I JUST had my first real French macaron, and it was delightful.
The outside was defiantly hard and broke with a firm crackle, the interior was a deep shade of rose and enticingly gooey, there was a light gel in the middle that exploded in my mouth with a burst of pink, and the flavour was beautifully sweet and tasted just like the colour.
Before today I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about, but now I get it.
Now that I’ve had a real French macaron I will never again be able to eat the imitations they make at home, just like Italy spoiled me for pizza.
And, just to settle any arguments, I asked the French chef how to pronounce the name of the sweet treat and he said it was as mac-a-ron not a mac-a-roon.
Far Near Or Here 