Unes, where's this from? I ask holding up a pastry dusted with sugar and cinnamon. Unes sits back, mint tea poised, his slender fingers cradling the glass. The Moriscos, in Fez they're famous for this. But first bstilla come from Al-Andalusia. The pastry crackles between my teeth, the pigeon meat oozes hot and juicy, a stark contrast to the sweet, crisp outer layers. My mouth is a riot of contrasts: dry and succulent, sweet and salty, creamy and crunchy. I open my eyes, unable to recall closing them. Unes smiles, I think you like bstilla. His first bite is much more practised than mine, his fingers manoeuvring stray crumbs into his mouth.
It was dusk. Birds squawked their evening prayers, a muezzin's call bounced across the rooftops. The streets hummed with the sound of swishing djellabas, the click-clack of leather babouches on uneven pavings. The air was cool, laced with the optimistic scent of spices, the sour smell of man and beast. The sky darkening, our muted shadows danced as we made our way into the heart of the walled medina of Fez. We had arrived in a square with an olive tree, its branches groping at a door embedded in the thick walls. Beyond, candlelight glittered; we arranged ourselves on cushions piled around the fountain.
How do you spell baz-te-yah, Unes? His eyes dance with delight. Sweetie, it's b-s-t-i-l-l-a, but you say pas-ti-yyah. We say 'food for the god'. He pauses to stir his tea before continuing. We can see the bstilla as far back as 60AD in Spain. When Spanish reconquista happen the Moriscos leave Al-Andalusia and come to Fez. Now we have 'living kitchen' for fresh food. Pigeon is cheap, now we also have chicken. We believe our door always open, visitors must be welcome. Bstilla is the best for this, to say 'you're important'. Unes regards me over his tea.
I'm glad the Moriscos brought bstilla, I sigh, rolling the letters over my tongue. Food for Allah, indeed. You need more practise eating this, he says, laughing at my sugar coated lap.
