Spearmint and the Geography of Taste in Fez By Hamid Mernissi
Spearmint held a place of quiet importance in our daily lives when I was growing up in the Medina of Fez. It was never a mere garnish to tea, but a seasonal compass, a marker of refinement, care, and intention. One did not simply buy mint; one sought it, according to time, place, and the dignity of those who would drink the tea.
In spring and summer, our search took us beyond the walls of Fez, toward the fertile plains of Meknes, irrigated by the sweet waters of the Boufekrane streams. Mint from those lands carried a clarity, upright stems, tender leaves, and a fragrance that rose instantly when rubbed between the fingers. It was the mint of generosity and daylight, of long afternoons and open doors.
Winter demanded another knowledge. Then we relied on the gardens of Bab Lhdid, where aromatic mint thrived beside wormwood, sheeba, and sage, salmia, herbs reserved for colder days and heavier conversations. Their scents were deeper, medicinal, grounding; they warmed not only the tea but the chest itself. In winter, mint was no longer playful; it became protective. If one truly cared about the tea, distance did not matter. You crossed the city if you had to. And yet, mint was everywhere too, sold on street corners, carried in baskets, offered in bunches, but everyone knew that not all mint spoke the same language.
In Rashm Laayoune, there was a small, unassuming shop owned by ʿAmmi Driss Sefreoui, who sold nothing all year long but fresh mint and aromatic herbs for winter infusions. That was his devotion. His shop smelled of patience and continuity. You did not ask questions there; you trusted the leaves.
In the Andalus quarter, at the junction of Sid Al Awwad and El Khrachfiyyine, another name carried weight: Al Qadri Lbcir. His mint produced the finest albeldia, short, dense, intensely aromatic, a mint that did not shout but lingered. Connoisseurs knew it. So did those who aspired to be.
Tea itself followed its own hierarchy. In Fez, quality tea came from a few trusted families, the Tazis and the Benkiranes, at the Sagha warehouse at the heart of the Medina, where taste and reputation were weighed more carefully than price. Three tea names defined households and occasions: Nmili, Elbaroudi, and Sha’ara, always green tea. Budget and preference determined the daily brew, but Sha’ara tea was always kept aside for special moments, honored guests, or when the need to impress without saying so arose. We were not accustomed to packaged tea. Every Fassi home understood this discretion.
The tea set itself was a ceremony before the ceremony. Two trays were essential: one for the glasses and teapot, the other for the ingredients, mint, tea, sugar, accompanied by a small cobbler used for tashlila, rinsing the tea leaves as the pot began to breathe. Nearby, always, a samovar or kettle rested over a charcoal fire, steaming quietly, feeding the pot with boiling water so it could simmer properly, never rushed.
The host sat at the center of this small universe, surrounded by tastefully chiseled utensils, preparing the tea with a dignity that required no audience. Tea was served an hour after a generous meal, or offered to guests who came not to eat, but to talk — to settle family matters, exchange news, or mark presence between meals.
Tea sets varied: silver Manchester for the refined, pewter or silvered brass for the modest, pure brass for those who valued endurance over shine. But whatever the material, the gesture remained the same. The high pour was not for display; it was to awaken the tea, to crown it with air and foam, to honor both the leaves and those who would drink. In Fez, tea was never rushed.
It taught us how to wait, how to host, and how to belong.
