Say the word "praluline" (pray-looo-lean) to someone, and they'll think you're doing tongue exercises. Say it to any one of the hundreds of people who buy the beautiful brioche every day, and they will swoon. Much like I have ever since this specialty made by the chocolatier Pralus became the object of my obsession a couple years ago.
It was over 50 years ago that the first soft, buttery pastries chockfull of house-made, rose sugar-coated Valencia almonds and Piedmont hazelnuts were created. It is squishy and crunchy, savory and sweet, a beautiful little bomb of flavors and textures that is irresistible and unique.
Each time I visit Paris, I look forward to devouring one. This is a problem as "one" could easily feed four. So I was going to let it slide this past visit, having sampled plenty of breakfast pastries and Parisian cakes. But wouldn't you know: Pralus opened a second boutique in the city, on rue Cler. Just a lovely stroll from the apartment where I was staying.
Needless to say, I needed no further excuse or prompting. I bought myself a six-euro, soul-satisfying treat on my last day. Took home the carefully wrapped present.
Sliced into it.
And sighed at the utter perfection of eating a praluline in Paris.
