Marzipan

The Jewels of Persephone: A Tale in Three Parts

i.

It was an age earlier, even, than the dawn of time, when the gods, those powerful, yet tempestuous rulers, dwelt amongst the mortals, and life was a grand, ever-unfolding tapestry of myth.

Thence lived Persephone, daughter of Demeter, goddess of all growing things. A creature of pure, sun-kissed innocence, she was the very essence of light, wandering the meadows surrounded by a chorus of nymphs and the sweet, dizzying scent of wild-flowers.

But the Fates, it seemed, had other designs for our Persephone—those woven in the darkest corners of the loom. Far below, in the realm of perpetual shadow, resided Hades, King of the Underworld. A lonely sovereign, he observed Persephone from afar, through cracks in the bedrock, a winsome, shimmering vision against the starkness of his world.

One day, in the very place Persephone stood, the earth opened beneath her, and from that chasm emerged a chariot drawn by night-black steeds—it was Hades, come to sweep the maiden into his subterranean kingdom.

A profound sorrow descended: Demeter, a mother undone, roamed the earth, her grief stripping the land of its vitality—the crops withered, the trees wept their leaves, and the once-vibrant world became naught but a bare, wintery desolation.

The gods, of course, intervened and a bargain was struck: Persephone would be returned, provided she had not partaken of the food of the dead. 

But alas, it was already so: Hades had presented Persephone with a gift—one single, blood-red pomegranate, and, looking Hades directly in the eye, Persephone had removed six seeds from the fruit and eaten them.

Ultimately, a compromise was reached, an attempt, however imperfect, to restore balance: Persephone, it was decided, would spend a portion of the year with her husband as his Queen. During this time, the earth mourns her absence, retreating to its annual winter slumber. But when Persephone returns to her mother’s embrace, the world explodes in an ecstatic, ephemeral burst of spring, a yearly miracle of life and joy.

And so, the cycle continues—that seasonal dance of light, dark, and triumphant renewal.

ii.

Which brings us to yet another herald of spring: the almond tree. 

A fragile whisper against winter’s closing breath, the almond tree unfurls its pale, ethereal blossoms. This delicate, almost reckless haste grants the almond a symbolic resonance—as a fragile-but-not beacon of hope, of life renewed, and of all that dares to defy the limits of nature.

From this ephemeral beauty springs marzipan, a malleable confection, often sculpted into fanciful, idyllic forms and cherished as something beautiful, albeit fleeting. 

iii.

As for the journey of marzipan itself, it’s a tale as rich as it is enigmatic, traversing the far-flung corners of the world, from the sun-drenched orchards of the Middle East to the grand courts of Europe. 

The story begins, many believe, in ancient Persia, where a precious, almost mystical concoction of almonds and sugar, at times fragranced with rose-water or musk, was born. It was a delicacy fit only for royalty, known in Arabic as lauzinaj, and reserved for the noble tables and apothecaries of the age. Yes, in early form, it was a remedy prescribed by 9th-century physicians, deemed suitable for universal purposes, but perhaps none more-so than the aphrodisiac.

Yet this luxurious secret was not to remain as such. With the return of the Crusaders from so-called ‘exotic’ lands, the confection found its way to the bustling ports of the Mediterranean. 

Perhaps it was by this twisted, meandering path that its very name came to be: derived, some say, from the Italian ‘marz-pane,’ or the Spanish ‘mazapan,’ both meaning ‘bread of March’—a reference to its embeddedness in spring-time celebrations.

In Spain, in Toledo, legend tells of nuns at the Convento de San Clemente seeking to ease the famine of 1212  made a paste of almonds and sugar, the only ingredients available.

The Baltic city of Lübeck, too, claims its own origin story, born of a 15th-century flour shortage during which bakers were instructed to use almond stores instead.

Primarily, though, it remained a regal indulgence throughout the Middle Ages, gracing the banquets of kings and queens, most notably the formidable Elizabeth I. 

But it was in Sicily and Venice that the confectioners of the day first elevated marzipan into an art-form, crafting exquisite, vibrant trompe-l’œil fruits and animals, even grand, edible center-pieces gilded with real gold-leaf. 

At Bar au Chocolat, our marzipan is made from almonds and fine sugar, then hand-shaped to form a pomegranate, which arrives to you poised atop a dark-chocolate-cloaked base. A feast for the eyes before it becomes a feast for the palate, indeed, but to taste it is to experience another realm, one both evocative and inspiring in its revelations, and a reminder of the precious beauty found in all things.