The tea here is brewed in silence. In a hidden zaouia near the Grand Mosque, the brotherhood gathers after midnight. The ritual begins with the careful pouring of gunpowder tea—each drop measured like a heartbeat. Then comes the mint, then the secret herb known only to the sheikh. As steam curls toward the stars, the chanting begins. The cups are passed left to right, never touching the ground. Outsiders might taste only sweetness, but initiates speak of visions in the dregs. The real magic happens when the first dancer begins to spin, his white robe flaring like a dove’s wings, his feet tracing patterns older than Tangier itself.
