The macaroon of my childhood has been supplanted by its mimsy French cousin. How did it get so popular? After all, it’s little more than a table decoration
In the crazy days before Christmas, I have sometimes, in extremis, swung into Ladurée on Piccadilly, and handed over stupid cash in exchange for small, pistachio-green parcels of multi-coloured macarons. The shop, conveniently situated (for me) right by the number 38 bus stop at one end of the Burlington Arcade, resembles a tiny, golden cave, and something about it – the feeling, perhaps, that you have stepped into the realm of fairies and hobbits, which in a way, of course, you have – encourages the harried shopper to drop her guard. Yes, you know that Ladurée is all over the place now, a chain like any other (it belongs to the same group of businesses as the bakery Paul). Yes, you know, too, that macarons can be picked up at Sainsbury’s and Marks & Spencer’s these days. But still – quelle disastre– the finger goes out, pointing at those seductive shades you believe will look prettiest lined up in the box.
When did we fall for macarons? And why? In my childhood, I knew only of macaroons: little domes of almond or coconut, bound with egg white and perched on a disc of rice paper, that were so easy to make, your mum was inclined to depart the kitchen, possibly in search of a gin, as you set to work with the mixing bowl. They were, even then, an old-fashioned treat, and a bit comical for that; not for nothing did Victoria Wood and Julie Walters send them up in Acorn Antiques. But at school fetes and Brownie bring-and-buys, they were always the second thing to go (the first were the endless trays of chocolate cornflake crispies).
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