A biscuit by any other name would taste as good
Yesterday I finally returned a dish belonging to the concierge’s wife (we are still going strong with our Great Plate Exchange). This time it was piled with homemade biscuits and I tried to explain what they were, stumbling over my words. I couldn’t remember the Arabic for ginger, if I ever knew it at all.
Shou ismon…? What’s its name…?
She smiles and shrugs. Bass tayebin! But good!
I smile and shrug too, hearing Shakespeare in my head (a rose by any other name would smell as sweet). I want to say I hope so but I can’t think of the Arabic for that either- it seems blasphemous to use inshallah (God willing) for biscuits.
Later at Aziz, the worth-the-walk-uphill delicatessen that we visit almost weekly, the shop assistant gives my sweet-but-getting-sleepy-(and grumpy)-girl two tiny biscuits, one for each hand. She calls them petit four, while the down-to-earth-baker on the corner of our street would call them cookies. But the baby doesn’t care, and at this point neither do I, as they keep her busy almost all the way home.