3rd September – The story of the macaroons

Yesterday I saw a man pay for £310.64 of macaroons.  $600+ in macaroons.  To my American friends, please let me explain.  Macaroon here does not mean that odd clump of nougat and coconut that we consider the macaroon.  These are bits of manna in sandwich cookie form.  These are from Laudrée.

I went to Paris for the weekend and my wonderful friend Isabelle gave me a list of places not to miss.  Then, as she re-read the list, realized that they were all food related.  Fine by me.  On the list was Laudrée, a trés belle tearoom, with a new outlet on the Champs-Élysées.  The shop attached was thronged (and the percentage of patrons bent to the French – this is not just a tourist enclave like the Hotel Sacher in Vienna, where I heard not a single German nor Austrian voice in front of the counter).  I was overcome – and not alone.  The empirical debonair older Parisian Gentleman who stood in front of me was betrayed by his wild-eyed joy at the delicacies he beheld.  He was like one of the old gods whom appear to be 75 and 8 years old as well as a spider a lion and a bear at the same time.  He was l’homme très heureux.

On Monday, I shared the macaroons which I dutifully purchased, but there were not enough – there could never be enough.  I left out one very important person from my distribution – a jet-black mark on my permanent hostess record.  Fortunately, I, wishing to smudge as much of my indiscretion as I could, headed to the London outpost of Laudrée, which is nestled in the far back corner of Harrods.  And this brings us back around.

In line, in front of me, were three of the most stunning women I’ve ever seen.  None of them would have lasted more than a day at the Temple of Isthar.  Coins would have been flung their way immediately.  They were dressed in respectful Muslim fashion, except that their head scarves were Hermes and the like, and their faces and bearing striking enough to win nations from lesser beings.  Each in their turn they selected their delights.  Hat-box sized troves of baking excellence.  Then they turned and floated away on a confectionary carpet laid only for their feet.  Then he appeared.  Silently – which seemed impossible as he had about him more blue-tooth than the most fearsome shark.  Handsome, young* and oozing a look at me I’m a prince vibe, but I will not notice that you are looking at me or acknowledge your mean existence in anyway.  This is at least how it seemed he felt about the woman at the till.  Each question she begged went unheard and unanswered, but he removed from his money clip, as there are no wallets that would hold this movie-sized roll, seven £50.00 notes which did not even cause a dent in his pretty pink stash.  With the slightest nod of his head, a burly man in dark glasses and Armani strode to the counter, removed the bags and took the change – and with more grace than even Keyser Söze, Prince BT was gone.

*I believe that all men – single men anyway – over the age of 28 are double-deckered out of London.  Perhaps I’m wrong, but if you spot one, let me know immediately.