Hi everyone, it’s Nadia, founder of Zellige, the first modern Moroccan food concept in London. Like a lot of people passionate with food, I have an atypical trajectory that eventually led me to become a Chef. As much as Zellige is about food, there’s also an identity (crisis) story behind it. A conflicted one, with a game of push and pull between my French and Moroccan cultures. Maybe my story will resonate with other binationals or immigrants juggling with multiple vibrant cultures. After decades of struggling with my own identity, I feel like it’s finally coming together and gosh it was about time!
How did the story start? I was born and raised in beautiful Casablanca, close to the ocean. From the very beginning, my life unfolded between cultures, languages, and ways of seeing the world. My dad, Youssef, was Moroccan and mum, Christine, French.
While I lived in Morocco for half of my life, I attended the French school in Casablanca. Throughout my childhood, I frequently shuttled between the two countries to visit family and eventually for my studies. At home, we spoke a mixture of French and Darija, the Moroccan dialect. My Dad also carried Amazigh roots, the Free People, indigenous to North Africa who roamed the Atlas and Rif Mountains. My Moroccan Jeddi (Grandpa) was fair skinned and blond while Jedda was a more classic Arab type with dark hair and eyes. It felt natural at the time, but I never fully realised how incredibly multicultural my upbringing was: the Moroccan people are a very diverse country, with a variety of dialects, skin tones and origins. Add to this mixture, my French background from the rural North of France itself shaped by generations of movement, migration and History. Honestly, you should see the results of my Ancestry DNA test, it’s all over the place!
Hence, my upbringing might look like chaos and culture clash, but diversity and pride were always a part of it. My parents never made me choose one culture or religion over the other, for which I’m grateful but the downside of this approach is you end up feeling like an alien.
In Morocco, my grandparents and most of my family spoke little French, we often communicated through gestures, laughter, and a blend of languages. My sisters and I stood out from our Moroccan cousins, but we came together at family events and birthdays, food was the common ground. I remember my father breaking the fast at a table full of sticky chebakia and nutty sellou during Ramadan.
I enjoyed making flaky msemen (Moroccan pancakes) at Jedda’s and feeding all the street cats in her tiny garden. Bread was always at the table, and Fridays meant couscous served in a large communal plate, everyone gathered around, eating with hands or spoons whatever felt right. At the weekend, when most children would make sandcastles at the beach, I would be preparing banquets: who wants a slice of my sand cakes and tagines?
But there were also moments I struggled with. As a child, I dreaded Eid-Al-Adha as the tradition was to buy a live sheep and slaughter it at home for the feast. I refused to eat lamb for years after seeing the carcasses on the street after the celebration. Love and discomfort coexisted. That contradiction stayed with me.
In France, my world looked entirely different. School holidays were split between exciting Paris where I absorbed fashion, food and culture; but also enjoyed visiting my grandparents' quaint village, Auchy-les-Hesdin, in rural Northern France. I remember the endless summers spent playing in the lush garden by the river, happy Christmases with piles of presents and festive delicacies like foie gras and oysters. There, I also baked my first cakes with Mamy Huguette and picked wild strawberries, lettuce and potatoes in Papy Andre’s organic garden. We fed the geese whose eggs we later turned into golden brioches. In the fridge, it smelt like strong cheeses and butter was omnipresent. Before lunch, Mamy would send me to the bakery to buy baguettes. But even there, I was reminded I was “other.” On the way, I’d get funny looks from villagers who pointed fingers at me: “look it’s the Moroccan girl!”. Again, belonging and not belonging, at the same time.