Filthy dirty Marcolini eclair chat
M: Why is the despair always so thick on Fridays, Emma?
E: I dunno. Because it’s supposed to feel joyful but it doesn’t? If I could be arsed I’d go and buy a cake. BUT I CAN’T
M: I want one of those Marcolini éclairs.
E: I was thinking éclair too, but raspberry as they are closer.
M: Mouais. My feeling on éclairs is that they should be brown. Deliciously brown. Like our much beloved, much mourned cappuccino éclair.
E: On fait avec les moyens du bord.*
M: And I want that hit of salty caramel.
E: I hear you.
M: That soft creamy filling.
E: Damn you, stop making me think about it.
M: The crunch of the praline topping.
E: Bastarding Marcolini and his devil éclair.
M: And his wretched “tartine” spreadable salted caramel, with its siren song. It goes something like this:
Spreeeeead me on a hot crumpet
E: Does Tartine have a voice like Jacques Brel? Or is it more… Axelle Red?
M: I do not know. I do not care. I am too busy stuffing it into my mouth with a spoon.
* We do what we can.
Where: Pierre Marcolini, Place du Grand Sablon in Brussels. Lots of other locations in Belgium and France, including inside the Eurostar terminal in Brussels, conveniently. Londoners, I believe you can buy Tartine at Verde & Co in Spitalfields.