptuous, most fascinating of cities once reigned. The Carthage that is no more had temples with pillars of gold and lapis lazuli. When, in 146 B.C., the city was decimated in perhaps the most definitive coup de grace in history, the sons of Baal placed a curse on Carthage. It lay a wasteland until a hundred years later when Caesar saw it and, beguiled by the terrain, ignored the curse and ordered the erection of a great new city. This too was destroyed by Barbarian hordes, and the old Carthage now lives only in the dazzling prose of Flaubert's Salammbo. When the great city died for the last
time, supposedly most of the active population was in the arena watching the games, and the men arrived at their posts of defense too late.
In Byrsa, on the hills that surround Carthage, there are fresh white villas with irrepressible flowers crowding their walls. This town, set upon the artifacts
of other civilizations, is where many foreign diplomats and wealthy Tunisians
have their homes. Carthage and its environs have forever bred luxury and luxurious living-and envy.
Gammarth, its flower-bedizened villas built in tiers against the side of a hill
facing the Mediterranean, is perhaps the most scintillating village of all in this
couronne of rich new suburbs. It was a status symbol for the French during
their tenure in Tunisia, and before them, for the beys. Now it has become such a
symbol for prosperous Tunisians who have replaced the pretentious homes of their predecessors with white stucco houses imaginatively decorated with tiles and Byzantine shutters. All of the latest conveniences are to be found in them,
including one that is not so recent-many servants.
During this visit I was able to see the view from Abdullah's house: the port, Sidi Bou Said in the distance, and Abdullah's gardens, a mad composition of varicolored bougainvilleas, dust-pink and red hibiscuses six inches in diameter, heavily scented roses of Persian ancestry that ran through a spectrum of colors from white to shades of yellow and orange to deep red, and nasturtiums, all in luxuriant array.
Abdullah's spacious dining terrace where we had lunch was a festive place that bright, sunny afternoon. Its large stationary octagonal table covered with gay colored tiles could have accommodated thirty people, but there were
only four of us huddled cosily together on two of its eight sides. The main house
stood above us on the hillside; on the tier below was a charming guest house,
a jewel. Oriental in style, with lovely rugs from Kairouan and tiled walls and floors. The plateau where the table was set was surrounded by an iron grill
through which we had a view of the sea and the neighboring gardens.
My final lunch-the feu d'artifice I call it-began with boukha and kemia and continued on and on. The kemia consisted of sliced tomatoes topped with chopped anchovies, onions, and parsley; lentils with onions and pimiento, oil and lemon; pickled turnips; and pine nuts fried in butter with chick-peas. An eight-pound loup followed, stuffed with sprigs of fennel and rubbed with oil and lemon and possessing a faint taste of cumin. The tail of the fish was in its mouth, and it had evidently been baked to a crisp all over by being stood on its stomach. Large whole lemons, cut or sculptured in the shape of baskets and filled with parsley, decorated the platter, and pimientos and small whole baked tomatoes added to the color.
There were several dishes at Abdullah's final regalement that could have served as an entire meal for me. One was the mechouia, which followed the bass. Then came akbab, and by the time this course was completed I was due at the nearby airport. But there was more to come, and Abdullah promised I wouldn't
miss the plane. The "more" was deliciously prepared young okra in a ragout of fresh tomato and meat; cheese; and a small melon with the top lopped off. I dug into its orange meat with a spoon, and it was so luscious that I kept digging until my spoon penetrated the bottom. To finish the repast we had a dainty cup filled with sweet mint tea.
Although the cuisine was Tunisian Abdullah had lived so long in the West
that the many dishes were served in courses. A Tunisian lacking exposure to
the West would have placed everything on the table at once, with the exception
of the fruit and sweets, and allowed the guests to serve themselves.
Abdullah, who philosophizes about everything, had his own views on the
cuisine of a country, tracing it to the ethnic origins of its people. Accordingly, the mechouia that we had for lunch, now tunisienne, was introduced by refugees from Yugoslavia who came to North Africa during an upheaval at home; the boukha was brought from Hungary by Jewish refugees and is distilled by them now; and the okra dish was a result of the Turkish occupation. The Moors contributed the chicken stuffed with nuts, and no doubt the Italians and French had something to do with the tarte aux poissons tunisienne to be found in the gargottes (snack bars) along the streets of Tunis. Also found in
them are casse-croute (a roll stuffed with tuna, olives, and harissa), assiette de variants (a tuna and egg roll), and fricassee (a brioche stuffed with egg, olives, and tuna). One can sample them all in the old Italian quarter of Nice.
I would like to have remained on that enchanting terrace looking out to sea that afternoon, feasting my eyes on the riot of color presented by the flowers, dreaming over the delicious lunch and the delightful conversation, but Abdullah whisked me to the airport just in time to board my plane, and soon I was flying over what I envied being a part of, with a bottle of boukha and three tins of harissa stowed in my luggage.
A visitor to Tunis might be found enjoying any number of the following
North African specialties.
Cold Stuffed Eggplant Couscous Brik Malha (Meat-Filled Pastry) Tarte aux Poissons a la Tunisienne (Sardine and Tuna tart) Tajine Ojja (Dried Beef and Sausage Omelet) Brik a l'Oeuf (Egg-Filled Pastry) Calf's Brain Phyllo Rolls Cheese-Filled Phyllo Rolls Sea Bass in Phyllo Pastry Chicken Stuffed with Nuts |