Thursday, March 30, 2006
The New York Times
This week's feature:
A tower of dziriate, Algerian pastries filled with almond paste, at Bague de Kenza in Paris.
OVER lunch with my Parisian friend Florent in a frayed cafe off the trendy Rue Oberkampf several months ago, the conversation bounced, as it often does in France, between gastronomy and politics. Florent spoke with equal passion about where to buy the most exquisite bonbons and how various French politicians had dealt with the racial tensions that led to recent riots.
Then, in a characteristically French moment, politics and cuisine converged.
Florent leaned in over his glass of red wine. "You know what is getting to be fashionable right now in Paris," he said with a smile, "Maghreb pastry. If you want to try something really special, let's go around the corner to B. K."
Pronounced BAY-ka, B. K. is the affectionate nickname for Bague de Kenza, an Algerian pastry shop that has begun attracting a following of Parisians of non-North African descent. National sweet tooth notwithstanding, Parisians have never embraced what they call "pâtisserie orientale," which includes Middle Eastern as well as North African pastries, even though they are smitten with the savory side of the Tunisian, Algerian and Moroccan cuisines.
Part of this is prejudice. Many Parisians think that pâtisserie orientale is just too sweet.
But they have probably never tasted B. K.'s splendid ghribia, a mound-shaped cookie made from semolina flour, butter, and just a touch of sugar that melts on the tongue like a pecan sandie only wishes it could. Or the dziriate, a demitasse-size dainty filled with almond paste, honey and rosewater, that is more heady than sweet.
"It's trendy to bring a box from B. K. to someone's house when you are invited over to dinner, instead of chocolates," Florent told me as I paid for my outsized package of goodies, which I later bestowed on my appreciative hostess with an in-the-know flourish.
L'Hassen Rahmani, one of the owners of Bague de Kenza, said that when he opened the shop 15 years ago, most of his customers were North Africans. Now he estimates that just 20 percent are North African, which mirrors the changing demographic of the 11th Arrondissement.
"When this neighborhood gentrified," said Jenny Lefcourt, an American living steps away from B. K., "instead of fleeing, many of the North African businesses stayed and went upscale so they would appeal to the new neighborhood contingent. This has been happening all over the city."
Intrigued by this honeyed French subculture I knew so little about (sadly, I've yet to find many Maghreb pastries in New York), I spent several subsequent trips in Paris combing the quartiers, some gentrified and some not, indulging in research. Many sweets justified their cloying reputations, but the good ones were revelatory.
For instance, there were the perfumed cornes de gazelles I picked up at Pâtisserie Malika, a tiny storefront on Boulevard de Ménilmontant in the 20th Arrondissement. The pastry chef, Malika Bennour, emigrated from Rabat, Morocco, three years ago, where she made her confections for wedding feasts and parties. Slightly more rustic than the glistening bonbons at B. K., her pastries have a homemade delicacy. The cornes de gazelles, crumbly, crescent-shaped cookies filled with cinnamon, almonds, and an intoxicating dose of orange blossom water, are her specialty. But that doesn't make them any more compelling than the extravagantly flaky baklava scented with hazelnuts, and the squat, square makrout — soft, Fig Newton-like cakes made from semolina, honey and dates.
"Once the French taste my pastries, they can see that they are not too sweet, and that I make them fresh," Ms. Bennour said, "then they fall in love with them."
And so did this American. Because weekly trips to Paris to satisfy my new Maghreb pastry cravings weren't an option, I begged for recipes. I pleaded, visited Malika and Bague de Kenza on every Paris trip, and called and e-mailed over and over from Brooklyn. My stalking yielded three successes: the baklava, cornes de gazelles and dziriate, also sometimes called dziriette.
The problem was that the recipes were in French, the measurements were in grams, and each lacked a method. The baklava I could figure out on my own, and I found enough cornes de gazelles recipes in various Moroccan cookbooks to adapt their technique using Ms. Bennour's ingredients and proportions (once I converted it all to ounces and cups). But the dziriate were less accessible. The few stabs I made using what Mr. Rahmani had sent were disastrous. Once I ended up with a sugary pile of crumbs; another time, with immobile sheets of cardboard instead of the gossamer pastry dough needed to hold the almond filling.
Nearly ready to abandon dziriate in favor of a bourbon and four aspirin, I did an online search that led me to a blog about Algerian cuisine by Farid Zadi (chefzadi.com), a chef who teaches at the California School of Culinary Arts. With his guidance, I was able to reconstruct Bague de Kenza's recipe. Though my results were clumsier and less refined than what one gets in Paris (isn't that always the case?) they were still tasty enough to disappear way too soon after I drizzled the last sticky drop of honey syrup over the tops. All three were hits, deemed unusual and addictive by even my ever-jaded circle of friends.
Getting the real thing in Paris has been getting easier. Bague de Kenza opened its third Paris location near the Bastille (it also has a location in the 15th Arrondissement and one in the suburbs), and Mr. Rahmani, along with his co-owner, Samira Fahim, published a cookbook, Les Douceurs de Kenza (Minerva, 2005).
Even the very chichi food hall in Le Bon Marché, the department store, is planning to expand its line of pâtisserie orientale, which it started carrying about five years ago, according to a press agent for the store, Dorothée Motir. She said this is a move meet the demand of French people who have traveled to Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia and tasted the pastries while there. Which, it seems to me, is an awfully long way to go when you could just take the Métro a few stops — or make them yourself.
A plate of sugar-dusted cornes de gazelles, baklava and dziriate at Le Miyanis, an Algerian shop.
