I have my first traditional Moroccan meal in one of the sitting rooms at the Riad Dar Baraka Karam, a charming bed and breakfast in the Old Medina. I sit on a low, amber stool in a room aglow by candlelight, a crisp white napkin folded in my lap.

After bread and wine, dinner arrives on the table. "What is this?" I hear someone ask, pointing to a pastry resembling minced pie. "It's pastilla, pigeon pie."

I immediately cringe at the thought, trying to ignore the growing grumble at the pit of my stomach. I watch as everyone else is enjoying the dish, then reservedly give in, block out the image of squawking pigeons in Victoria Park, and dive in one spoonful at a time. The shredded meat is tender, a little sweet, a little savoury; while the pastry is flakey and melts in your mouth. It is more like dessert than anything else so I shovel down as much as my conscience will allow.

There are many cuisine choices in Marrakech that a Westerner would think twice about. In the city, amidst pleasant cafés and restaurants, you are bound to find a range of stalls selling everything from liver on a stick to mystery meat.

Some of these dishes are only for the most adventurous among us, those with a strong stomach or flailing budget, while other choices are a lot less of a gamble.

At the stalls at Jema el Fnaa, believed to be the busiest square in the African continent, you can find an array of unconventional food choices.

I visit the landmark on a Friday night, a religious day for locals, when the streets are bustling with vehicles, donkeys and pedestrians and everyone seems to be out and about.

There are at least a dozen stalls in the area selling the same items, freshly squeezed juice, barrels of pungent spices or plump fruit and nuts. To the left there are stalls selling local handicrafts, to the back there are local performers entertaining the crowds, imagine a Harbour Nights with more locals.

It is easy to get lost, so much to see and do and very little time, but if you're planning to taste what the vibrant square has to offer it is best to spend a few minutes shopping around — your senses can tell you a lot about food if you listen closely.

As I pass through the centre stalls I can hear the grills roaring and a symphony of smells stop me in my tracks. Young men with impeccable English do their best to lure tourists into their stall.

"Sheep's brain, sheep's gut, sheep's bullocks," I hear one boy utter, urging me to choose his more conventional stall instead.

I feel like a contestant in the reality show 'Fear Factor' when I finally settle on a stall for the night. Thin blue papers serve as the only buffer between a table and my meal and an encrusted fork needs to be given a once over with my sleeve before deemed usable. At first I am weary and slowly take bites out of a chicken skewer before me.

Then I spot a local girl with amber skin and pinch-worthy cheeks settled nearby, searching for spare food. She stuffs her mouth with left-over chicken and bread, never hesitating, filling her mouth like a squirrel saving up for the winter months.

More and more dishes are placed before me and I slowly grow more trusting, chewing through heavily boned fish and greasy cutlets of what appear to be sausage, wolfing down plates of cucumbers, olives and tomatoes — but choosing to pass on the lamb skewers, which seemed to take more energy to chew through than they were worth.

I watch the little girl closely, as she gathers up all the extra food she can and silently goes her own way, belly full and more in hand for later.

I spent five days in Marrakech, a place that requires every one of your five senses. From the sight of colourful scarves in the markets, sound of Arabic guitars in the square and taste of new cuisines around every corner and it would have been a shame to miss out on any of the magical parts of the city.

After a three-hour plane ride, I arrived safely back in London. Suddenly I had an intense craving for McDonald's – a fist full of salty fries or a juicy Big-Mac. I imagined how it would feel to allow my senses to hypnotise me once again (but this time the food would come in neatly packaged boxes instead of foot-long kebab sticks).

After the initial urge wore away, I snapped back to reality: Do I even want to know what's really in that burger they're serving?