Rockin’ Cape/Moroccan: The twin spicy cuisines that book-end Africa

Think spices and world cuisines, especially from a southern African perspective, and two are likely to leap out of the pack: Moroccan cuisine, from the far north-west, and Cape cuisine, from the Tavern of the Seas in the deep south-west.

Of course, there are big differences in flavour, because no two spice combinations are the same. But those core elements of meat, fruit and spices, and occasionally nuts, are central to many of the dishes from the old colonial Cape kitchens, and they’re all over Moroccan cuisine. Cinnamon and cumin are essential both to Cape Malay and Moroccan tagine recipes, yet how different they are in execution.

Having said that, one of the two cuisines is clearly more defined than the other, more famous in the greater world than the other; one is considered one of the great cuisines of the world, the other is a relative also-ran. You know which is which.

It never ceases to amaze me that visitors to Cape Town have to search for restaurants specialising in the local cuisine. They are there, but they should be in every street, every suburb. Here and there you’ll find a restaurant where a famous, award-winning chef tweaks and fiddles with traditional Cape dishes. Put another way, the dish is changed. It’s no longer what it says on the tin. And don’t get me started on the deconstructed bobotie I once had in Franschhoek.

Okay, do. A compote of macerated raisins, three medallions of lamb rump, and some creamy scrambled egg, even if the egg was cooked sous vide, is not a bloody bobotie. (In fact, if you want to know what a bobotie really is, read Louzel Lombard Steyn’s Farm to Table column in this issue of Thank God It’s Food).

Imagine visiting Marrakesh and struggling to find the local fare, as you would at the Cape. Is this because the Cape has an inferiority complex about its varied traditional cuisines, chiefly Cape Malay and Cape Dutch, with other influences of course? Is it because the old Cape dishes just aren’t good enough? Or does its relative anonymity have to do with shame about the truth that, as with anything to do with our colonial past, there are inevitably dank nooks and crannies where Past Inequity cowers, hoping to be forgotten?

But food brings us to the table, and at the table we join hands and minds in forging friendships and alliances, not division. So if anything can help us come together, it’s food, the cooking of it and the eating of it.

Imagine a fusion of Cape and Moroccan cuisines in a single, colourful restaurant. Not in one dish, but a menu that offers dishes with dates and chermoula, tagines of chicken and figs, and Cape originals like the best ever bobotie and bredies (a tomato bredie made well is a very fine thing); akhni, breyani and turmeric-based curries with fruity chutneys. I’d book there right away, sooner than I would at a poncy palace boasting an important chef with an award up his apron yet who might not be able to tell you how to make waterblommetjiebredie. And if s/he did, would nestle something on a bed of something else and spend far too much time pondering which element to turn into a gel and which into a foam. “Chef sent you this little amuse bouche, it’s waterblommetjie heart marinated in ponzu and mirin, with watercress purée and hemp soil.” On a spoon.

The Cape Malay style of curry is a very particular thing which has little in common with its Durban counterpart and deserves to be celebrated. There’s surely a gap in the market for a home delivery service which, rather than pizza or “Chinese”, offers a menu of traditional Cape fare. Most of these dishes won’t spoil with travel and are easily reheated, so that’s no hindrance.

Meanwhile, to the far north, there’s a world of delight for the needy palate to be found in the vibrant, zinging flavours of Morocco and, for that matter, neighbouring Tunisia. I tried my hand at making chermoula the other day, and harissa, with results that delighted me. One of those occasions when something you’ve never tried before comes out just right.

Harissa is red, chermoula green. Red peppers are the hero of the first, coriander leaves of the second. Harissa is Tunisian, but is also used in Moroccan cuisine, often in a milder form; chermoula is used across several north African countries, from Morocco to Libya.

A vague rule of thumb which I think makes sense is: if it’s cooked in a tagine, think of it as Moroccan. So much for tradition and purity. Just try to avoid the temptation to turn the red pepper into a foam, and the coriander leaves into gel. Here follow recipes for them and for a tagine I made of chicken with green olives, chermoula, almonds and pomegranate.

Chermoula

Chermoula. Photo: Tony Jackman

Harissa. Photo: Tony Jackman

On a high gas flame, burn the pepper on all sides until the skin is blackened.