During a brief and satisfying lunch in Marrakech's medina, I realized that I don't need to speak Arabic to understand Moroccans.
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 duel. I wish I had a video camera.
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?