Koujina Café: The Café of Possibilities

On Saint-Zotique Street, in the heart of Rosemont–La Petite-Patrie, a Tunisian café attracts a diverse clientele. People come in for an orange blossom–scented cheesecake or an Arabic coffee. They stay for something more: a place where Tunisian cuisine retains its original flavor and identity is fully embraced. Here, authenticity comes first. Baya and Malek, a couple in life as well as behind the counter, have made a conscious choice: it’s possible to share a culture without distorting it, and to integrate as immigrants without erasing oneself. Opened on October 8, 2023, Koujina Café is about to celebrate its second anniversary. Portrait.

It’s 6 p.m. on a Wednesday. From the café’s speakers comes the voice of Ahmed Eid singing in Arabic, Balad mahjour tarkin el-qalb mazrou, which means: “An abandoned country leaves the heart rooted.” A nostalgic image that reflects the spirit of Koujina Café. “At first, we wanted to open a Tunisian-inspired café, and over the course of developing the project, we realized we really wanted to create something authentically Tunisian,” says Malek.

Preserving flavors without dilution

No postcard-style décor or touristy clichés. The white and blue walls evoke the Mediterranean, but the intention is elsewhere: to show a confident, contemporary Tunisia, free from stereotypes. Every recipe becomes a way to bring what they left behind to life here.

The menu blends classics with Tunisian flavors: fig- or geranium-infused cheesecake, Arabic coffee, lattes with house-made syrups. “The most popular is a latte called the Mariem Latte. It’s made with condensed milk and orange blossom. It’s very Mediterranean in taste. You can’t find it anywhere else,” Baya says, smiling. “We wanted to evoke a Tunisia 2025, a vibrant culture adapted to today.”

In Montreal, Malek notes another trend: “The culture of so-called ethnic restaurants is often diluted.” Baya adds, naturally finishing his thought: “The more you dilute, the more you lose the essence. It’s important to have the real product before mixing.”

This choice is not just about taste; it reflects a vision of immigration. Success in integration does not mean erasing one’s culture, Baya argues: “Often people say ‘Integrate,’ as if you have to remove parts of yourself. No. You can add as much as you want; if you start subtracting, you lose yourself.” For her, multiculturalism comes down to a simple equation: “We add, we don’t subtract.”

This refusal to dilute extends beyond cuisine. It stems from a broader memory, forged far from here. Behind the cakes and coffees lies a political history: that of a generation shaped by the Revolution of Dignity, better known in the West as the Jasmine Revolution.

A youth shaped by revolution

In December 2010, everything changed in Sidi Bouzid. Mohamed Bouazizi, a street vendor, set himself on fire after his cart was confiscated. His desperate act ignited Tunisia. In January 2011, a 23-year-old regime collapsed under public pressure. On Avenue Bourguiba in Tunis, all social classes mixed, united by the same slogans. The fall of President Ben Ali ushered in chaos: elections, a new constitution, the rise and fall of Islamists. Amid this turmoil, a generation was forged.

Baya and Malek were part of that generation. Teenagers at the time, they discovered politics in the streets, amidst slogans and clashes. “We removed a dictator, we put in a democracy. The Muslim Brotherhood came in, then we kicked them out. In short, a thousand things happened,” Malek recalls. In his memory, the city decapitated itself only to rebuild. Everything became political—even casual street conversations.

Baya, then a 12-year-old student, remembers Kasbah Square. She watched the crowd from a side street. “A lot was happening there,” she recalls. She never forgot what she saw: bodies confronting each other, people from everywhere fighting for opinions. “I saw people sew their mouths shut—very extreme acts. But it was for ideas.” Not a territorial or monetary war: a fight for convictions.

From that time, they carry the memory of an irresistible momentum. “It broke down some barriers between classes,” Malek notes. “Ultimately, we are a generation where everyone talked to each other.” Even those who didn’t directly experience the revolution, he adds, “are more revolutionary than we are, without knowing it.” For Baya, this energy left a lasting mark: “It sinks in. It’s the idea that everything is possible.”

“Digging into memory” to pass it on

For Malek, identity narratives often fall into a trap: victimization. The weight of colonization and wars is undeniable, he admits, but he refuses to reduce an entire culture to it. “Many people I meet say, ‘20 years ago, it was war [in Tunisia].’ Yes. But 20 years ago, there were also songs. 40 years ago, there was also music.”

His insistence underscores a desire not to define oneself solely through suffering. “Yes, people took, people stole. But despite that, we kept creating, developing.” For him, the younger generations carry the torch of unfinished battles further: “We are among the top doctors, top thinkers. We have the ability to build something new, more adapted, more functional,” adds Baya. “Now it’s also up to us to put in the effort to rebuild what was unfortunately dismantled, broken.”

This vision manifests in Koujina Café, which has become a space for experimentation: DJ sets, comedy nights, board game contests, film club. No misérabilisme here: “For the first screening, we showed Porto Farina,” Baya recalls. Ibrahim Letaief’s joyful and colorful film contrasts with the usual North African narrative of sadness, war, and famine. With space for barely 45 chairs on screening nights, the goal is an intimate experience. Viewers are close to each other and sometimes to the filmmakers, with whom they can discuss afterward. “Here, it’s 50% film, 50% discussion,” Baya smiles.

The same logic extends to the café’s details: a wall-mounted display offers 100% Tunisian products for sale. “We wanted to show that in Tunisia, there’s artistic direction, brands that compete with imports. We consume Tunisian products not out of patriotism, but because they’re good and well-made.”

Elsewhere, near a sofa, Tunisian artists’ vinyls and books sit on furniture. The idea remains: showcase Tunisian culture, make it accessible, without turning it into a curiosity.

Behind all this lies a method: dig. “Dig into your culture. Talk to people. A large part of our histories has been erased, sometimes intentionally. Not everything has been written.” Malek advises visitors to Tunisia to explore tourist sites, but above all, to talk to people. “They’ll take you where no one else has access.”

For them, it’s a generational responsibility: complete a fragmented memory. “History was written by colonizers. Today, we have the right to rewrite it.” And the Internet, Baya adds, makes it faster: “It’s up to us to push all truths, even those that disturb or are uncomfortable. Whether it’s your grandmother’s story or your neighbor’s, it’s all part of your history.”

Their approach goes beyond Tunisia: it aims to show each culture in its vitality and joy.

‍A café of possibilities, a crossroads of communities and ideas

At the café, Malek and Baya create opportunities to mix communities: a Tunisian-Senegalese DJ set, a night dedicated to Lebanon, another to Palestine. Reactions speak for themselves: Syrians surprised to hear songs from their childhood, Senegalese moved to see their culture presented differently than through hardship, Palestinians happy to associate their country with celebration instead of bombings. “Here, it’s music, singing, food—in short, a living culture,” Baya rejoices.

The list continues: “We’ve had Israelis, Ukrainians, Chinese, Japanese…” Malek lists. At these events, languages intertwine, rhythms respond to each other, and stories circulate over a cup of coffee. Each time, the surprise is the same: seeing oneself represented differently than through tragedy. “All cultures are good, all ways of living are good. The essential thing is to embrace them and live fully with them,” Baya concludes.

Customer feedback confirms this idea. One evening, a group of Ukrainians told them: “Your approach to your culture helps us present ourselves differently in ours.” Listening to a Ukrainian song becomes normal, nothing patriotic—simply because it’s a good song.

Koujina Café is not a sanctuary but a kitchen, its literal translation! “The kitchen is where we speak openly, where gossip, music, and smells pass,” Malek smiles. A daily, lively place where ideas circulate, clash, and are discussed.

For them, the café must remain a microcosm of the world where coexistence is possible, based on three simple rules: “Do not mistreat anyone, do not disrespect anyone, and let everyone live as they wish.”

Sometimes, this coexistence produces unexpected scenes. “We’ve had North African LGBTQ+ people sitting next to people who don’t accept diverse gender identities,” Malek recounts. In such situations, there are two options: confront or drink your coffee peacefully. “The second always wins.”

The café’s mission is not to educate or explain Tunisia to Montrealers, but to show it as it is. “We don’t tell anyone how to think. We set the context, listen, and accept contradiction,” Malek insists.

Carefree spirit as a driving force

The Koujina Café concept was not conceived through a business plan but through an assumed sense of carefreeness. “No one told us, ‘Go ahead, it’s a good idea,’” Malek confides. Except for a few supportive friends, everyone else said: at 25, you should finish school, think before starting!

Every bank appointment resurfaced the same doubts. “Do you know how to do this?” asked the banker. “No, but if I say I’ll do it, I learn and I do it,” Malek replied. A sincerity that paradoxically helped them, as nothing really destined them for the restaurant industry. Malek studied psychology, Baya political science and public relations. “It allowed us to use our knowledge for another perspective, not just business or hospitality. It’s good to cross disciplines,” Baya notes. She hadn’t attended pastry school either but was already creating. “I design cakes, taste, and have people taste. I don’t have a recipe book. It’s a lot of trial and error. It’s fun.”

The café was built like their recipes: through trials, discussions, and improvisation. At 26, they opened without a safety net, despite warnings. They left everything: the boring routine, stable jobs. “This is adventure!” Baya exclaims. Adventure in its harsh and joyful aspects: sugar- and coffee-scented fingers, short nights, long mornings, and newfound freedom. “This carefree spirit saved us,” Malek adds. “We didn’t wait to have all the answers. We just did it.”

The path wasn’t easy. Now 28, they smile recalling their beginnings. “Opening a café without experience is very hard. And we had no money,” Baya recalls. “We put everything we had, and even what we didn’t have.” For the first eight months, they couldn’t hire anyone. “We were our own employees,” Malek says, amused. Twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours a day, sometimes twenty straight: “We had to get dirty, come home late, wake up early, not see friends.”

In hindsight, they recognize: it was their mindset that made the adventure possible. “Our attitude was: if we don’t know, we learn and we do,” Malek says. Their tenacity, they say, comes from what Tunisia transmitted to them through its struggles.

A community born at the counter

As they celebrate their café’s second anniversary, Baya and Malek can rejoice that Koujina’s energy has not faded. The two owners continue experimenting, listening to desires, testing combinations: lemon-basil cheesecake, date syrup latte, walnut cake.

Over time, this flexibility created more than a clientele: a community. “We didn’t manufacture this community; it happened at the counter,” Malek notes. Regulars no longer come just for coffee but for the connection with the place and its owners. “If someone comes three times, naturally I ask, ‘How are you? What’s happening in your life?’” Slowly, faces repeat, stories intertwine, and the space becomes a witness. “We’ve seen customers get pregnant and come back with their baby,” Baya smiles. The café’s rhythms reflect the lives of its clientele. One Ramadan night at 11 p.m., the room was still full. The neighboring bar employee, curious, knocks on the window: “Why are you full?” he asks. “Because it’s Ramadan,” Malek replies. “Because we opened at night. Because a café can hold two rhythms at once: the neighborhood’s and a mobile celebration.”

This openness and spirit attract a loyal clientele, willing to cross the city. Jamila, an Algerian student, comes once a week or every two weeks, despite a half-hour trip from Côte-des-Neiges: “The atmosphere is beautiful, I love studying here. The menu is unique, it fits my tastes. And it brings me back to North African culture with a modern touch I enjoy.”

Aaron discovered the place thanks to his girlfriend: “It’s a unique café. Both the décor and the menu feel good. I tried a Mariem Latte—it’s one of the best I’ve had. I’ll definitely come back.”

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