Tangier eats like two coastlines at once: Atlantic sardines charred at the fishing port, Andalusian chickpea flan sold by the slice in the old town, and mint tea poured on cliffs facing Spain. Three days of markets, fish and cafés.
Tangier's main produce hall on Rue de Fès, trading 07:00–14:00 daily. Jebala women in striped mendil skirts sell fresh goat cheese and mint at the entrance; inside are olive vats, saffron, dates and anchovy boners.
The wholesale hall behind the fishing harbour lands sardines, sole, swordfish and squid from the Strait each morning. Grill stalls at the entrance cook whatever you pick over charcoal, served with bread and harissa.
The old town's main artery is lined with hole-in-the-wall counters selling calentita — the Spanish-era chickpea flan baked in wide metal trays and cut warm — alongside msemen griddle bread, sfenj rings and bocadillos.
Open since 1921 on the Marshan cliff, Hafa stacks whitewashed terraces straight above the Strait. Order nana mint tea and a bowl of bissara at a low tiled table; Paul Bowles and the Rolling Stones drank on these steps.
A Place de France institution since 1927, with red banquettes, mirrored walls and waiters in white jackets. Café cassé, fresh orange juice and croissants; an Interzone-era spy haunt and a Bourne Ultimatum filming location.
No menu, no choice, no alcohol: a four-course fish feast served at communal wooden tables — bread with mountain honey butter, fish soup, a tagine of the day's catch with olives, then a 15-fruit house juice and nuts.
A narrow four-storey tower crowned with a blue-tiled roof terrace looking across the water to Tarifa. Afternoon mint tea with almond briouats, cornes de gazelle and chebakia; the staircase is steep and there is no lift.
A restored 1930s townhouse split between a vaulted piano bar and a garden terrace under an old fig tree. Grilled Atlantic prawns, lamb tagine and properly made gin cocktails; live piano from around 19:00.
The steep street running down to the port is Tangier's cheap-breakfast strip: enamel bowls of bissara — split-pea purée flooded with olive oil and cumin — plus harira, sfenj doughnuts threaded on palm rope and sweet tea.
The city's largest working-class souk, south of the centre: crates of Rif oranges, live poultry, spice pyramids, preserved lemons in barrels and grill stalls turning out kefta sandwiches for market traders at midday.
Cliffside shacks above the Caves of Hercules serve whatever the boats brought in — grilled sea bream, fried calamari and tomato-onion salad on plastic tables over the Atlantic, where the ocean meets the Mediterranean.
The small dark bar beneath the guesthouse where William Burroughs wrote Naked Lunch in room 9 and Kerouac and Ginsberg came to visit. Beat-era photographs on the walls, cold Casablanca beer and stiff gin tonics.