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The city of Marrakesh in central Morocco is an oasis in more ways than one. Above the city tower the Atlas mountains, rising so high that even in this sub-tropical climate they are tipped with snow for nine months in the year. I drive past produce stalls lining the roadside selling melons, glistening fresh and dried dates, garlic, onions, and wild mint which adds heady fragrance to the infused mint tea which is served in north Africa at any hour and on any occasion.

The boundaries of the ancient city, the 'medina', are marked by massive, rose-red walls. Driving at the pace of a donkey, I negotiate a gateway, then narrowing lanes crammed with people. It's supper time and tempting spices pervade the air. A caftan-clad figure emerges from the dusk: "marhaban, bienvenue, welcome to Marrakesh" exclaims our host, Mustapha Belkouri.

He leads me to a heavy wooden door. Behind it there is a second oasis, a tiled courtyard with a fountain surrounded by cool, peaceful rooms. There are many such houses in the medina, built on a well-tried pattern of comfort and privacy. In one corner is the kitchen, its noise and smells hidden away from the central court. At the door stands Maria, Mustapha's wife and a cook of renown.

Twice a day she goes to the market, where the produce is prime, thanks to the abundant water from mountain streams. Now, in high summer, glowing mounds of apricots, peaches, oranges and the local soft-skinned lemons jostle zucchini and eggplant. Tomatoes are small, pock-marked, and incomparably sweet. Maria likes to make salads of cucumber with mint, green pepper marinated with cumin and coriander. She flavors grated carrot with rosewater, and sweet potato with cinnamon and sugar.

The spice market is a world of its own, shaded, redolent, the merchants sitting cross-legged with hanging scales in one hand. The butchers, too, are apart. Meat -- exclusively lamb and goat -- must be killed, sold and cooked in the same day for refrigeration is rare. Chickens are generally tough, well-aged hens from the farmyard, and appreciated as such.

Maria makes bread twice a day, shaping shallow round loaves of a simple flour and water dough, flavored with salt and raised with a starter from the previous batch. The bread is baked at the nearby wood-fired oven -- "it tastes different that way" -- she says, introducing me to the cheerful baker. He manipulates a l0-foot "peel", a flat shovel for handling the loaves, with ease. To avoid confusion, each loaf is personalised; Maria marks hers with three fingers. Beside it there's one in the shape of an hour-glass, belonging to a family with twins.

Back in Maria's kitchen, the space is small and the few implements include drum sieves of metal and goatskin; a couscous steamer with its accompanying straw platter for drying the semolina grains after steaming;

and two shallow metal drums for cooking 'ouarka', paper-thin sheets of pastry dough which resemble phyllo. To make it, Maria slaps a soft yeast dough on the heated drum, then lets it bounce back again and again to form a thin layer. As you can imagine, this takes time, not to mention skill -- Maria allows two hours just for the 20 sheets used in 'b'stela', a flat, savory pie filled with braised pigeon and almonds flavored with saffron, cinnamon, and sugar.

B'stela is almost the national dish, but not quite: when I ask Maria what she prepares for the family on Friday, the day of prayer, a smile lights her face. "Couscous, with lamb of course, and carrots, turnips, zucchini, and white cabbage. I flavor it with ginger, pepper and saffron,

and finish with plenty of chopped fresh coriander. But in our family we never allow 'harissa' (the fiery red pepper sauce favored in neighboring Tunisia), as that would overwhelm the taste".

The dish most commonly prepared in her kitchen is 'tajine', a term referring to the conical earthenware casserole which is the universal Moroccan cooking pot. Almost anything can be baked inside it -- lamb, goat, fish, with generous amounts of vegetables and spice. This recipe calls for chicken with eggplant, saffron and lemon juice.

Tajine of Chicken with Eggplant
Serves 4

Instead of the traditional earthenware tajine, you can use a flameproof casserole; it should be almost filled by the chicken and eggplant.

3 l/2-4 lb boiling fowl or chicken, cut in 8 pieces
l teaspoon ground ginger
1 cup water, more if necessary
large pinch of saffron
l garlic clove, chopped
l teaspoon salt, more for eggplant
3 medium eggplant (about 2 l/2 lb)
l/3 cup olive oil
Juice of 1 lemon (about l/3 cup)
Tajine or small casserole

l. Arrange the chicken pieces in the tajine or casserole. Mix the ginger, saffron, garlic, salt, and half the water and pour over the chicken. Cover and cook over low heat l - 1 1/2 hours, using a heat spreader to protect the tajine over a gas flame. If using a casserole, check after l hour as the chicken cooks faster. Stir from time to time and add more water if the chicken seems dry. When done, it should fall easily from the bones.

2. Meanwhile trim the eggplant, cut them lengthwise in half, then crosswise into 3/4-inch slices. Spread the slices on a tray, sprinkle with salt, turn over and sprinkle the other side. Leave l/2 hour to draw out the juices. Heat the oven to 350 F/l75 C.

3. Drain the eggplant, rinse with cold water and pat dry with paper towels. Arrange them on a baking sheet and brush both sides with olive oil, serving 2 tablespoons. Bake in the heated oven until lightly browned, about 20 minutes. Turn over, brush again with oil, and continue baking until brown and very tender, 20-25 minutes more.

4. Transfer the eggplant to a bowl and crush with a fork to a coarse pulp. Stir in l tablespoon of the lemon juice and taste for seasoning.

5. When the chicken is cooked, transfer it with the sauce to a bowl. Spread the eggplant in the tajine or casserole. Put the chicken pieces on top. Stir the remaining lemon juice into the sauce, taste for seasoning and spoon over the chicken. Cover and reheat gently 8-l0 minutes until very hot.

6. The chicken can be cooked up to 2 days ahead and refrigerated. Reheat it in the tajine or casserole over low heat.

Anne Willan is the founder of the famous French cooking school, LaVarenne, and has also served as president of the International Association of Culinary Professionals. She is the author of over a dozen internationally published cookbooks.