Taylor's Travels: A Regular

Regulars have always intrigued me. You know them, the people who frequent restaurants and bars, sitting in the same place and ordering the same thing every time. The servers know their names and ask about their families. “That would be cool,” I think, then reconsider when I imagine the monotony of it all. Same food and same scene would get boring. But when I found myself calling out to Leela of Aftas Café in Taghazout, Morocco, asking for the same chicken, chili, and goat cheese pizza I’d ordered my past six visits, I realized I may have just become a regular, if only for a short while.

Nobody called it Aftas, though; they called it “the Café.” As if there was only one in town. It sat on the beach above the colorful fishing boats, shaded by an oasis of ivy that draped down the stone walls. There was outdoor seating, but I’d usually gather with friends inside, where long cushions lined the cave-like lair. Lonely Planets and board games littered the empty tables. Moroccan cloth covered the walls, but graciously made room for an obligatory Bob Marley poster.

I’d sit with my best local friends, Younes and Tarik, play heated games of Jenga, and speak of the day’s surf. Leela would serve us.

Leela was an adorable young lady from the Sunshine Coast of Australia, and was working for her friend and fellow Aussie, Devvy, who opened the Café a few months back. (I didn’t see Devvy much, as she was always dealing with something; a broken fridge or a repairman who couldn’t come to fix the stove “because its raining”). Leela, poor thing, was clearly torn between being on vacation and working. She would chat you up for five minutes before realizing the next tables coffee was up four minutes ago. Or come around and ask you if it was you who ordered the cake.

“Nope. Wasn’t me.”

She’d give a confused look around the restaurant and say, “Oh well. Whoever it was, they’ll ask for it again.”

But after a mistake she’d be quick to appease you with a gorgeous smile and some brochette on the house. Plus, her Laissez-fair attitude towards service fit with the laid back atmosphere of the Café; like the rest of us, she was in town for a good time. Except when she had to kick out stray dogs and cats, or Taghazout’s resident glue sniffer, who would march dejectedly into the Café to bum a Dirham or a smoke off the patrons. Then she was all business.

Younes lived next door to the Café. He owned a local surf school and tour company and could usually be found at the Café. He spoke perfect English and, from his years working with international clientele, had picked up a worldly vocabulary and sense of humor.

“Jeeze Younes, where are all the girls man?”

“Ah mate, sometimes they come through but most of the time you’re stuck with Pamela Handerson.”

He was a wealth of knowledge of the local area, and had classic stories of creating and maintaining his business. Like when he was getting started and barely knew how to surf himself, so he would drive his clients an hour and a half north to teach them to surf at the one break he was comfortable surfing. Now he goes to any of the of beginner waves within ten minutes of town. In one lesson with a dozen German girls, Younes gave them a healthy shock when, before the pre surf calisthenics, he stuffed a sock full of sand down the crotch of his wetsuit. “Alright, jumping jacks!”

He would order the lasagna, and for dessert the chocolate mousse.

Tarik was fluent in four languages: Arabic, French, English and Norwegian, but spoke mostly with his face. The showman of Taghazout, he’d have anyone within earshot leaning close when he told stories, punctuated with dramatic pauses and cocked eyebrows. I couldn’t get enough of his tales of growing up surfing in Morocco. He told me about sneaking out of his house to surf at five AM, behind his father who was going to morning prayers at the Mosque, Tarik peeking around imagined corners to reenact the scene. Or how, because of a surf wax shortage, he’d collect discarded cheese wrap from his rich friends and melt it onto his board for traction, the deck swollen with lumps of bright red Edam remnants.

If the subject wasn’t surfing, he’d talk about his tenure as a rapper in Norway. While he spoke little about his group, I learned plenty of his brushes with international rap stars: Wyclef is a God. Pharell is a jerk. 50-Cent is short.

His language was littered with phrases he’d picked up from travelers, “What the fuck?” and “Are you crazy?” appearing in nearly every sentence.

“Hey Tarik, were the waves good today?”

“Are you crazy? It was good, man.”

At first I was a little uncomfortable with it, like he was saying I was dumb for not knowing the waves had been good. But I soon learned it was just his special way of saying “yes.”

Tarik also ordered the lasagna, but lived for the coffee and chocolate brulee that Devvy should be famous for.

I spent my last night in Taghazout in the Café. The regular crew was there, among others. Tarik debuted his new rap, an ode to Jenga in the tune of Manu Chau’s King of the Bongo (Mama was the queen of Jenga, Papa was the king of Jenga, I’m the king of Jenga too, what the fuck you gonna do?) Younes concentrated on his lasagna before downing his mousse in less than thirty seconds. Leela booted out the glue sniffer in between not taking orders. And I ate my last piece of pizza. I’ll miss being a regular at the Café. The food was delicious and the atmosphere welcoming, but mostly I’ll miss the characters that kept me coming back, time and time again.