Cornes de gazelle (gazelle horns) and other tasty Algerian pastries at La Bague de Kenza. Photo GLK.
… there’s a public transportation strike going on and your good friend Achmed is staying with you for several days because he can’t get to work from his home in the suburbs. From Monday through Thursday you have dinner together. He then goes to sleep by 9:30 since he needs to get up by 5 to make his way to work. An easy houseguest. You both figure he’ll be with you for just those few days, but the strike continues. He goes home for the weekend then returns Monday evening for a second week.
This time he arrives bearing gifts. There’s a box of camembert, since he knows that you like cheese, and a Tupperware of cornes de gazelle, gazelle horns. He knows that you like them, too.
After dinner, while Achmed enjoys his customary yogurt (“No,” he said when you offered to buy some, “I’ll bring my own, I know what I like”), you serve yourself one of the gazelle horns. It has almond chips on the outside and a sweet almond-orange-blossom filling. Delicious. It’s the best gazelle horn that you’ve ever had and you tell him so. “Normal,” he says, “c’est de chez moi.” His sister in Algiers made them. They were delivered over the weekend by a visiting cousin. They’re all for you, he says; he has another dozen at home. Just save him the Tupperware.
Achmed knows that you like gazelle horns because last week when you went together to an Algerian restaurant for take-out portions of a stew called chorba you bought a powdered-sugar-coated gazelle horn for dessert even though he told you not to. You’d thought that he was saying that because he believes you eat too many sweets, but he was actually trying to warning you off without saying so in front of the owner. It turned out to be hard, stale and too sugary. “I told you,” he said. “I knew they were industrial, not homemade, and could have been sitting there for weeks.”
He then tells you the following story: Many years ago, soon after he arrived in France, he bought a gazelle horn at a Tunisian bakery. The owner had told him that it was freshly made. Achmed took it home to have after dinner. When he tried to break it in half he couldn’t. He took a knife to it and even then had to insist until it finally splintered apart. And it tasted like plaster. The following day he returned the shards to the bakery and told the Tunisian owner that his so-called fresh gazelle horn was stale. The guy offered to exchange it for a new one. Achmed said, “If you can easily cut into one of those on your shelf, I’ll buy them all.” The guy picked one up and tried to break it in two but it was hard as rock. He asked if Achmed wanted a refund. Achmed said, “No, but I’m never coming back to your bakery. My name isn’t Jean-Paul or Pierre-Jacques. Maybe they’ll keep coming back for more, but not me. I’m from Algiers. You can’t get away with that with someone from Algeria.”
You ask how he knew that the chorba we’d had last week was homemade. “Because I’ve seen the kitchen, I’ve spoken with the chef, and I’ve also seen the truck that delivers the pastries.”
You allow yourself then to broach the subject of the camembert. “Excuse me for mentioning this,” you say, “but the camembert you brought—and I thank you for it—won’t be good for the same reason: it’s hard, pasteurized and industrial. It’s camembert in name only. I don’t mean to offend you, I just want to let you know that if you’re going to buy a camembert it should be Camembert de Normandie, made from raw milk.”
“I’m not offended,” says Achmed. “I just didn’t think you were so French.”
© 2019, 2021, Gary Lee Kraut