Today I witnessed something special: a rare meeting of macaron and macaroon. Appropriately enough, the summit took place over international waters, between Paris and New York. The tension on the plane was palpable.
The macaron was raspberry; it carried with it centuries of culture. Looking at that deceptively simple puff of almond and air, one could detect pride in its ancient pedigree, an easy elegance borne of endless refinement. Its palette was subdued, its flavor subtle, but its presence powerful.
The macaroon, by contrast, was rough-hewn and endearing. Its coconut was shaggy, but it was piped with a touching precision. There was no delicacy here; why should there be?
This macaroon was eager to claim kinship. Look, it said. I love my heritage! Neither of us use egg whites! We’re not so different, you and I!
I spell my name with one o, said the macaron. And you live in a Manischewitz can. Or look like you do.
A cream puff proved an ineffectual moderator.
Sadie Stein is contributing editor of The Paris Review, and the Daily’s correspondent.