Day 79: Gluttony

As promised, here is the photo montage of my (over-) indulgence.

Marrakesh Palace, located just a few blocks from the Moroccan Embassy in DC, is probably the best Moroccan restaurant in the District. (There are two where you can find slightly better fare, in Alexandria, VA, and Silver Spring, MD--but technically they are not in Washington). The ambiance is great, it reminds me of one of the little 'riad' hotels in the medina or old city in Marrakesh, complete with classical Moroccan tile, giant 'ponges' for seating, and even a water fountain near the entrance:



My friend had been unable to meet me for lunch, so I decided to go solo for a late dinner. I've attempted to faithfully follow all of Patrick's diet exercise instruction over the past 79 days, so hey, why stop now? True to my word, I went all out--"whole hog." Or, this being a halal establishment, chicken.

I kicked things off with a plate-full of spicy--and EXTREMELY SALTY--olives, washed down with some traditional soup, "harira":



Oh, and, of course, the traditional small pot of sugary-sweet Moroccan tea, with at LEAST 3 cups.

Almost as good as my host-Mom used to make.

Next up, the entree...

...naw, scratch that, another appetizer--chicken "bastilla": shredded chicken baked into a filo-dough pastry seasoned with, among other things, lots of cinnamon and powdered sugar. I know, meat + cinnamon + sugar!? Trust me, it works:



After making my way through the first piece, I began to feel full. Initially, I entertained thoughts of slowing down a little--and possibly saving that second piece as leftovers. Then I remembered my mission and, more importantly, that I wouldn't be able to eat it as leftovers, anyway:



NOW for the entree--traditional Friday cous cous with--yes!--more chicken:



I'm not going to lie--it was good:



Though definitely saltier than what I remember.

At this point, I was pretty full, and ready for the che...

..what's that? Uh, I guess I could look at the dessert menu:



Hey, they don't call it indulgence for nothing. So I decided to pony-up for the final two nails in the coffin--chocolate mouse cake and "nes-nes"--1/2 coffee 1/2 milk:



I flirted with the idea of "Morocco-fying" the coffee with yet more sugar...



...but decided I was already tempting fate--and Type II diabetes--with the cake.




All-in-all, a every tasty--though significantly un-PCP--meal.

I wish I could recount some horrendous, Ren-esque tale of the diarrheal aftermath of my little carb, salt, and sugar-injected bender, but sadly, all that really happened was that I felt kind of bloated the rest of the evening. And very AWAKE. The true negative consequences stemmed less from over-doing the food than having too much caffeine late in the evening. My sleep--and work-out--schedule is now completely whacked. I didn't hit the rope until at least 1 a.m., and didn't get to bed until something like 4 a.m...

...like I'm about to do again.

The moral of the story is, as it often is, about balance--the food tasted good, I just didn't need to eat so much of it, so late in the day. Like the French--and any good guest in a Moroccan home, really--I should have been more attentive to my own feelings of satiety, and more polite, and left more on the plate. Another mechanism that other cultures have for regulating portion size is eating meal from communal plates. The meal becomes more of a zero-sum game in which how much you eat, and what cuts of meat and fat you receive, depend upon the family and social position of those who are digging in beside you. The guest is usually given the biggest pieces of meat, with the most fat--the most energy and protein. This makes sense; guests in North Africa are more often than not travelers who will likely be expending more energy on the way to their next destination than their hosts will in going about their regular routine. Some day the hosts may become the travelers, and their guest the host, at which point the favor is returned. By contrast, here in the US, EVERYONE is their own guest, ALL the time--everyone gets his or her own plate (or bag, or box)--regardless of their status, and despite the fact that they may not have yet learned any serious degree of self-control when it comes to how much they consume. Our so-called rugged individualism isn't really so rugged when it comes to food, and it pales in comparison to the far more complex--and far more rugged--communal eating traditions in many other parts of the world.