My step into the world of macarons - part I

by TP Big Brother

I think its my turn. I’m starting to develop an unhealthy obsession to the beautiful delicate macaron


After a transcendental experience of a box of Laduree macarons in Lausanne, there has always been a faint pleasant lingering of it in the back of my mouth. Like blood to a vampire.

When I left Switzerland to London, I went to Harrods on a whim, to see if there was any ounce of truth in their bold motto “Omnia, omnibus, ubique – Everything for everyone, everywhere”. After spending £10 on lemon pistachios and cheddar cashews, then £15 on small pieces of every flavour of fudge in the food halls, I realized I hadn’t even started looking for the mighty macarons. That’s when I looked up and saw the pearly white “no photos allowed” gates of Laduree macaron heaven.

“Good ole Mr Al Fayed”, I thought. “Just like France”

£20 later I was in pain, but blissfully buzzing on my sugar high.

“Such a fine delicate little thing of goodness”, I thought. “A true artist piece of work”, as I rotated the macaron into the light, between my fingers like a piece of diamond. I scanned the beautiful feet and basked in the perfectly balanced flavour and texture. It was a beautiful moment

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I have since thought back to that moment many times, and the time finally came when I manned up to pop my macaron making cherry. Last week I gathered my very own blank canvas of ingredients to create a vanilla macaron with salted caramel masterpiece.


The final verdict
The taste was a wonderful sweetness on the bite, with a salty hit that crept up in the end. Other than taste though, the French would have crucified me. What a disaster! My “macaron” barely resembled food let alone art. It was more like salted caramel sandwiched between two thin white Anzac biscuits.

Jokes and laughs aside, I assume this is probably the worst it can get. After a bit of research, and help from Claire Clark, I'm hoping round 2 should be a greatly improved win! To be continued...

Rustic macarons otherwise known as failed feetless crunchy biscuits