Breakfast at the Maison Árabe is a wonder. Mornings are cool, and we sit in a shady courtyard where small crowds of staff ask us what we want to eat—in French.

Rose petals are scattered on our table and float in the courtyard fountain. Marrakech is a city of roses, outnumbering all other flowers combined.

The woman seated on the divan is preparing a traditional meal for us, mixing shredded potatoes with balls of dough and cooking them over a charcoal fire. The smell of the burning charcoal wafts through our bedroom window and wakes me up each morning.

A waiter told me they're called msamin, and they're a kind of potato pancake. The woman told me I could have mine plen or meeks. Meeks got me carrots and onions mixed into the dough along with the potatoes.

They are sooo good!

What else do we get for breakfast? Let's start with the fresh fruit. Whenever I see a pile of fresh fruit at the Holiday Inn, I know to stay away from the pomes and drupes. Pears are underripe and hard, as are peaches when you see them at all. Apples are tasteless or sour.

Not so at Maison Árabe. Peaches are set out for guests at the peak of ripeness, juicy and sweet. Strawberries are the kind grown for flavor instead of shelf life.

To drink: fresh orange juice (no big deal for residents of Mexico) and thick Moroccan coffee.

We get a basket of boulangerie-quality rolls and bread. (We can thank Morocco's erstwhile colonial masters for that.) A semi-tame bird shares our bread with us every morning.

Those pale pancake looking things are crumpets, an undeservedly overlooked breakfast bread. That's not a glass of milk in the foreground. It's homemade yogurt, and it redefines what yogurt should be. It has an incredibly delicate texture and a perfumy flavor.

Breakfast is a luxurious and languid affair. It's a lot of food, and I'm gaining weight. I may have to buy bigger pants before this trip is over. Fortunately, Joe, my trainer, is a nice guy. He won't scold or tease me. And I'll get beck in shape starting next month. I hope.