Coffee
The Moroccan sun burst through the ornate courtyard doors of the riad, filtering through the latticework and casting shifting golden patterns on the tiled floor. A gentle breeze carried the scent of citrus and jasmine through the open corridors, mingling with the lingering aroma of saffron and cinnamon from the previous night’s feast.
Inside, the sudden flood of light stirred Cindy and Judd from their sleep, a natural and far more pleasant alarm than the grating tones of any digital clock. From beyond their wooden doors, the sounds of life beginning again in Marrakech crept in—the rhythmic sweep of a broom against mosaic tiles, the muffled chatter of the riad’s staff as they prepared breakfast, the occasional distant trill of a scooter horn in the streets beyond.
Mary and Ava, already half awake from the gentle clatter of plates and cups being arranged for morning tea, soon joined them at the front entrance of the riad. Ava, as usual, looked impossibly put together for someone who had only just woken up, her long hair tied back in a practical knot, while Mary still had the hazy glow of someone easing into the day.
Today was coffee day.
Cindy had made it abundantly clear the previous afternoon—when she had spotted the gleaming golden sign of Bacha Coffee tucked away in the maze of Marrakech’s streets—that their morning would be dedicated to indulging in one of life’s simplest, yet greatest, pleasures.
“It’s practically a religious experience,” she had said, nudging Judd in the ribs.
And now, under the shade of early morning, they set off, weaving their way through the narrow streets of the Medina.
Bacha Coffee was no ordinary café. It was an institution, a temple to coffee, a place that had perfected the art of caffeine consumption long before the world had ever heard of Starbucks.
The brand’s origins stretched back to 1910, when the Dar el Bacha Palace was first constructed in the heart of Marrakech. It had once been the opulent residence of Thami El Glaoui, the infamous Pasha of Marrakech—one of the most powerful figures in Morocco’s colonial history. Under his rule, the palace became a meeting place for diplomats, politicians, and foreign dignitaries, a space where powerful men gathered over steaming cups of the finest Arabica beans, discussing trade routes, alliances, and the shaping of the modern world.
Bacha Coffee, in many ways, was an extension of that legacy. A revival of the grandeur and refinement that once filled these halls. The café and roastery specialized in 100% Arabica coffee sourced from over 200 regions around the world—Brazil, Colombia, Ethiopia, the volcanic slopes of Papua New Guinea, the misty highlands of Sumatra. Each bean was meticulously selected, roasted with precision, and brewed using methods that had been refined over a century.
Walking through the doors of Bacha Coffee Room & Boutique was like stepping into another era.
The décor was sumptuous—vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork, hand-painted zellij tiles in brilliant blues and greens, the soft glow of antique brass lanterns casting flickering light onto the gleaming marble floors. The air was thick with the scent of roasting beans, an intoxicating mix of deep caramel, chocolate, and spice.
Cindy inhaled deeply, eyes half-closing in satisfaction.
"See? I told you. Coffee church."
Judd smirked. "It certainly smells better than any cathedral I've been in."
At the counter, rows upon rows of glass canisters lined the shelves, each labeled with the name of a different bean. The selection was overwhelming—single-origin, house blends, limited-edition reserve collections, all displayed like precious jewels in an antique apothecary.
A sharply dressed barista in a pristine white jacket and golden epaulettes approached them with a smile.
"Bienvenue à Bacha Coffee. Are you looking for something familiar or something adventurous today?"
Mary, who had a natural weakness for bold and earthy flavors, pointed to a Malabar Monsoon—a coffee cultivated along the southwestern coast of India, where beans were left to age in open warehouses, absorbing the salty air of the monsoon winds.
Cindy was immediately drawn to the Ethiopian Harrar Longberry, known for its wine-like acidity and floral, almost blueberry-like notes.
Judd, never one to shy away from a classic, opted for a rich and full-bodied Sumatra Mandheling, a coffee with low acidity, deep chocolate undertones, and a smoky aftertaste that reminded him of nights spent around a fire in the Atlas Mountains.
And then there was Ava.
Ava, who despite all her sophistication and refined taste in nearly every other area of life, still could not bring herself to like coffee.
Instead, she eyed the small boutique section off to the side, where tea tins and coffee accessories gleamed under the warm lighting. After a moment of browsing, she picked up a matcha set, a nod to her love of Japanese culture.
"You'll come around eventually," Cindy teased, handing Ava a cup of Bacha’s signature vanilla bean-infused coffee.
Ava took a tentative sip, wrinkled her nose, and promptly handed it back. "Nope. Still just burnt beans."
Judd chuckled. "A lost cause."
After their tasting, Cindy and Mary wandered toward the packaged coffee section, their arms quickly filling with elegantly wrapped parcels of beans to take back home. Each bag came with a signature gold-trimmed label, listing the precise altitude, region, and flavor notes of the selected roast.
Cindy held up two tins, one rimmed in deep red, the other in midnight blue. "Which do you think will look better in the kitchen?"
Judd rolled his eyes. "I think we're dangerously close to needing an extra suitcase."
They paid for their haul and exited onto the bustling streets of the Medina, where the real chaos of Marrakech awaited them once more—a whirlwind of colors, scents, and sounds.
The moment they stepped outside, a moped zipped past, barely missing them. A donkey cart followed closely behind, piled high with freshly dyed textiles, the pungent scent of indigo and saffron lingering in the air. Nearby, a vendor selling fresh oranges called out in French and Arabic, offering glasses of juice squeezed right in front of you.
It was loud, alive, unpredictable.
The group walked on, their senses overwhelmed but delighted, their hands filled with coffee and memories.
Even Ava, despite her aversion to caffeine, had to admit—it had been a perfect morning in Marrakech.
