Iwas a Grand Diplôme student at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris when I first tried (and failed) at making macarons (mah-kah-ROHNS). For more than a century, these dainty confections of two almond meringues sandwiched around a luscious filling were sold only in patisseries. Then, in the 1990s, chef Pierre Hermé ignited a global frenzy over the cookie. While at the helm of famed Paris bakeries Fauchon and Ladurée, he tinted the meringues vibrant colors and filled them with gloriously sophisticated flavors. (Think rose-lychee-raspberry or grapefruit-orange-Campari.) Suddenly, everyone from London to Tokyo wanted to eat macarons—and professionals and home bakers alike wanted to master them. From that point on, their allure has never abated.
It’s not hard to understand why. The perfect specimen is a wonder: Utterly smooth, elegantly puffed meringues (often called “shells”), with an eggshell finish and a frilly “pied,” or “foot,” rimming the bottom, hold a satiny filling. Take a bite, and the wafer-thin crust gives way to the supple chew of the meringue while the filling—perhaps chocolate ganache, buttercream, or fruit curd—delights with a burst of flavor.
Despite the fact that the shells require just four ingredients—egg whites, almond flour, granulated sugar, and confectioners’ sugar—achieving this ideal can be tricky. If the batter is too airy, the shells may bake up cracked, tall, or lopsided; if you deflate it too much, they will spread flat. Baked too long or at too high a temperature, the saturated color will fade; baked too low, the bottoms may be sticky.
Since those days in the 15th arrondissement, I’ve baked macarons time and time again, sometimes creating masterpieces, sometimes not. I have never minded the flaws too much because the process is gratifying, the cookies can’t help but look seductive with their vivid hues, and they’re delicious every time. But I have always wanted to nail down a method that
