Paris is my second home. I especially adore planning winter visits.
In the warm glow of the pâtisseries, gleaming pastries come tucked
inside beautiful little boxes. Hot tea is always at the ready,
chandeliers hang overhead, and macarons sit behind glass in every
color imaginable, looking more like tiny jewels than something
I'm supposed to eat.
Naturally, I eat them anyway.
Sucre Bleu is Paris as I remember it—or, perhaps, Paris as it
exists through my eyes. Powder-blue macarons, almond flour shells
that crack delicately between your teeth, tea
steeped with bergamot, cinnamon and lemon peel, romantic old buildings, sparkling
city lights, and the faintest trace of fluffy heliotrope floating
in the cool winter air.
It's my idea of a gourmand: not just the pastry, but the atmosphere
surrounding it.
It's paradise.
XOXO,
Bunny
P.S. Sucre Bleu means Blue Sugar!
