The servant, Majnoon, lifts the terracotta lid of the tagine. I bask in the steam that flows out of the cone as he raises it. It is like perfume. There’s the intoxication of the spices, the warm earthiness of the garlic and onion, the briney scent of the olives, and the unmistakable citrus aroma of the preserved lemon. The steam clears, and I see the chicken thighs dewy in this world of flavor. I nod to Majnoon to hand me the knife. In my hand, I sink the knife effortlessly into a morsel of the chicken. Then bring it to my nose to inhale one more time. 
Now this is truly looks like a meal fit for a sultan. I am about to take the first bite, but then I see Majnoon’s vacant expression staring at me. Dumb and breathing from his mouth. He’s new. A barbarian, perhaps - in the literal sense, I mean. I look at Majnoon with a raised eyebrow. It says you can step away, now, and he does. Majnoon is quickly learning that most of what I say I say through my brow.
The chicken is flawless. It is soft, supple. Soaked into its tenderness, there is the presence of pepper, ginger, coriander, even cinnamon. And then the companion delights of the crunch of the green olive, and the zing of the lemon. Yes, it is a meal fit for a sultan. I lick my fingers for all the last flavors. In these moments, I am the sultan. But then I come back to myself. 
I lean back in the chair, push the tagine gently toward the center of my table. My eyebrows say to Majnoon don’t just stand there. He rushes over with the lid and caps the tagine. This will keep it warm as we wait. I flip the hour glass. Half hour glass, I should say, and I watch its sand collect itself again in the bottom chamber. I see in this the dunes of the Maghreb south of us, across the Strait. The hourglass makes me sometimes wistful for my boyhood before Andalusia. For that desert. But things have obviously worked out well, here. 
The sand storm has stopped raining in its crystal chamber, and now there is the perfect pyramid dune contained. And I am still alive. No poison. So I turn to Majnoon again, my brows now saying open the door. And when he does, I reach for the bell on my table and ring it loudly so that the more competent servants can take the tagine into the dining room. I follow behind, keeping a watchful eye until finally it makes its arrival before the sultan himself. 
His brows raise to me their same question, always. 
How is it? His say.
Delectable, your imminence. Mine say. And he can tell when I mean it. And today, I truly do. He smiles. And I smile, bow with the other servants as we leave the sultan to his lunch, and glow with the pride knowing that among all of us peasants from the Maghreb, none have this bond with our sultan quite like I. I am his tongue, his nose, his eyes before his own body can offer them. I am his stomach, before his own, too. I am his life, even. For I am his chief royal taster. And, after all these years, I am also, as much as a servant and a sultan ever can be such a thing, his friend.