My nose was the first to notice furans, or Moroccan communal ovens. Wafts of warm bread drew me to these buildings, often hidden among the urban sprawl of mosques and residential riads.

 

 

At the entrance of a furan there will likely be a stray cat or two, squatting and shrunken from the cold, or trying to sneak inside for a snack. During busy hours a queue would form with customers balancing trays on their heads.

Inside the oven master is usually alone and hard at work. Other times one could find a small gathering of community members, chatting and sharing jokes.

A banter might break out, ending in an explosion of flour as a worker gives his friend a hearty smack on the head.

 

 

Hamza’s family had explained their use of such neighborhood ovens. The wood-fired baking gives a special flavor that one cannot achieve at home.

A small fee per tray is paid to the furan by the customer, who returns when the baking is done. A biscuit may be gifted to the oven master as a gesture of thanks.

During tea time with Mulela (Arabic for “Grandma”), she explained that she would bring her trays of uncooked biscuits to “the place with the bigger oven.” She gestured to the plate before me, laden with cookies that she had shaped into perfect wreathes. Already so full of everything else Mulela had cooked, I snapped one in half and washed it down my digestive tract with a swig of minty tea.

 

 

When the opportunity arrived for me to finally peer inside a furan, I could see the tradition that took place day after day, century after century.

In 1492 Colombus might have sailed the ocean blue, and at the same time the Chefchauoen medina was painted entirely blue. Furans were no exception.

 

 

Sugary, buttery smells infiltrated my nose. They came from a doorway soaked in blue paint. I made Hamza ask if we could buy a fresh cookie.

The oven master said no, someone else owns the patisserie. Like everyone else of his trade, his job is to manage all the baking trays.

Rotating them with care for even cooking, taking things out at the right time. To achieve all this, he wields a wooden paddle with a multi-meter handle. He is the only one fluent with which corner of the oven is the best for cakes, and which spot better suits fish. He has the knowledge of how baking a chicken tajine differs from a bastilla wedding pie.

 

 

He beckoned me to help him retrieve the latest tray with the legendary paddle.

As we walked out, he handed us a perfect cinnamon cookie to share.