Harcha (حرشة)

Harcha begins under the palms. You rub the semolina with butter until the grains turn glossy and sandy, and already you know what kind of bread this will be: crumbly, golden, made for tearing open while it's still warm. Don't knead it. Kneading asks for a smooth dough, and harcha is not that. It wants the grain to stay itself.

In the Oujda east, we often call it mbesses, and that name carries the frontier with it. In the Middle Atlas, on city breakfast tables, beside a glass of mint tea in Casablanca, you'll meet its cousins. Il n'y a pas une cuisine marocaine, mais des cuisines marocaines, not one Moroccan cuisine, but many, and a little semolina galette can teach that better than a speech.

The one rule is patience after wetting the grain. Let the semolina drink before you shape it, or it will crack in the pan and taste gritty at the center. Cook it gently, not fiercely, until both sides are speckled gold and the middle has set. Then split it, put cheese or honey or butter inside, and make one more. A table is a door you leave open.