Macarons Quotes

“We started getting hungry again, and some of the women started chanting, "MEAT, MEAT, MEAT!"
We were having steak tartare. It was the only appropriate main course we could think of, for such a graceless theme, and seeing as nobody in the club was confident making it, we had to order it in. I made chips to serve with it, though. I deep-fried them in beef fat.
The steak was served in little roulades, raw and minced, like horsemeat. It was topped with a raw egg yolk, chopped onions, pickled beetroot, and capers. I had wanted to use the Wisconsin version, which is served on cocktail bread and dubbed "cannibal sandwich," but Stevie insisted we go classic. Not everyone could stomach theirs with the raw egg yolk, too, and so, unusually for a Supper Club, there was quite a lot left over.
We took another break to drink and move about the room. Some of us took MDMA. Emmeline had brought a box of French macarons, tiny pastel-colored things, which we threw over the table, trying to get them into one another's mouth, invariably missing.
For our proper dessert, we had a crepe cake: a stack of pancakes bound together with melted chocolate. We ate it with homemade ice cream, which was becoming a real staple.”
― Lara Williams, Supper Club

“As soon as he was out of sight, Gui pulled the macaron mixture towards him, and took a deep breath. He whipped it back and forth, beads of sweat springing on his forehead as his arm muscles released and contracted. When it was almost ready, he reached up for the shelf where the spices and colors were kept. Carefully, he brought down the bottle of 'creme de violette,' the jar of delicate, dried violets, their petals sparkling with sugar.
In tiny drops, he measured the purple liqueur into the mixture. He was acting on impulse, yet at the same time he felt certain, as though his first teacher, Monsieur Careme, was with him, guiding his steps. The scent reached up as he stirred, heady and sweet as a meadow, deep as lingering perfume in a midnight room. Hands shaking, he piped the mixture onto a tray in tiny rounds, enough to make six, one for each day that he and Jeanne would have to make it through before they could be together for the rest of their lives.
Maurice was delayed talking to Josef, and by the time he returned, Gui was putting the finishing touches to his creations, filling them with a vanilla cream from the cold room, balancing one, tiny, sugar-frosted violet flower upon each.”
― Laura Madeleine, The Confectioner's Tale

“How do you fancy making some dark cherry ganache with me, and we can fill these little yuzu shells with that instead? They can be a temporary special: a macaron de saison." I scrape the offending basil mixture into the bin.
"Whatever you want." Her brightening eyes betray her.
"That's the enthusiasm I was looking for," I reply, smiling. "What shall we call them then? It has to be French."
We surrender to a thoughtful silence. Outside the cicadas are playing their noisy summer symphony. I imagine them boldly serenading one another from old tires, forgotten woodpiles, discarded plastic noodle bowls.
"Something about summer..." she mumbles.
After conferring with my worn, flour-dusted French-English dictionary, we agree on 'Brise d'Ete.”
― Hannah Tunnicliffe, The Color of Tea

“Un Petit Phenix is born as Lillian's is resurrected, even more beautiful than before, with new wallpaper, new windows, and repaired chairs. It is a cinnamon macaron, pressed together with dark chili chocolate ganache. The result is surprisingly delicious- spicy, sweet, lingering long in your mouth, like a bowl of Aztec hot chocolate. It tastes best with a shot of the blackest coffee.”
― Hannah Tunnicliffe, The Color of Tea

“Rich people tend to have shit taste in sweets, and French macarons aren’t half as tasty as the coconut type, the other one with the extra ‘o.”
― A.D. Aliwat, In Limbo

“Kee Li Tong was one of my favorite chocolatiers in New York. Years earlier, I had a fleeting addiction to her otherworldly crème brûlée truffle, a dainty yet dangerous homemade bonbon that you have to pop into your mouth whole, or suffer the consequences of squirting eggy custard all over your blouse. Now, I discovered, she was handcrafting macarons in wild and wonderful flavors like blood orange, sesame, and rose. How did she create her recipes? What inspired her expanded repertoire? And how did hers compare to Paris's best?
Emboldened as I was by my new French history lessons, I asked Kee in her Soho boutique: why macarons?
"Because they're so pretty!" Kee laughed. "They're so dainty. I think it's the colors." And, standing as we were above the glass display case, I had to agree. Her blueberry macarons were as bright as the September sky. The lotus flower was the kind of soft pink that's the perfect shade of blush. Kee's favorite flavor, passion fruit, was a snappy corn husk yellow. These were surrounded by greens (lulo and jasmine green tea) and purples (lavender, which was dotted with purple sugar crystals) and some neutral shades as well (white truffle oil and mint mocha).”
― Amy Thomas, Paris, My Sweet: A Year in the City of Light

“I lean against the counter, biting into the delicate macaron. It feels like I'm drinking a lightly sweetened, warm cup of green tea, sprinkled with a tiny contentment spell, one of Mom's specialties.”
― Julie Abe, The Charmed List

“When everyone arrived at the formal garden, lunch had been laid out on the terrace by unseen hands. Bowls of strawberries and frosty buckets of champagne waited beside iced platters of salmon and dill, sliced cold flank steak and a salad composed of all the kitchen garden's earth-bound magic. A tiered cake stand held scores of macarons- pistachio, chocolate, raspberry and more exotic lavender and vanilla, thyme and honey, rose and tea, each topped with the corresponding herb or flower.”
― Ellen Herrick, The Forbidden Garden

“Voila. Macarons. These ones I made yesterday for a party tonight, so they should be delicious."
He is right, of course; they are perfect. The first one I taste is dark chocolate with a center that is firmer than I had expected but that melts on my tongue in seconds. The second one is raspberry, the ganache retaining the roughness and texture of the fruit. The almond paste is stronger in this one, nuttier; blended together with the raspberry, it tastes of autumn. The last macaron is passion fruit. I know the shells are unflavored, but it tastes as though the entire sweet- the shells, the ganache, the scent- is alive with the zest of passion fruit before it even enters my mouth. Then, acidic on the tongue and rounding off a heavy sweetness. The perfume of the passion fruit macaron is like a bunch of lilies, assaulting and exotic. I close my eyes for a second, savoring each one.”
― Hannah Tunnicliffe, The Color of Tea

“I like caramel flavors; some people prefer a lighter taste, like rose, at least to start with. The chocolate-flavored ones are lovely, of course..." I am rambling; it is like choosing a favorite child, practically impossible.
"What's in this one then?" She points at my newest creation, a pale, creamy white with soft flecks of yellow, like glints of gold in white marble.
"Reve d'un Ange. It means 'dream of an angel.'" She tilts her head, interested, and I shrug. "Hopelessly romantic name, I know. Couldn't help myself."
"What's in it?" she asked, lowering her voice.
"It's my white chocolate macaron. Ganache, that's a kind of chocolate cream, sandwiched in the middle. I've added a little lemon rind and cinnamon.”
― Hannah Tunnicliffe, The Color of Tea

“We'll start with Un Petite Flamme. It's our espresso macaron. Go on, try it."
She looks down at her plate. "This one? With the gold?"
"Yup, go on."
She puts it against her tongue like she's taking communion.
"Good?"
She nods quickly.
Then I place a purple one on her plate.
Rilla lifts it up. "This one has the jam inside, right?"
"Yes; it's Remede de Deliverance. Black currant filling, in the middle of the cream."
She closes her eyes while she eats it slowly. So slowly I worry she will need to come up for air.
"What does that mean?" she asks when she has finally swallowed the last tiny mouthful.
"Remede de Deliverance? 'Rescue remedy.' It's violet-flavored.”
― Hannah Tunnicliffe, The Color of Tea

“I've been eating my version of Herme's Ispahan macaron all week, trying to get it right."
"Eating what?"
"Ispahan. It's a rose macaron, with raspberry insertion... that berry jelly in the middle.”
― Hannah Tunnicliffe, The Color of Tea

“Orange pekoe flavor, with that gold confection dust on the top." She holds one up to demonstrate. "Mascarpone filling." She bites it clean in half and shows me the middle. "Rose jelly in the center."
"Sounds good to me. What shall we call it?"
"I don't know."
I reach over and pick up a macaron, the texture, weight, and balance all perfect. Symmetry, lightness, both shells with excellent feet, wedded together with a smooth filling. Nodding with approval, I place it on my tongue. She is right; the orange and rose flavors melt lustily in your mouth. It's just like Mama- all bright and full of surprises.”
― Hannah Tunnicliffe, The Color of Tea

“They’re macarons, not macaroons, you imbecile! One ‘o’, not two.”
― Lauren H. Brandenburg, The Death of Mungo Blackwell

“My fingers danced above the open box as I tried to anticipate which flavor would be the very best. Lionel, equal parts benevolent and impatient, steered me to a dusty rose-colored one; it was the famous Ispahan flavor. I bit into the shell that, poof, crunched ever so delicately before collapsing in a delightfully chewy and moist mouthful. And then the storm of flavors hit me. Bright raspberry, exotic lychee, and a whiff of rose. There was so much power in that pretty little thing. It was a delicacy packed with skill, imagination, poetry, and, God, give me another one!”
― Amy Thomas, Paris, My Sweet: A Year in the City of Light

“Now Ispahan is his most celebrated flavor combination, but by no means the only one. Over the years he's created macarons such as chocolate and passion fruit; raspberry and wasabi; peach, apricot, and saffron; white truffle and hazelnut; and olive oil and vanilla. They may sound funky, but trust me, they are all delicious.”
― Amy Thomas, Paris, My Sweet: A Year in the City of Light