It just takes one hit.

We've heard it all before. From parents and teachers, and Oprah and Dr. Phil -- SAY NO TO DRUGS. We watch on television, morbidly fascinated, as countless degenerates tumble down the slippery slope of addiction, and transform themselves from stable, ordinary people into dependent, infantile beings who will do anything for just one more taste of their particular poison. It can be gruesome, really, and even though sometimes you have to watch the inevitable decline through your fingers, you still can't look away. Maybe it makes us feel superior, knowing that we have the self-control, the fortitude and morality to resist those evil temptations; that we would never be as reckless or irresponsible as those poor souls who have been snatched and held tightly by the powerful grasp of drug addition. And while the credits of Intervention flash on the television screen, we all think, that will never be me. 

And sure, there was that time in university when you had one too many swigs of cheap champagne and threw up in the cab. And you try to ignore that fact that your hand shakes just ever so slightly whenever caffeine is absent from your morning routine. But surely you're not addicted. Not like those delinquent junkies on Dr. Phil. And maybe you do possess the self-discipline that will keep you from ever ending up on the floor of the bathroom at Burger King, mixing your next dose of heroin on the bottom of a dirty Coke can. Or maybe you just haven't found the intoxicating substance that will push you to plummet that far. 

It was last Wednesday that I was over at Scott's for a typical week-night dinner. I was responsible for the menu that night, and when it came to the question of dessert, I knew there was only one answer. They had been calling my name since I had last tasted them only days before. I was thinking about them constantly; they were a relentless presence, a dull ache that could only be satisfied by another taste of their sweet little bodies. Just one more bite. That's all I needed. Really.  

And it didn't seem so wrong if I was going to be sharing them, generously, and not buying a box for myself only to shove them crudely into my mouth while still walking down the street, unable to withhold my display of obvious gluttony until safe in the privacy of my own home. Not that I would ever do that anyway. 

They are decidedly delicate. Made from a base of egg whites and almond flour, they are a multitude of textures -- crisp, and then chewy, finished with a soft and impossibly smooth ganache filling, bursting with flavour and fantasy. They are handled only by gloved hands, or by specially-purposed tongs, to make certain that their perfect shells remain unblemished. They are presented in boxes that look like they would be better suited to contain glittering jewels on velvet pillows, or expensive silk lingerie. And they are a frequent visitor of my dreams. 

They are macarons. 

And they are wonderful, really. Something I might even consider adding to the menu of my death-row meal. But that doesn't mean that I'm not in complete control of my cravings. I can totally stop at anytime. Not that I would ever want to.

The fact that I might have just a bit of a problem only occurred to me following that Wednesday night dinner at Scott's. We had finished our meal and were sated and content, our plates and palates cleared, ready for our mid-week treat. I had been anticipating our macaron consumption ever since the glossy Pierre Hermé bag was placed in my hands only a few hours prior. And sadly, in just a few bites, it was all over. I lay on the couch, my eyes unfocused and my vision hazy, buzzing from the overwhelming flavours that still lingered on my tongue, and when I glanced over, it appeared that Scott, stretched across two footstools, was in about the same condition as I was.

 

We were almost incoherent, faintly babbling about iridescent cinnamon dust and salted-butter caramel. My mind and my pulse were racing, yet I could barely move. I felt weighted to the couch, but at the same time, I had never been lighter. And slowly, as I gained the energy to turn my head to look at Scott once again, I realized that we likely had the same, singular thought -- I want more. 

The next few minutes felt like hours, days even, and as I began to regain lucidity, I had another realization. I looked around, still slightly disoriented, taking in my surroundings. The crumpled remnants of the Pierre Hermé bag, ripped open desperately only moments before; the open bottle of wine, nearly empty on the coffee table; my only company sprawled, unmoving, in what seemed to be a fairly uncomfortable position; and the sound of our laboured breathing, punctuated sporadically by some nonsensical mumblings. I had seen this tableau before, or variations of it. It was a familiar scene that appeared every week on Intervention. 

Okay, so maybe I did have a problem. 

But the realization that I may be cultivating a dangerous addiction didn't stop me (or Scott) from returning to our dealer -- I mean, Pierre Hermé -- a few days later, more than ready, and anxiously anticipating our next dosage. 

There are many places in the city that peddle macarons, but I think there are really only two worth mentioning, both of which are noted for vastly different reasons. Firstly, there is Ladurée, where the double-decker macaron we know today was first conceived at the beginning of the 20th century, prior to which macarons were only a single, meringue-like dome and void of any filling. The fact that Ladurée can lay claim to the stroke of genius that transformed a fairly ordinary pastry into a gastronomic celebrity is enough to warrant the queue of patrons that usually extends out the door. The additional knowledge that your choice of dainty little pastries will be presented in lovely pastel boxes, embossed in gold and sealed with satin ribbon, is likely what causes the line to frequently stretch around the block. That, and the fact that their selection of macarons, in all the traditional flavours, is arguably unmatched. 

I feel that I have consumed enough macarons to hold a reasonably well-informed opinion on the subject, and while I am confident in my belief that Ladurée produces the absolutely quintessential macaron, I do concede that they will never be one for innovation. Just take one look around the 19th century tea room, gilded and mirrored and relatively unchanged since its establishment, and it is easy to understand that this place stands for tradition, not innovation. Maybe they realized that the legendary macaron they created over 100 years ago would be the only flash of ingenuity needed, one that possibly cannot be topped. I won't contend with that --they know what they can do, and they do it well. Very well. But there is also something to be said for the new and exciting and experimental. Enter, Pierre Hermé. 

Pastry chef Pierre Hermé, who has been referred to by food publications as everything from a "pastry provocateur" to "the Kitchen Emperor," is the mastermind behind the several Pierre Hermé pastry shops scattered throughout Paris. The shop interiors are vastly different from those of Ladurée; clean and modern, lined with glass cases filled with impeccable rows of perfectly assembled pastries, each one an experiment in taste and texture. 

And, of course, no Pierre Hermé store would be complete with the requisite winding line of impatient customers, faces drawn to the shop window like a plant towards the light. Some are in line for the first time, and some, like myself, had made the trip more than once in the span of a week. And as I looked at the excited faces of those yet to be intoxicated by the confections that would await them on the other side of the glass, I wanted to warn them, to be certain that they fully understood the magnitude of the commitment they were about to make. I had the urge to shake them and to tell them that they didn't know what they were getting themselves into. It just takes one hit. 

But, distracted by the thought of satisfying my craving, I kept silent, selfishly focused on my own indulgence. And once we made it through the doorway and were faced with neatly stacked trays of colourful macarons, all available brain capacity was focused on the task at hand. Even without the visual stimulation, the words printed on the individual labels would have been enough to intensify my aching desire and need. Chocolate and passionfruit. Vanilla and olive oil. Grapefruit and wasabi. I had tried most of these pairings before, but imagining each exotic combination of flavours dissipating on my tongue was still making me lightheaded, and I needed to focus. We had agreed; we could only choose six. Six was reasonable. Six was far from gluttonous. Six was enough. For now. 

The trip from the counter at Pierre Hermé to a park bench in the nearby Tuileries passed in a blur, and finally, finally, we were seated and Scott was pulling the package of macarons out of their carrier bag. 

It was an unusually sunny day in Paris, and our six carefully chosen macarons were glittering like little jewels in the bright light. We quickly decided that our strategy would be to eat according to strength of flavour, from the lightest to the most intense. That meant starting with the positively angelic jasmine (top left). This came close to being my favourite of the six. A perfect luminous pearl, its subtle flavour barely there; just a faint whisper of the delicate floral aroma, as if delivered by a gentle breeze. And after that first, unforgettable bite, my anxiety seemed to fade away and I felt like I could breathe again. Everything was going to be okay. 

We vigilantly worked our way through our other selections: the sweet, diaphanous rose; the highly anticipated, yet somewhat disappointing chocolate bergamot; and the intensely rich and heady chocolate caramel. 

And then there were two -- two identical, flawless orbs, remarkably iridescent and radiant in the sunlight. It was a combination we had tried before, several times, but one that couldn't be ignored. Pistachio, with a burst of sweet cherry in the centre, and a faint sprinkling of a sparkling cinnamon dust that clings to your fingertips. It was love at first bite. 

And it was over all too soon. The sheer joy of that first moment, when taste and aroma overwhelm your senses, followed by the feeling of deep satisfaction that is quickly replaced by sharp yearning. The gratification only lasts an instant before the craving returns, even more apparent and intense, and all you can think about is that feeling of euphoria, when the only place that matters in the inside of your mouth. And you know you would do anything to return to that moment, even if it was just once more. 

I've been a good girl most of my life. I've listened and obeyed when warned by the posters at school and the omnipotent Oprah to avoid the evils of drugs. I feel fairly confident that I will never find my place on the floor of that Burger King bathroom. And honestly, I have no desire to test my limits, to seek out whatever pleasures are driving drug users to follow the dangerous path that leads to addiction. 

That being said, I know I've never been one to shy away from self-indulgence, and maybe sometimes my excess leads to less than desirable consequences. But addict is a very strong word, and I am not quite prepared to label myself with it. Maybe it's denial, or maybe I really do have as much self-control and -discipline as I think I do. Regardless, I've willingly acknowledged my persistent need to satisfy my frequent macaron cravings, and I think I would be prepared to seek help if it were to ever go too far. But for now, I can only think of the pleasure, of that moment of euphoria, and of returning to my rightful place in the winding queue of Ladurée or Pierre Hermé, ready for my next hit.