À DÉTESTER: les macarons

Cloying.  

That's the word that comes to my mind when I see a tray of macarons.  Cloying.  Not delicious or elegant or French. Why do so many Americans and Japanese think "le macaron" is the Parisian dessert?  I'm not sure about the Japanese, but I know where Americans — especially American women — get that idea: from "Sex and the City."  From the pages of American Vogue and Gourmet and just about every other magazine I thumb through whenever I'm back in the U.S.  If the editors have decided to do a piece on Paris, or on French desserts, we are bound to read about the virtues of les macarons.

We are also bound to read about Ladurée.  Now I confess, about once a year, when my sister or mother is in town or when it's particularly cold and drizzly, I get a craving to go to the original Ladurée, that jewel box of a pâtisserie on the corner of Rue Royale and Rue Saint-Honoré.  Once we get through the doorway, which is inevitably blocked by a mob of tourists and aging Parisians, we will be served either by a charming waiter in a heavily used suit or by a grumpy middle-aged waitress who, via her perma-grimace and rough movements (she drops, rather than sets, everything on the table) lets us know that she would rather be home with her family than serving us.

As we wait for our turn to order, we will check out the room. If we're sitting downstairs, there is a lot to look at: gilded moldings, marble tables, cherubs cavorting on painted ceilings.  Upstairs, it's more informal and clubby: your grandparent's den, maybe.  If your grandparents happen to live in a rambling old apartment in Manhattan or London.  It doesn't look particularly Parisian here, and it doesn't feel very Parisian, either.  Save for the pair of women in mink, who are gossiping wildly in French, oblivious to everyone else, the customers sitting upstairs at Ladurée were not born on French soil.  Across from us is a preppy Japanese family looking slightly confused — or is it displeased? — by the food and the service.  To our right is a jolly American couple who seems to have ordered one of everything.  To our left is a haughty young English woman with her frayed-looking but clearly wealthy fiancé.  They are shopping for engagement rings.  As she thumbs through a Cartier catalog, she expresses her displeasure at being seated next to a common American (that common American, by the way, is me.  This really did happen.)

Mais bon.  It is our time to order.  If we get one of the waitresses and if we order in French, they will begrudgingly answer us in the language of Molière — begrudgingly.  If we get the waiter, he will treat us with respect and good humor, even if we can't speak French and even if we are those terribly rude types who bark orders, demanding, "I want!" and "Give me!"  If we are like that, he will nod and say "thank you" and he will bring us what we desire.  He'll be polite about it, on the surface.  But listen to what he says under his breath.  If we hear him utter the word "cons," pronounced "cone," we will know: he has just called us assholes.  But he will do it with such style.

So what does someone who doesn't like macarons order at Ladurée?  Chocolat chaud — a thick brew of bittersweet hot chocolate that is like drinking liquid cake.  Or maybe a lemon tart.  No macarons, please.  Not the raspberry or cassis or white chocolate or orange.  They all hurt my teeth.  I detest them all, except — except for one, and they don't make it at Ladurée.  

Truffe.  I would like the truffle macaron, s'il vous plaît.  I had this "cookie" just once, at an elegant lunch event at the Hôtel Meurice.  The sucré-salé (sugary-salty) appetizer was flecked with shavings of the world's most delicious and expensive mushroom, and it was absolutely divine, especially when accompanied by a glass of dry champagne.

Comments

[Stephanie]

J'aime les macarons! But that's because, when made properly, they are gluten-free, and thus one of the very few treats I can choose from in Paris. I think they're good, not spectacular. It's nice not be left out of snack time.

[Gracie]

Oh how I love Laduree caramel du sel macarons! And I live in Paris, so it's not easy for me to walk by Laduree and not give in...but I do because a regular habit would impact both my waistline and bank account in a very ugly way. But I have to agree that many of the flavors there are not to my taste. Although I was recently surprised by the yumminess of a bergamot flavored one. But next time you find yourself forced into Laduree, try a caramel du sel and see what you think.

[Julie, your Foreign Parts correspondent]

OK, I'll have to try it — caramel au beurre salé is my favorite flavor at Berthillon . . .

[badaude]

Lot's of them are a bit fadé, especially strawberry or vanilla flavoured. But it's more the texture than the taste that's so great: with thé vert: and only one at a time. Violette?

[Gillian]

Pierre Herme does the only macarons I trust, so surprisingly rich and packed with unexpected flavor.

[Julie, your Foreign Parts correspondent]

See, that's what I don't like -- that sticky-sweet marshmallow-y texture!

[Will Atkinson]

Oh, how I love macarons. I'm quite pedestrian about it, as well. Give me vanilla, pistachio and lemon anytime.

[Lil]

I found truffe blanc macaron from Pierre Herme close to Christmas last year, so keep an eye out :)