casablanca: the few good places to go

Sent out the bat signal to the homey Karl 'the mineral man' Mangialardi, aka, 'Our man in Morocco', aka, 'The Philly goosepimple pimp'.
He took the first thing smokin' from Fez to Casa to show me the ropes.

'Casa's a shithole.' He confided. 'You have to know the few good places to go.' 

Over the next few days he proceeded to show me these places. Rick's cafe near the port, with its incredible live jazz band on Sundays. The Marché Centrale where we had fresh-shucked oysters from a smack-talking auntie and watched a turtle try to escape its fate. The best cafe to order a cafe noir w/'shwee' lait. The mazelike and surprisingly modern-focused medina. The beachfront bustle of Ain Diab. The tragic misuses of travertine and other stones in the crumbling, barely-beautiful Art-Deco style buildings around central Casa. 

AIN DIAB (Copy)

AIN DIAB

Sunday at Ain Diab beach

The perfect cafe noir with 'shwee' lait.

Casa looks like something bad happened here a long time ago and nobody bothered to care afterwards. But there are still traces of its former beauty, if you look hard enough - like the Art deco style seen in this old Fiat building.

MARCHE CENTRAL

Oysters for breakfast at the Marché Centrale cuz... why not?

Entering the medina

RICK'S CAFE

Rick's cafe. There was a little static at the door. They said it was cuz Karl was wearing shorts and sandals. We speculated that it also might've been because they assumed i was a... 'working girl'.

If i *was* working... you couldn't affooorrrd it!!

I thought it might be a cliché experience, but Rick's Cafe is an absolute jewel in a mostly shitty town

But my favorite Mangialardi insider experience? The 'man bars'.

You see, as a Muslim country, the consumption of alcohol is technically prohibited. But... drankers gonna drank. So, Karl inducted me into the secret society of Casablanca dive bars frequented only by men.

The telltale sign of one of these hidden-in-plain-sight bars? A 70s-style beaded curtain. Once pulled back, another world awaits. Cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air. Moroccan men of all ages - but mostly older - belly up to the bar, camp out at tables, ordering round after round of Stork (lager) or Speciale (pilsner). The music from the comically ancient jukebox is either classic rock (heavy on the Dire Straits) or Moroccan gnawa (Karl and I are both partial to the gnawa music). 

With Karl as my escort, I am largely invisible. I imbibe my beers and observe much. Chokran and merci beaucoup for the crash course, Karl! #askalocal #behindthebeadedcurtain

Bar Poker D'as (Copy)

Bar Poker D'as

My first 'man bar'. Karl likes to call it, 'poker n d'as' cuz... Karl.

Instead of keeping a written tab, the bar staff either leaves your ‘dead soldiers’ on your table or places them on the backside of the bar right in front of you. When you’re ready to pay, they count up the bottles to give you your total. It’s a foolproof system.

Bar Eden (Copy)

Bar Eden

In a couple of the 'man bars', like Bar Eden, I'm surprised to find that I'm not the only woman present. When there *is* another, she is usually either: serving up the beers; a 'house girl' who cooks up food that may be brought in by a patron or runs out to grab a few extra cigarettes at a barfly's request; or, she is part of the entertainment. Cuz man does not live by classic rock or gnawa alone.

Bistro du Titan (Copy)

Bistro du Titan

Bar Titan. Where a girl can be a guy. The only 'man bar' where i saw other ladies inside comfortably enjoying themselves as patrons. It should come as no surprise - the owners are a French mother-daughter duo.