Les Macarons

I woke up this morning thinking about Paris and all of the beautiful breads and pastries that are impossible to find or reproduce here. I bought an authentic looking baguette on the weekend, perfectly golden brown with lovely domed slits and tapered ends. But the crust did not crackle the way that it should and it was a little too hard. When I sliced it to make tartines, it had enormous holes inside, from being proofed too long. All of the garlicky roasted aubergine spread that I made fell right through and onto my lap! Sigh...
In Paris we were fortunate enough to live across the street from what turned out to be my favorite boulangerie in town, Yannick Martin at 302 rue Saint Honore. Every day at lunchtime, there was a line-up a block long of of local business people waiting for foot long baguettes stuffed with cheese, meat and crudite (tomatoes, lettuce and egg). On his way home from work, Phil would stop for the usual "tradition" (a premium baguette) or two, depending on how hungry he was feeling. I would often bring the boys in to choose a pastry for dessert, which was always a frantic and stressful event, as they would inappropriately lean against the shiny glass counter and hold up the line as they carefully pondered each decision, the shop assistants on the other side waiting impatiently with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Ahhh, Paris!
Today I feel like attempting something utterly Parisian, the macaron! In case you have not been privileged enough to ever experience one, I will describe it for you. Before my first trip to Paris I had read about these marvelous little confections in guide books and websites, and I had trouble believing that they were as good as everyone said they were. We stopped at La Grande Epicerie in the 7th one day and there we found a counter filled with the most beautiful little round cookies I had ever seen. They were every color of the rainbow and filled with jams, jellies and creams. Although I usually avoid such obviously coloured foods, I chose a bright green pistachio cookie, one coffee and one chocolate. As we returned to the sidewalk outside, I took my first bite and had to stop; I knew that this was a moment to fully appreciate. They are much heavier than they appear to be and as my teeth bit through the dense, moist nuttiness of the cake, and the sweet, rich cream filling melted on my tongue, I knew that I would have to find a recipe for these at home. When I recounted this to a local French woman I met, she shook her head and declared that it is impossible for the home chef to recreate. The challenge was on. After all, how had can it be to make a meringue and nut cookie?
After we returned from that trip, I spent three weeks, used three dozen eggs, and gained four pounds trying to get my recipe just right. I never did find a reliable method. The real cookie has a shiny, crusty dome, surrounded by a ruffle of batter that sneeks out while baking and a dense, chewy interior. I would usually get one or two of the three attributes right, but fall flat on the others. Zut alors, she was right! Today, however. I will try it again, for the first time in two years. I am determined to make a perfect macaron. I have to admit that even when they imperfect, there are never any leftovers by the next day. They are still delicious!
Mom and Dad will be returning to France in September, and although baguettes are a little cumbersome in carry-on luggage, a pretty green box fille with macarons from Laduree (the best macaron patisserie in Paris) will be the perfect souvenir for them to bring back for me!