Some things just aren't the same

Actually, I should rephrase that. In terms of bringing Argentine goods back to the US, most things just aren't the same.

My favorite Argentine sweet is the alfajor de maizena. A big hunk of dulce de leche sandwiched between two little cookies with a little coconut sprinkled on the edges. So simple yet so delicious. Widely available in confiterias around the country, the best alfajor de maizena is made by my boyfriend's mom. They come in three sizes, small, medium, or large, and are perfect to accompany an afternoon coffee or mate.

I've contemplated buying a dozen from a confiteria to share with friends and family in California, but these type of alfajores are crumbly as hell and fall apart with even the most delicate of grasps.

On my recent trip to Argentina I was giddy when I saw this in the local supermarket:


Yes! Prepackaged alfajores de maizena in a fancy box that I can take home and hoard, I mean, share with friends and family! I bought them, wrapped the box nice and snug in my carry-on to ensure minimal smashing and crumbling and saved them sealed until a week ago.

After unwrapping the plastic packaging and taking the first bite, my enthusiasm shriveled like a deflated balloon. There was barely any coconut around the edge of the dulce de leche and the cookies tasted nothing like the ones made by my suegra or in the bakeries. I couldn't even finish the alfajor and left it in the fridge until it got so hard that I finally had to toss it out.

Had I never tried a real alfajor de maizena in Argentina, I probably would have really liked the ones made by Cachafaz. Perhaps my disdain comes from the taste of the dulce de leche, or it could be the strange masa, though certainly it's the context in which they're being consumed.

Instead of being at my boyfriend's apartment, staring out the window, gazing at rows and rows of gray apartment rooftops, talking about the day, listening to city buses and horns go by, or sitting at the dining room table at his parents' house for la merienda with mate and cafe con leche watching bad afternoon television with his family and neighbor, I was at my desk staring at the wall, drinking a glass of ice water, sweating in the 90 degree heat of Southern California, munching on a mass-produced alfajor.

I'll probably try another one of the alfajores I have left. Maybe it'll be better since my expectations won't be so high. It's not that they're bad. They're just not the same.