No Macaron For You!

Having heard so much about the glorious French macaron in Europe and NYC, I decided to go on a macaron hunt of my own. Little did I know, the number of patisseries in my state roughly equals the number of calories burned by a cadaver. Given my unflagging tenacity (read: incredible boredom) for yummy French things, I finally stumbled upon a little gem called Silva's Patisserie. It's a small shop owned by Harry Sarkees, a former pastry chef at the Kennedy Center. With such a lofty title, one would think that he could only produce heavenly delights for the palate, but I was sadly wrong.

Beguiled by the lush, neon fruits-basket interior (you can't tell from the photo), I thought I had finally hit gold. Of all the tasty cookies that rested coquettishly behind windexed glass cases, I spotted miniature macarons of the pistachio and strawberry variety. They were small, and at $6.00/lb somewhat pricey, but man...I just had to try them.

And I did.

I bought a tiny little box wrapped up like so:










...and since I can't take decent photos worth crap, here's a stylized version of a whole, virginal macaron.

My first bite into faux-French deliciousness was somewhere between weeping and getting a root canal. Rather than being a soft, fluffy experience, my macaron turned out to have the crusty old consistency of rock-like nougat. Sure, the almond flavor was there, and perhaps even a hint of pistachio in the filling, but overall it was disappointing. What had looked so promising was ultimately a let-down--one of the many reasons why living can be so painful. Can you honestly look at the photo below and think "Ew, gross!!!"?!!

Somewhere out there, a tickle-me-Elmo doll is crying.

So in the end, my macaron quest was a miserable failure, not unlike many other ventures in my life. However, at least this was just a stupid dessert and not someone's life. If I ever screwed that up, I don't think I could say: "well, he was a shitty macaron anyway." That wouldn't do.