Ah, Paris. The city of love. For a single girl in Paris, this means one thing—éclairs and macarons galore. Comparing the chances of finding my Parisian Prince Charming versus the chances of my finding the perfect French confectionery, the law of probability very heavily favored the confectioneries. Forget about moonlit walks in front of the Eiffel Tower or holding hands in airy promenades through Versailles; this trip was not about romantic discoveries, but gastronomical ones. Little did I know, however, that both awaited.
My pastry-savvy roommate had told me to sample macarons from Lauderée, the original creator of the decadent double-decker. The shop can be found off Champs-Elysees, through a narrow set of pale green double doors. They lead the way to a small wood-paneled patisserie bathed in the warm light of old fashioned lamps. I selected six macarons, each perfect in its delicate, pastel colored shell. Pastries in hand, I continued on my walk down Champs-Elysees and through the Tuileries Garden. It was a crisp, blue winter’s day, warming up as it neared noon. The gold tipped obelisk glinted in the pale sunlight and, ahead, the Louvre stood old and imposing.
I sampled a macaron.
My teeth sank through the top—the pastry broke with a faint crunch, and my mouth was instantly filled with a hint of almonds light as air, immediately followed by the sweet, tangy jam within. In a few seconds, everything had melted in my mouth, leaving only the lingering trace of sugary almond paste and raspberries.
I must have been grinning widely, because the man walking beside me smiled back. Well . . . he was a very old man. Even aficionados of older men may have found him a bit outside the usual dating pool. With a newsboy hat, heavy framed glasses, and stiff wool coat, he was standing at 70-something with silvery hair and laugh lines. We began chatting in French and with hand-signals. I told him he reminded me of my grandfather. He told me I reminded him of his wife, who had passed away a few years back. It was a very unlikely match, but we were walking in the same direction—toward Notre Dame—and after 10 minutes of chatting, he offered me his arm. Why not? I put my hand on the crook of his sleeve, offered him a macaron, and we strolled down the Parisian streets.
