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CONFESSIONS OF A FOODIE PERFECTIONIST

 [ts_row] [ts_one_third] As I went on holiday in Marrakech, I could’ve never imagined how different it is to eat in another climate, let alone pick a restaurant. The temperatures were so blazing hot that we couldn’t bring ourselves to eat before nine o’clock. Well, we did the first night: rookie mistake. We sat around the table while sweat was dripping in our steamy tagines. I really can’t find a nicer experience than to feel the whole sofa being stuck to your ass when you finally decide you bore the heat long enough and stand up to leave a trail of stickiness behind. Well, they said to leave your mark, didn’t they? [/ts_one_third] [ts_one_third] I have recently discovered the likes of TripAdvisor, which has made me but a slave to its wonderful knowledge. I never use it to find the nearest cool kids place in my hometown, but it seems to work for me if I want to go on a quest in a foreign country (which is basically, always). When I find myself on a plane to go on holiday, I want nothing more than perfection out of those few days that I like to call relaxation. And back then, I needed it more than ever. With the heat already saluting us in a gruesome manner everyday and the fact that high heels were more or less the inventions of satan when visiting a city like Marrakech  [/ts_one_third] [ts_one_third] where even hooved donkeys find it hard to keep the natural balance on the hobbly things they call road, I really couldn’t bare the thought of having a less than perfect meal. So I found myself in bathrobe in our airconditioned hotelroom in late afternoon everyday –the sticky-ass situation, remember?- searching for the best option to devour sweet Morrocan foods and spend Morrocan money very wisely. Frustration got the better of me most times after an hour of comparing and drawing up moodboards didn’t seem to get me anywhere. While the time I invested in living the perfect life -or trying to- got me nowhere but [/ts_one_third] [/ts_row]


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barely-there boring perfectness. And to tell you the truth, it sucked in a flawless way. We ate more than impeccable food and sat at set tables that looked nicer than when my mom pulls out the golden Christmas cutlery with the matching plates. We did discover some of Marrakech ultimate hotspots, but some of the authenticity was missing. Not of the restaurants themselves, but of the authentic search for them. You know, the thrill when you discover the most magical Disneyland behind a brick wall that has seen men’s liquids, nightime crimes and the average dirt that a city not so proudly possesses.

The excitement quickly faded.

My foolproof plan turned out to have fooled me instead.

The realization that the search for perfection in our generation has taken over our whole lives, hit quicker than a hammer on the hand that’s trying to assemble the Nornäs Ikea cabinet. And yet. I couldn’t stop. ”What if this evening isn’t perfect?”, it went through my head. We have forgotten what it’s like to take a moment and make it perfect instead of letting other factors decide for us when we should be ultimately happy. I discovered that on our last night. It was a beautiful night. We booked one of the nicest restaurants in Marrakech -according to TripAdvisor, naturally & obviously- set in a garden with the most sophisticated atmosphere. While we were sitting by the pool, eyeballing our food that was on a journey through the garden on its way to us, a sudden cold chill ran down our spines. We just used up our last dirhams an hour before -it was a gorgeous purse, you know-  because we would be traveling back when morning came, and the credit card we thought was safely in that purse, wasn’t. We left it at the hotel exactly eight days before. Safety reasons.

Fuck.

Dinner was utterly delicious, but we didn’t taste it. The surroundings were mindblowingly beautiful, but we didn’t see it anymore. What had to be the most perfect night of all, the crème de la crème, the cherry on top of a steaming hot pie, the going-out-with-a-bang, turned out to be the worst. The only thing we could think of was that doing dishes in a Morrocan restaurant wasn’t exactly on our bucket list. We eventually payed in euro and after a strange look of the hostess, we dissapeared into the night with our stomachs full of delicate, delicious & delectable food and our minds full of the unperfect perfect night. We only didn’t realize it then.

Fuck.

 

 

*You may think this post is sponsored by TripAdvisor, but it’s not. Really. Not.

@christinesmeyers