The sublimity of the macaroon

Note: I started writing this a few days back, but I’m going to post it as-is, with the dates incorrect…

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As a brief postscript to my wine-fueled endorsement of the braised radicchio pasta I made for last night’s dinner, I must confess that I awoke at 1:30 a.m. suffering from a mild bout of dyspepsia. This is not uncommon, especially when I eat rich foods after 8 p.m., but it forced me to sit around for another two hours reading Paul Theroux essays and Googling in search of a hypnotherapist in Marin that is a) not a quack and b) skilled at curing people with flying phobias. I was unsuccessful.

Since nothing of culinary interest has happened to me today (except that I finally unpacked and installed my microwave, which hardly counts), I will now relate my tale of edible ecstasies that transpired last Sunday.

I hopped on the Larkspur ferry and spent an enjoyable, if weirdly Foucauldian, ride observing a variety of enormous military and carceral institutions that we passed en route to the city (San Quentin, Alcatraz, and something else I didn’t recognize that appeared to be an army base – Treasure Island?). I got the word “carceral” from an essay written by a student of Foucault that I used in my Master’s thesis. I know it’s not in the dictionary, but tough shit.

As I watched the prisoners playing in the yard, I was also reading M.F.K. Fisher’s A Cordiall Water, a short book filled with recollections of various folk remedies that had been passed along to her over her lifetime. For some reason, I absolutely love the photo of her on the back of the book and will post it here eventually. It probably has to do with the chopsticks in her hair and the tortoiseshell cat perched in front of her. Adorable.

When we docked, I met my friend Alison, who moved to San Francisco last year from Manhattan. We proceeded into the new Ferry Terminal Building, which was sparking and gorgeous and stuffed to the gills with divine gourmet treats. We didn’t leave this building for another two hours, because we were repeatedly forced to overindulge on various foodstuffs by friendly cheesemongers and cute patisserie counter girls. Here is what we ate:

- one star anise chocolate truffle from Scharffen Berger
- a sample of sourdough bread dipped in a) balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and herb dipping sauce, b) blood orange infused olive oil, c) lime infused olive oil
- one hazelnut and one chocolate-mandarin orange macaroon from Miette Organic Patisserie
- one sample of an unidentified cheese from Cowgirl Creamery
- one plate of six oysters, two each from three different locations, at Hog Island Oyster Company
- one amazing grilled cheese sandwich, made with three kinds of Cowgirl Creamery cheese, and served alongside homemade pickled carrots and onions, which were smashing, also from Hog Island Oyster Company (go figure)
- two glasses of rose, can’t remember what kind
- one New Orleans style iced chicory coffee, made with organic raw cane sugar and organic local cream
- and finally, three more macaroons from Miette: chocolate, hazelnut and grapefruit

Everything was delicious, but by far the highlight of the day was the cookie selection from Miette. This is the place I wish I had the business acumen and culinary training to open. It is an adorable, pastel-painted French-style pastry shop, and everything is organic. The women who own it used to be in the dotcom industry. Ahem. Their macaroons were utterly wonderful.

I have to add that a few months ago, I joined the Culinary Historians of Chicago and went to hear a lecture given by Dorie Greenspan, who had a new cookbook out on French desserts. Most of her talk was devoted to the wonders of the Parisian macaroon, and a discussion of how it is treated with extreme reverence by the French, who launch new macaroon lines and have gala fashion shows to promote them every spring. When she said this, I just assumed it was yet another odd French conceit, like the propensity for ruining pretty streets with dog-poo, but now I understand that the acclaim the French accord the macaroon is entirely deserved.

There were a few things that convinced me of the macaroon’s superiority over other cookies. Firstly, the flavors used in each cookie are pure and clean. The idea of a grapefruit sandwich cookie sounds icky (to me, at least), but in the macaroon, it works. This purity makes the macaroon wonderfully flexible with regard to flavoring. Apparently in France they make flavors such as rose, kiwi and apricot.

Second, the texture is sublime. The outside was delicately crispy, and the inside was soft and spongy. These are nothing like American macaroons, which tend to be leaden and unpleasantly sticky (although that’s never stopped me from stuffing many of them in my mouth). The only thing that gives one pause is the price. At $1.50 each from Miette, they are definitely a treat to be enjoyed with restraint. And of course that just makes me want them all the more.