Pensive Sweet-tooth: Mochi on Ice VS Macarons

The first time I discovered the existence of macarons was through Gossip Girl. Chuck (If I’m not mistaken) brought Blaire a box of macarons to pamper her (perhaps he did something to upset her?). The way Blaire devoured those trinkets of delicacy and delight created this image of ultimate satisfaction, one that could only be achieved by one of the most luxurious desserts of all time.

It was, of course, the epitome of romance and indulgence, exclusively catered to the extravagant spectacle of life on the Upper Eastside.

Years later, after fetishizing macarons for the fantasies it promised (but very rarely delivered fully), I came by a huge bowl of mochi on shaved ice. It was a wondrous assortment of hot, soft, and chewy mochi, blanketed in peanut powder as it rested on peanut paste and shaved ice. The symphony of tastes instantly reminded me of home and nostalgia, and for the price of one-dollar-fifty a bowl, my mind was blown.

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For the average teenager, eating a macaron was the equivalent of being able to afford a cup of Starbucks. It was unnecessarily priced but offered a sense of class mobility, the illusion of passing from a nerve-wracking student budget to an easy, breezy, bourgeois lifestyle.

Considering the array of pastel colors macarons usually came in, it was really hard for me to say no to it. Especially when the movie Marie-Antoinette came out, each blushing bite resonated with the lavish and unduly romanticized lifestyle of the young French Queen. Incidentally, I continued my quest to collect a rainbow of memories with macarons for the next few years.

I split my first macaron ever with my mom on an afternoon shopping spree. It was two-and-a-half US dollars, far too extravagant an expense for the average Asian Mom. But my mother was also known for spoiling her children when my dad wasn’t around so we went for it. Later on through my years as a student in Taiwan, I would do the same when my girlfriends and I felt like sharing a bite.

The first time I heard the name “Ladurée” was through my friend’s mother. She was a middle-aged American woman and her rendezvous with Ladurée was heavily saturated with hefty notes, riddled with sugar.

“You must try their macarons and their hot cocoa, Sydney.” She said.

So when I found out that they had a store in New York upon my next visit to NYC, I took the opportunity to drag my friends there for afternoon tea. However, since we were kind of on a student budget, and everyone was much more comfortable sharing a pot of tea instead of a cup of hot cocoa, I missed my first opportunity to judge the hot beverage.

The next time I came by Ladurée, I was with my mom, and we gave the macaron and hot cocoa combo a try. Needless to say, as to Asian women, the combination of thick, heavy, sweet blobs of goo, along with the already sugary macarons was a disaster.

Regardless of my exasperating experience with the hot cocoa at Ladurée, I’ve always been a fan of their macarons. That, however, is also a product of my laissez-faire attitude towards macarons as well. What’s best about the famous and grossly commercialized brand is that it has a delightful crisp to the meringue cookies, followed by a moist resistance upon the first bite.

The filling, though, is another story. The problem is that most fillings are tolerable. Some are quite nice. But almost every one of them is desperate and pretentious. Yet I was pleasantly surprised by an interesting combination of meringue cookies (based on Ladurée’s recipe) and freshly whipped cream. Perhaps it was the simplicity of cream, egg whites, and sugar and the lack of structure it had that breathed new life to the otherwise overrated desert.

After years of pursuing macarons for the sake of my vanity, and blind faith in the escapism it sheepishly delivered, I realized that the sense of satisfaction I was looking for was no longer there. No amount of fancy, overpriced droplets of sugar could help capture the emotional high one got from being truly satisfied by food. Instead, I was looking for something grounded, something that was tangible, something that surpassed material value.

That’s when I came by mochi on shaved ice. The blend of textures from chewy, flaky, pasty bites to the brisk crunch of the ice was an ode to the culture I was so closely connected to. It was the taste of intimacy, something close to the heart. It was wholesome, layered with the grit and the bliss that mirrored both the struggle and the satisfaction of finding meaning and happiness in life.

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