[ Inside Neuvillette's head, there's a metaphorical record scratch. It isn't bulle? But the macaron had the same orange colour as a plump and fresh bulle fruit... just as he thought he had given her satisfactory words of praise, he fumbles at the last second because he assumed its flavor based on appearances alone and now she's figured it out. Or mostly figured it out, at least. ]

...Unfortunately, you are correct, Mademoiselle.

[ Briefly, his shoulders slump with the weight of disappointment at himself. This isn't something that bothers him, not normally, because he never felt like he missed out on a taste he can't conceptualize because that's like trying to visualize an entirely new colour. But today it serves as a reminder that he's fundamentally different from humans and all he can do is mimic their behavior and he can't even do it that well after centuries of living among them. ]

My physiology differs from human bodies in several aspects; one of them is that I lack taste receptors for sweetness. I'm sorry.