A telephone call from my grandson sent our household into a state of nervous excitement. Sion, who now calls himself Jean-Sebastien, was stopping over in New York for 18 hours, with his bride Marie-Ange on his way back to France from Mexico. He wanted to see his grandparents for a late lunch. Thoughtfully he gave me the number of his friend in New York’s East Village, to work out the details, saying ‘I do not want anything fancy’. Sultana, my wife, wanted to ‘se mettre en quatre’ [or pull out the stops] for JS, but once her initial enthusiasm took on a reasonable cast, we agreed on eating at Café Mogodor [101 St. Mark’s Place],
‘a pioneer of Moroccan restaurants in New York City’ since 1983. Owned by a family of Moroccan Jews, originally from Mogodor [now Essaouria],
once the most Jewish of Morocco’s cities, who has not broken ties with ‘le pays [بلاد] ou elle a vu le jour’ [the country where they were born].
Café Mogodor occupies two store fronts, with large windows which the light of day lends a homey, cozy, and unpretentious ambiance. The décor is simple: tables, chairs, and a good well-stocked bar and a good Italian-made expresso machine. In the second, smaller room, are photos of the owner’s family in Mogodor of days long forgotten from the last century, and on a shelf glazed ‘tagine’ pots, as a reminder to the café’s patrons that that they were eating in a real Moroccan restaurant. And if anyone had any doubts, on the wall of the larger room is a photo of King Mohammed VI, and in the small room, a portrait of his grandfatherMohammed V much revered by the Jews of Morocco, sipping a glass of traditional mint tea. Seating accommodates a hundred and in warmer weather, a terrace holds another 10 to 20.
Everything in Café Mogodor serves one purpose: the enjoyment of food. I met Ariela, a Moroccan Israeli, who is the manager to settle on the menu. Strikingly beautiful, in her mid-30s, she has finely chiseled features, dark, knowing and laughing eyes, and jet-black hair nestling gently on her shoulders; her voice has the quality of summer and smoke of a sultry mid-summer’s afternoon in the shade of Essaouira’s ramparts overlooking a lazy Atlantic Ocean, and her smile parts sensual lips favoring pearly white teeth devoted to food. Regal in bearing, olive complected, her voice has the ring of silky plausibility. She is a true Jewish Arab beauty. Raised on a kibbutz not far from Haifa, her parents chose well her name: for the archangel Ariel, in Jewish mysticism, is known, among other things, for warmth and betrays a soupcon of unrestrained. And the warmth and joy she exudes is quite palpable and she embodies the spirit of the earth [הארץ].
She knows no Arab, but her French is good enough so that when she’s visiting Morocco she has no trouble finding her way. And, she does know her Moroccan cooking thanks to her mother’s influence. No doubt, the owners of Cafe Mogodor have found a gem in her.
Still, a doubt kept nagging me. I did not care if Café Mogodor was not kosher, but I did worry that the kitchen staff was not Moroccan. ‘Have no fear!’ Ariela chimed in. The owner and his family have trained them in the art of Moroccan cuisine. Still, my worry subsisted until I ate my first bite of food.
Mogodor is known for its Cous-Cous, Merguez, Bastilla, and Tagines.
For a setting of 10 for the ‘wedding party’, she suggested a combination Cous-Cous [$12 to $17,50] with lamb and merguez. I proposed a Bastilla [$15], a pie of layers of pastry with chicken, eggs, and almonds. ‘Wouldn’t that be heavy on the stomach?’ she asked. I demurred, and then wondered whether a lamb tagine [stew] [$16,50]would be preferable.
Planning a menu does not seem as simple as it sounds: picture us in ‘souk [bazaar]-like’ fashion, haggling not too finely over the dishes as though we were at an open public market, which made the exercise all the merrier, the more especially since in bartering you never give in easily. For more than 40 minutes, Ariela and I exercised seasoned habits to trump the other, more in play than ego thumping.
Finally there would be a more ample simple Merguez Cous-Cous, steamed semolina over a bouillon of highly seasoned beef sausages and vegetables and chickpeas and onions, two Bastilla, and a larger Lamb Tagine with apricots and prunes. We would skip appetizers and soup –for the plain and simple reason they were more Middle Eastern [$4.75] and it would take too long to prepare a ‘harerah’ soup — but wouldn’t scant on the salad [$6.50 to $9.50]. Since no Moroccan wine was available and Algerian wines do not travel well, a good Bordeaux would do, which Ariela would buy.
Sultana argued for an appetizer or two, to which I agreed. She thought there was too much food, and she was probably right. I, donning my best Philadelphia lawyer robes, and with the fire of a proselytizer, argued that Marie-Ange and Jean-Sebastien’s friends, were worthy of a variety of dishes, the better to appreciate Moroccan cooking.
The menu agreed on, Ariela suggested eating in the second room under the family photos and one picture of a Jew in traditional djellaba [robe] and babouches[slippers] and another in a black-dyed silhm [wool cape] and on his head a white turban, suggesting his Berber origin. She thought that it would be an appropriate touch in recalling our family’s origins. And a wedding meal binds family closer to one another, she added.
JS and MA and friends showed up for an early dinner. Ariela was on hand to welcome the newlyweds and, trouper that she is, described the dishes and had the wine opened. After toasting them, we began eating ‘a la bonne franquette’, meaning simply and without much fuss. Ariela, in the best of Arab tradition, ‘regaled’ us with stories, as we ate, until she was called away to take care of other customers. We did learn that Woody Allen, Demi Moore, and Kofi Anan ate at Café Mogodor. Once, the owners personally awaited the arrival of a visit of a Saudi princess, who, alas, cancelled at the very last minute.
No one complained of the food and ate heartedly and if she did not like the Bordeaux, he kept his or own counsel. JS seemed happy and MA is very blonde and buxom, but somewhat reserved. Generally the conversation was animated in the way only the French can do with a relaxed degree of formality. Sultana was in her element, but quietly confided to me, she should have prepared the food. Saying this, she did her best to taste all the dishes and still had room for dessert . Ariela had the kitchen prepare the traditional ‘the a la menthe’ [mint tea],
which was not very sugary at my request. Everyone sipped it, but instead preferred an expresso ‘bien tire’.
As JS and MA and friends took leave of us, JS thanked me for choosing a restaurant which brought back memories of growing up in Morocco and the warmth of family gathering. Unspoken was his feeling that with a French wife they would fade and would not be passed on. Sultana broke up a set of her gold bracelets, giving two to MA who, my wife thought, was ‘unmoved’. However, I know my wife was already looking forward to the birth of her first great grandchild and the next generation. I was not as sanguine as she, since MA would bear JS children; they, however, would enter a world long denied us. Nonetheless, we are not so selfish as to deny our progeny their happiness.
In leaving the restaurant, we thanked Ariela very much for her kindness and help. And although it did not need saying, we would recommend Café Mogodor to friends and families and anyone else who wanted to eat good Moroccan like food at fair prices. We thanked the staff for efficient service.
Taking Ariela on the side, I slipped her an unmarked white envelope. Knowing it was a ‘tip’ for her, she at first refused it, but I pushed her hand away, quickly reciting in pray-bead fashion, time-honored formula of appreciation. Were it not for her tasteful and tactful suggestions, the wedding party might not have gone off as well as it did. To Sultana and me, time and distance have long separated us from Sion, but the food and the bonhomie of the moment brought us closer again. And, Ariela had no small hand in that!
