The day’s fasting had long finished as we walked through the dark, empty streets of Casablanca. Or so it felt wandering light headed in search of somewhere to eat. In reality, the sun had set barely half an hour ago, people still sat in doorsteps on the street hungrily slurping down the last of their meal.
We’d given up on directionless wandering and were hungrily retracing our steps to a Salon de The that we’d past earlier. My rusty French suggested that they only served breakfast, given the number of pastries on the 2,50 euro set menu displayed in the window. But it was food, and at least there were a few women in there eating too.

The place had been packed earlier but was rapidly emptying out when we arrived. It resembled a diner with its long stainless steel bar leading to the kitchen, booth seats down one wall and square tables with vinyl seats and paper table cloths which the waiters brushed clean.
We walked through the restaurant past empty tables all with the same leftovers: an empty soup bowl, egg shells, a couple of dates and occasionally a half eaten pastry. As we took our seats, I noticed the huge pile of prepared plates sitting on the bar ready to go. Barely had we sat down than two waiters fluttered around us. We weren’t asked anything, no orders were taken. They simply assumed, correctly, that we were famished after a day of Ramadan fasting.
A plate was put in front of each of us with a few dates, pastries, sweets and a boiled egg. Thick, fresh orange juice was planted on the table. Then came soup bowls, followed by the chef, chattering away in arabic, who spooned a rich broth into the bowls.
We tucked in. Thick, spiced vegetable soup with lentils and chick peas and the odd chunk of soft meat. Crunchy almond flavoured sweets. Sticky pastries, a perfectly boiled egg and a few chewy dates. The plates were cleared away and two ornate pots of sweet mint tea delivered. The food was what we’d seen on the menu in the window, a strange combination of tastes for a meal, but fast and filling.

It’s Ramadan all over the muslim world, meaning that everybody fasts during the hours of daylight. Fernando and I hadn’t really planned on joining in, but ended up coming close - with most shops and restaurants closed it was an effort to scrabble together food. An early coffee and pastry in a cafe serving a few tourists, a sugary drink, bananas and scraps of bread stuffed into our mouths as discreetly as we could in moments of desperation throughout the day.
I respect the Muslim tradition, but it does make for a pretty damn difficult travelling experience.
Casablanca was like a ghost town. The city centre is full of buildings half finished or half destroyed; the decadent French colonial buildings, crumbling, reminiscent of those in Havana.
With Ramadan the majority of the shops and businesses are closed, the streets empty of people. Most, I suppose, stay at home and rest, or at least go about their work in a relaxed way. We wanted to go and see the world’s second biggest mosque, on the coast half an hour’s walk from the city centre. We arrived exhaused from the sun’s heat and did our best to hide in the shade of the courtyard’s pillars, resting, sipping Sprite and chewing a pastry we’d hoarded from the evening before. Sacrilegious and bad form I know, but we did it as discreetly as we could.

I’m writing this in Larache, a seaside town in the north. Check back after the weekend to hear about the beach, the end of Ramadan, and the Spanish feel in this pueblito.

Other posts by Katie Llanos-Small