“I really like the chocolate drink you have here,” I tell the Moroccan waiter at the hotel restaurant. “What’s the brand name of the product? Where can we buy it?”
The tall French-speaking waiter, whose English is rather limited, acknowledges my comment with a nod and suddenly leaves our table. This is the same waiter who approached us yesterday to have a two-pound coin, a tip from a British customer, converted into the local currency; we became instant money changers at that time.
“That was rather odd, don’t you think?” I tell my husband. “He didn’t give me a definite answer and just left.”
“Maybe it’s a top secret. Maybe they’re not supposed to mention to hotel guests the products they use in this restaurant, which is actually understandable,” my husband quips.
“Ah, okay.”
After a few minutes, the waiter approaches our table again and hands me a medium-sized orange carton box filled with cocoa powder. The product label reads: “Caobel, boisson chocolatee (chocolate drink).”
“I’ll look for Caobel in the shops then. Merci beaucoup,” I thank the waiter. I then hand back the Caobel box to the waiter.
But he makes a hand gesture that I should keep it. “You can have it,” he says.
“Oh,” I say, quite surprised. “Can I do that?”
“It’s 30 dirhams,” he finally tells me.
Put on the spot, I stop eating my pancakes and search my handbag for some cash. I then give him the 30 dirhams. He smiles and goes back to the kitchen.
“So you now have your Caobel!” remarks my smiling husband. “No need to go to the Arab market searching for that. You know how aggressive they can be there.”
“Well, that was a surprise. I didn’t expect him to sell me the cocoa powder right here, you know. But I’m happy, yes. No need to meet the hustlers at the Medina alright,” I confess.
We resume eating our breakfast.
After a couple of minutes, the waiter returns and positions himself on my left side. Since we have just finished eating our breakfast and have not really summoned him, I wonder what he wants now. I give him a questioning look.
“Keep…keep,” he admonishes me in a hushed tone, pointing at the Caobel chocolate drink pack lying lazily on our dining table.
I’m confused. “What?”
“Keep that,” he mutters under his breath, motioning me to put the Caobel box inside my handbag. He appears to be very tense.
“Ah, okay.” Much to my surprise, I follow what he commands me to do without even asking for an explanation. He looks somewhat relieved afterwards.
Moments after this hide-the-cocoa-powder-box incident, my husband and I bid the waiter good-bye and head back to our hotel room.
“Honey,” I whisper to my husband along the corridor. “I’m afraid I’ve just become an accessory to a crime.” (Marrakesch, Morocco/August 2007)
