Tasting Macarons at the Farmers Market

When I saw Veronica's announcement that she'd be selling her delicacies at the 17th Street Farmers Market, I knew I had to get down there and meet the chef in person. Something about the change in seasons is making me want to meet a few bloggers outside of the internet. As the sun/son has come out, my social side is feeling loud and proud.

With a fridge full of veggies, my only reason to hit up the Farmers Market was to try a macaron (and to show of baby Jasper). This is a little odd for me, since I'm really not very keen on sweets or baked goods. That's Karen's department. I mostly just wanted to break this artificial barrier down and show some support for a fellow blogger. But honestly, I was prepared to not like the products of Veronica's Petites Bouches, because pastries just aren't my thing.

Before wading into the sparsely attended market, we popped into Cafe Gutenberg to grab our first cup of coffee of the day. It felt pretty urgent, considering our erratic sleep schedule. I ordered two large 16oz coffees (the only other size is a 12" small). "That'll be $6.55." I froze as soon as I heard the price. Standing there flipping through a few bills, I started gripping my money tightly and doing math in my head, not sure if she'd gotten my order mixed up. I looked at Karen with questioning eyes. "Just pay her," she said under her breath. I handed over a twenty and asked, how much is coffee here? The barista looked surprised at my question. "Um, $3 for a large. It's an Italian blend. It's good."

A little while back I decided to cut sugar from all of my coffee consumption. Not just discontinuing my usual three packets in each cup, but no more mochas or syrupy whatever-chino drinks that usually cost a fortune. I figured I'd be saving money by only purchasing black drip-coffee, the common-joe pick-me up. This has been my rationale as I often carry around the paper cups of brew: It's only a buck or two.

The "Italian blend," is Illy coffee, found at many fine dining establishments. And yes, it is good. Not great, but good. Is it seven dollars for two cups good? No. You could have at least a half-pound of the beans for that price. As soon as we walked out the door of Cafe Gutenburg, I turned to Karen and said, I'm never going to that place again. "I knew you were going to say that." Have I said it before when we've been in there? "Maybe."

I haven't been able to keep up with the changing status of that Cafe Gutenbert since they announced that it might be closing. However, one thing there hasn't changed: their target market. In my estimation, a coffee shop or cafe is a community hub; a common stopping point in the daily routine of nearly every kind of person. If the brew is good, the people will come and they'll add their own fixins and make the place a universally popular spot. There may be other offerings, from bagels to eggs Florentine, but it all starts with that cup of coffee that everybody buys and helps the business secure a foothold in the storefront marketplace.

Cafe Guttenberg is aiming at a different kind of subsistence. One that seems geared toward an elitist impact on downtown and a much less accessible corner of 17th and Main. Not inviting, at all. For to many restaurants, it isn't enough to be popular and successful, the goal seems to be glamor. It's a shame and I hope they change their approach (yes, I've gone off on this digression/rant all because they charge a dollar too much for coffee, 50% over comparable cups most anywhere else).

Veronica's Tiny Tasty Time-Machines
Okay, where was I? After a lap around the seriously underwhelming market (only 1/3 of the vendor stalls were populated), we stopped at Petite Bouchees. Although we'd never met, Veronica recognized me instantly. So I introduced myself, Karen, and baby Jaz. I told her up-front that we were here to buy stuff and support her business, but I had questions first. How do you pronounce "macaron"? She said it a couple times and I strained my ears (Karen too). Not like "macarOOn", right? "No, because then people think coconut and..." To be honest, I'm not sure what Veronica said. It wasn't "macarAWn," which was the only other option I imagined. It was more of a French kind of sound that my mouth doesn't make and my ears find confusing (how North American!).

She offered samples of the little treats. I had chocolate/coffee (my favorite flavor combo) and Karen had pistachio. As soon as I got the 1/4 macaron sample into my mouth, I was impressed by the delicate crispiness of the exterior and the sensuously chewy middle. This was a special creation, indeed. Then it hit me: waves of rich chocolatiness accented by the coffee and then something really different. Was it hot buttered toast? No. PB&J? No, but it felt like I was re-experiencing some distant flavor from my childhood. Karen and Veronica watched my reaction and asked for my thoughts. But, hot on the trail of this inexplicable flavor/memory, I couldn't talk. Karen covered for me, saying nice things about her pistachio macaron. My mind was racing. Okay, not quite toast or french toast, maybe french toast, not sure, I'm in my parents kitchen, eating... what am I eating? How old am I? Grilled cheese? No, not salty, but buttery. Yes. Butter...

And then it fades away and I've lost it. Karen and Veronica come back into focus and there's this guy. Oh, that's Hungry Hubby. Wow, am I making a good first impression, or what? I tell them that I tasted something that I couldn't put my finger on. I'm embarrassed, because I don't know what they've been talking about while I was searching inside myself chasing a childhood sensation. Then I ask for another sample, as unashamed as a junkie scrounging for his next hit. We buy a couple bags and leave Veronica with our well wishing for her fledgling business and my mind is already on getting back to the house to greedily work my way through these newly purchased macarons.

The Ethics of Carrying Coffee into a Restaurant
I'd never laid eyes on Lulu's and Karen had never heard of it. They're serving brunch. Let's go! We were both hungry, having only had Veronica's tempting amuse bouche. Karen agreed and as we made a few steps toward the restaurant, we started to argue.

"We can't go in there with these coffees," Karen informs me.

Why not? It's brunch.

"They sell coffee there, so we can't bring our own. How much do you have left?"

Mine's almost full and still hot.

"Well, we have to toss them."

Fuck that!

"It's just a cup of coffee. Don't be unreasonable."

Karen, after paying seven bucks? Hell no. I'm taking my coffee in there.

"Not with me, your not. Let's just go home."

Look, I really don't think that I'm physically capable of relinquishing this cup right now. I'm sorry. I'll make you some eggs."

(would any of you like to weigh in on this ethical dilemma?)
By the way, we love cursing. It's actually more fun right now, knowing that we won't be able to do it around the baby in about a year. So, we're getting our fill now.

Back at the house, I immediately get on the computer to write and Karen ends up making the eggs (doh!). Soon, I recruit her to help me figure out this coffee/chocolate mystery flavor. I sit on the couch next to her holding a macaron in my hand for the first time. It's like a little hamburger shaped play-dough creation, only it's both heavy and light and feels like something precious to be careful with. I take a bite and I'm transported again, following the flavor, listing sensations in my head. Butter rum, buttered raisin, butter pecan, etc. Karen's got it now. After a bite, she doesn't speak. I take another bite. "That's damn good," she says.

It feels like we're passing a joint back and forth, going into orbit briefly after each "hit." I'm no closer to identifying my memory, now enjoying the euphoria more than the noble cause of revisiting my youth. How much time has passed, I wonder. Where's the baby? (still latched on, nursing). Are we bad parents? Is Social Services coming for us?

Karen breaks the silence. "It's that coffee butter-cream. That's the flavor that hits me. It's really good." We agree on that, half satisfied, and decide to get on with our day.