The decadence of Pierre Hermé

Ph3 P1 I circled the Pierre Hermé counter, languorously taking in the sights. There were macaroons, jars of hazelnut paste, chocolates of sorts, pretty boxes and bags and ribbons, oh my. If I were Dorothy from Oz, I believe this is where I would tap my glittery red Louboutin’s and say there’s no place like Pierre Hermés.

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It took quite some time to decide on a box of enticing macaroons, stopping myself from getting the chocolates because I needed an excuse to come back. (Like I really need one) Practically skipping all the way home, looking ridiculous on the streets of London, I couldn’t wait to make a latte and devour these goodies. Sadly, the box of delights lay in great peril on the counter as my family dove right into the pool of edible bliss. Peering into the box I managed to save some disheveled looking macaroons that had escaped to the corner in fear of being crushed. Lovingly, I picked them up, placed them on a pretty plate and enjoyed the bursts of exotic flavors they so generously bestowed.

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This consumable nirvana emboldened another inevitable visit to the Pierre Hermé counter where I chose a vast array of chocolates and one sinful jar of hazelnut paste, which made me immediately forget every other nutty spread in existence. The chocolates are just as bewitching as their packaging; they’re almost too pretty to eat. I said almost. Singing my deluded mantra: Chocolate is a food group, it has no calories, and shall not give me wobbly bits, I sat nestled in a giant sofa, coffee in hand and enjoyed a rich, delectable box of what I think are some of the most glamorous chocolates in the world.

 

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