Confection Perfection

I remember the first time I tried a macaron. I was delivering chocolates to the sommelier at L’Espalier here in Boston and there was a little silver dish full of these small cookie-like sandwiches by the maitre d’s. I had never seen one before and was unaware of what one was, but I knew it was special. I took one to discover on the walk back to my shop.

Outside in the sunshine, I could fully “be” with this confection. Feeling it in my hands, I thought: It’s so light. How could there possibly be any richness, any discernible flavor, any density? I didn’t want something marshmallow-y, sticky, or crumbly. Despite my hesitation, I knew I had to try it. It was completely perfect looking with it’s smooth, domed biscuits, off-white with little flecks of green; it’s ruffly midsection that looked like a scrunched tutu; and the glossy ganache center. The lightness of the macaron soon translated into an airy delicateness and an excitement in wanting to overcome my ignorance. In my haste to experience this dainty treat, I ignored any training I had when it comes to truly tasting food. I simply looked at it and popped half in my mouth. I didn’t wait to examine the minute bubbles in the biscuit, so small they were unperceivable when held at arm’s length; I didn’t listen to how flaky it sounded when I broke it apart; I didn’t take a deep whiff, allowing my mouth to water and anticipate. By rushing, I cheated myself out of a completely whole experience. Isn’t it ironic that in our desire to reach a certain point, we miss everything that’s essential leading to it?

But I will never forget tasting that first bite. The most overwhelming thing I noticed was the texture. it felt like the meringue gave way, letting my sink into it, and then asserting its presence by firming up, deliciously filling the gaps in my teeth. It wasn’t dry, but quite moist and the texture seemed to fill my entire mouth, starting at the middle of my tongue and moving out to my cheeks. Most surprisingly, it wasn’t sweet. It was savory. Instead of the traditional almond, coconut, or rose flavors I’ve discovered are used in macarons, the pastry chef used safe. It tasted earthy, but it wasn’t overwhelmingly dirt-y. It was warm and rustic. Next came the ganache: blissfully whipped with a denser concentrated sage-ness that didn’t weight down the hedonistic lightness I felt And the two textures of meringue with the ganache were harmoniously married into one beautiful tasting experience.

The most marvelous part, however, was that I was no longer standing on the sunny dry Boston street, but strolling down the Siene on an overcast and slightly muggy afternoon. Comfortable, nostalgic, and tangibly perfect. with one bite, I was transported back to my first love; the romantic and glorious Paris, despite never having enjoyed a macaron. There is something so decidedly French about this small morsel. It’s gorgeous, to begin with. It’s completely underestimated, complex and still so simple. In my head, it was the best pastry I have ever or will ever have. To me, the French do everything that is beautiful (art, architecture, fashion, food, faces, loving) the best, and the macaron is a perfect embodiment of that.

I can count the number of times on one hand that I’ve had a macaron since that day. In itself, this is strange because I am always eating and I always tend to eat sweets. One would think that I would indulge in these creations at least once a day. There are a few reasons why I don’t: they’re hard to find, they’re more expensive than chocolate or cupcakes, American’s cant seem to do anything as well as the Europeans (especially when it comes to food). But the prevailing reason, I think, is because rushed my first experience. Forcing myself to truly savor and take my time with each macaron is my own act of penance for disrespecting the pastry chef and the art of macaron-making. Forcing myself to go without and suffer from an agonizingly spectacular anticipation just makes each taste of this confection that much more alive. I suppose, in a way, it could be construed as some sort of gastronomical masochism ,but really, I deprive myself, no as a punishment, but more as way to make myself really relish and cherish each individual flavor, texture, color, sound, and smell that comes from eating the most delectable confection. Eat a macaron and see Paris press in on you in a most tasteful fashion.