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NYU Local
Oct 6, 2011
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By Abe Gutierrez
Much to our arteries’ dismay, New York City is a Mecca for cupcake fanatics, with places like Tai-Pan bakery, Chickalicious, Sugar Sweet Sunshine, Butter Lane and many others a stone’s throw away from our dorms. As cupcake fever swept the nation, a little French confection also made a push for the mainstream dessert world — French macarons. These little desserts are known for their unique flavors such as rose and cassis in unnaturally bright neon colors. Essentially, these are the sassy version of American cupcakes.
Interning in midtown in the financial services industry can put you in crappy mood during immensely hot days, and heading underground to a crowded, humid subway while wearing a suit will make the most cheerful of people bloodthirsty. I decided, one day, to drown my sorrows in one of those gargantuan macarons of the hazelnut variety, beckoning in the window of Financier. It was incredible — slightly chewy, ridiculously moist, and rich in flavor; I was a self-loathing fanatic.
So you see why I was so excited when I found out that the Parisian shop Maison Ladurée, credited with inventing the treat and thought to have the best one in the world, was opening a shop on the Upper East Side. I made my way uptown opening weekend in the pouring rain, hardly able to contain my excitement. The Upper East Side store was frou-frou to the max; upon entering the dollhouse-like shop, visitors are greeted with macaron-scented perfumes, as well as samples of their specialty confections off of silver platters.
After a 30-minute wait, it was finally time to order. I was at first surprised by the size of the sweets themselves — the smallest I have ever seen, maybe just a tad bit bigger than a half-dollar. They were all gorgeous, so I purchased a few of them — rose, vanilla, and coffee. After choosing a box, I get to the register and the total is about $25. The cashier picks up on my confused stare, and explains to me that the box was $12. I am flabbergasted, and request to have them without the box. Annoyed, the cashier whispers something under her breath and aggressively tosses the macarons in a sad paper wrapper. “A la peasant,” I think to myself.
After shelling out about $4 per macaron, I sample my purchase. The rose one tasted precisely like a rose, which is a perfect analogy for the entire store itself — delicate, precious, and stuffy. I sampled my friend’s coffee macaron and almost spit it in his face. It was so incredibly sweet that I wanted to snort a bump of wasabi right then and there to counteract the sugar that was dissolving on my tongue.
Ok, I thought, maybe that one was just a fluke. After all, the French are credited with inventing them and this is thought to be the best place in the world to get them, so it must have just been a bad batch.
Not so. Another friend looks disappointedly at the Green Granny Smith macaron in their hand, and no longer wants it. This particular friend is a cheap bastard, so the fact that he would throw away anything that pricey was baffling. Puzzled, I decide to give it a try, and immediately understood: the macaron was so over-tart that recalled memories of those sour warheads that we all used to suck down when we were kids. We left feeling pissed off and so unbelievably underwhelmed that we couldn’t do anything except to laugh at ourselves for going through such an ordeal.
Maison Laduree has incredible brand value. Their signature boxes, bags, and ingeniously designed website is a testament to that. However, without a quality product that people will want to come for over and over again, that business model may not do as well as we all thought. It is funny to say that you waited in line at the most pretentious dessert shop in the entire world, however, so perhaps they should sell T-Shirts that read “I waited in line for an hour and all I got was an overpriced, mediocre macaron and shitty service”. I can definitely see people rocking that down the Champs-Élysées. I would take that shirt and a New York cupcake over a macaron from Maison Laduree anytime.
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