A Tale of Woe and Sad Vegetables

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: We’re spending a week on the Greek island of Corfu, where I’ve said It’s all Greek to me about a hundred times. Lee no longer thinks I’m funny.

A Tale of Woe and Sad Vegetables

If you look at a map of North Africa, you see Morocco and Algeria and Tunisia, all in a row. You’d think—and you’d be somewhat right—that they’d have a lot in common.

We never figured out what that commonality is, because something went awry for us in Algeria. Well, several somethings, but there was one thing in particular: lunch.

First off, food was literally hard to come by. We arrived in the middle of Eid Al-Fitr, which is the celebration at the end of Ramadan. Apparently it lasts for three days? We had no idea. Restaurants were closed when we arrived on Tuesday. They were also closed on Wednesday, the last day of Eid. But they were closed on Thursday, too—apparently there’s no point in opening for only part of a week. By the time we left on Monday, we had eaten exactly zero good meals.

Everything about the food was challenging, and the disconnect between what we ate and the enthusiasm people expressed for the food was just … weird.

Here’s a very specific example: our tour guide, at one point, waxed eloquent about Algerian dates. The best in the world, he said. Deglet Noor is the variety.

Just the evening before, we’d had a fruit plate that included the single worst date I’ve ever had. There were half a dozen on the plate, but that first one was so dried-out and shriveled and tough that I couldn’t be bothered with the others. They were notably awful, and I love dates. It made me sad.

So when our buddy Billel went on about how amazing Algerian dates are, I was a little perplexed. Was the Marriott just serving bad dates? Or did Billel really not know any better? It was one of those awkward moments that are my normal, so I smiled and nodded and said I’d be sure to try them.

Another guy, Said, went on about the cuisine in general, and the bread specifically. That evening we were served a basket of rolls, which might as well have been Wonderbread, but also some kind of local flat bread, because the waiter wanted us to try the local specialty. It was—well, I’m not sure what to say about it. It was flat? A nice color? I dipped it in olive oil, and because it was 7 pm and we’d had nothing to eat since breakfast, I ate it (gnawed on it might be more accurate). Hunger makes all kinds of things more palatable than they might otherwise be. Perhaps that’s really the best explanation of Algerian cuisine, now that I think about it.

The first day, we toured a Roman ruin that was two hours away, then had to drive all the way back to the city to find a friend of the guide who would cook for us. Billel told him, on the phone, that I was vegetarian. I know he did—I heard him. We arrived at the closed restaurant, which was about the size of a walk-in closet, and hung out with the family for half an hour or so. After a while we were served two big plates of meat. That’s all—just meat in several formats. After a great deal of shock and distress and jumbled-up French and Arabic from everyone except me (I just kept smiling and nodding and not looking at the meat—goat? Mutton? No idea), my plate was whisked away.

After another long wait, I was served a green salad and some steamed vegetables—turnip, carrot, and zucchini. They were beautifully sliced. That is the best I can say about them.

Next day, same deal. Billel finds a place that is open, explains that I’m vegetarian, and I am served something that is more or less edible. This time the vegetables were shredded, not sliced, and cooked in a pile of oil, rather than steamed. Lee’s meat came with fries, but they were awful, too.

We were on our own for the next two days, and everything was still closed, so we ate in our hotel. The first day we tried the lobby lounge. There were two conflicting menus, but it didn’t matter, because they were out of everything I tried to order. The only vegetarian item they had was cheese pizza, so that’s what I ate. Note: if you’ve just spent three weeks in Italy, Algerian pizza is, to put it kindly, subpar.

On our final day in Constantine, we gave up and had room service. I ordered the pasta Alfredo with mushrooms. It took ninety minutes to arrive, and it turned out to have no mushrooms, but lots of diced chicken. Also, it was bad. Not poisonous or anything—just really untasty.

It’s possible that we had spectacularly bad luck, arriving when we did in the middle of Eid. Perhaps Algerian food is usually delicious. Or perhaps Algerians just don’t eat out much—there are plenty of countries in the world where the good food is found in homes, prepared with love and served with pride. Or perhaps the few people we talked to truly don’t know any better. Neither of the guides or drivers ate or drank in our presence—and we spent ten-hour days together.

I’m not sure what the problem was, and I was hesitant to ask. Why is your food so awful? seems like a rude question. Like much about Algeria, it was a mystery.

Take care,

Lisa

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