Part One, in which my dreams of chewing on a Ladurée macaron are actualized. On Valentines Day, no less.

I work as a cook in a restaurant. The fact that I love food more than I love pug puppies, or lip balm, or air, or facebook.com helps me get through some of the inevitable downs, and the inevitable ups serve as fantastic little blessings that keep me loving my job, really and truly, even when I don't. Here's an example.

Picture this: Valentines Day, 2010. 7pm. I'm on line, getting the garnishes ready for the green pea bisque on the special prix fix menu we were running that night. The kitchen is total mayhem; produce scraps everywhere, every burner occupied, an overflowing dish pit, things catching fire, servers with a multitude of questions, tickets coming in faster than the machine can print them, and that's just the very beginning. Enter Aimee, one of the bartenders who had returned that very morning from a trip to France. From the corner of my eye, I watched as she set a round box atop the paper towel dispenser above the hand sink and walked out of the kitchen.

Prior to her departure, I gushed excitedly about all the Parisian delicacies I dream about, with the French macaron being at the very top of the list. Unlike the coconutty, coarse, domed cookie by the same name (but with two o's), the French macaron is comprised of two discs of meringue and, most commonly, sandwich a ganache or buttercream type filling. They are light as air, crumble to the touch and melt on the tongue. They take on different flavors beautifully and look like little jewels when lined up in pastry display cases. They are gorgeous little cookies.

I recognized the package immediately, strangely, though I have never seen one in the flesh (or should I say cardboard?) before. It's shade that is similar to Tiffany blue, moving towards seafoam green, and much more precious and exciting than anything involving diamonds in little boxes. The box was from Ladurée, which is said to be the first shop in Paris to introduce the macaron. In that moment, I ditched my duties and sprinted (literally) over to the lucky employee who got to handle this beautiful vessel before anyone else. Perhaps this individual saw that my eyes were welling up (literally) and that is what possessed him, all 6 feet and 4 inches of him, to hold the box above his head, wave it around, look down at me, all 5 feet and 3 inches of me, and ask me, in a mock-baby voice, if I "wanted the wittle cookies". I always knew I liked Aimee, but my heart swelled when she poked her head back into the kitchen, looked directly at the bully, and said sternly, "By the way, Danielle gets first pick. They're mainly for her".

I may have sworn. I may have stuttered. I surely stomped my feet and I definitely managed to leap high enough to snatch the box from his cruel paws. As everything around me turned to slow motion, I opened it as though it were a treasure chest and selected my first morsel. Pear. To be honest, I was hoping the green hue meant Pistachio, but I was in no position to be choosy in that moment. I have spent many a night copying and pasting the text from the Ladurée and Pierre Hermé websites into online translators so I can read what those geniuses have to say about their beautiful creations. I have also been known to use their photos as my desktop image.

I love my coworkers, and wanted everyone to have a chance to experience this little piece of Paris. I've also never had a problem with sharing, and the tickets were stacking up seriously fast, so I took a deep breath, set the box in a high traffic location and bid it adieu. After peeling the sticker from it, of course, and planting it in my day planner to ensure that this otherwise forgettable Valentines Day would go down in history.

When I got to work the next morning, I discovered that the box was still there and miraculously, there were STILL MACARONS IN IT. Since I was alone and had not yet had breakfast, I helped myself to two more. Raspberry and chocolate, which were both very delicious. I put the remaining 4 macarons on a plate and snuck the box up to the employee lounge and put it in my locker to take home with me that evening.

Once i came down from my Francophile high, I was able to assess what had happened and see things with a little more clarity. I was quite reasonably romanced by the origin of these particular macarons, and somehow, consuming them helped soften the harsh edge of the fact that I have never even been close to Europe. Flavor wise...ahem... I've had better. I found the flavors of the Ladurée macarons artificial and cloying, albeit vibrant and very, very straightforward. Macarons I have enjoyed locally have seemed more delicate, with flavors that registered as more natural on my palate, which is a trait I tend to favor.

Look forward to Part Two, in which I will successfully make a batch of my own if it's the last [expletive] thing I do. I tried twice last night and both batches were an utter disaster, it really put a damper on my evening. But I will prevail. I will.