I also enjoy pastry.
Juice bars are ubiquitous in larger towns and cities, but most of them serve the same basic menu – seasonal fruits, nuts, and the ever trendy avacado juice (which tastes like vanilla pudding, weirdly). There was a small place near our training center in Ouarzazate that became ou de-facto hangout. We practiced our pronunciation on the bemused waitstaff, who always seemed confused by the combinations we dared try, as we settled into Moroccan culture. We've been on a collective hunt for good juice ever since. This place, though, left us in awe. There was carob and plum and raspberry and banana/coffee and starfruit and mango. There was even walnut. Rabat, again, was proving itself awesome.
I glanced down at the deli counter where one of the chefs was working on a couple sandwiches when I caught sight of them. Blueberries. Honest to god blueberries.
I gracefully tripped over a chair and flagged down the head waiter. "How much are those?" I asked, pointing to the packs a little too eagerly. He gave me a concerned look and consorted with the head chef. "For juice, 20 dirham". He wasn't going to let me walk out of there with a box, I
could tell, but I happily settled for a strawberry/raspberry/blueberry juice and took a seat. It was magical.
I sat, savoring every bit, watching Rabat go by. Half an hour later I finally went back in to pay. Which is when I noticed a picture on the wall. Of a juice. With cranberries.
"How much is that one? Do you really make this?" I again needed to, perhaps, take a breath.
"Of course," he answered, pointing to a high shelf above the blenders. There were three huge bags of Craisins. He smiled at me. "They're from America."
I got juice seven times in four days. I have very little in the way of shame.