STOP the press

Yes, its Friday, and yes, its time for Friday@Flore, but yesterday I had one of those truly incredible, uniquely Paris discoveries where I felt like Alice in a wonderland of enchantment and I simply have to share it with you…
It began last week when I was strolling the ‘hood and I walked by the rec centre where M and almost every other kid in this neighborhood would take theater, dance martial arts and any other kiddie class you can think of. A wave of nostalgia passed over me as my curiosity went into high alert. MUSEUM OF EVERYTHING, large red and white signage shouted from the entrance, visually stunning anyone who was not wearing black out sunglasses.

It was a Monday morning and the museum was closed, but I put it near the top of my to do list and continued along my way. The place looked fun and un-Parisian from its bright bold colors to its English-only signage.

At home I did a little research and found that the show had already visited the Tate Modern and Selfridge’s in London and that it is a museum dedicated to a very specific kind of art, “In tiny crevices and under dusty beds, there lies a secret creativity by the unknowns of society. Unexpected, delicate, profound, this democratic work has inspired the world’s greatest artists and creative minds.”

The sentence didn’t tell me much, so I had no idea what to expect when I drug our house guests, The Beast Cadets beyond the enormous carriage doors yesterday. We walked into the large, industrial looking courtyard, pass the building-sized red arrow, up three flights of stairs to the first salle of a lofty building just weeks away from demolition.

“Oh, it’s Henry Darger.” pronounced Mme TBC. That is one of the many things I love about Mme TBC, the lady is an encyclopedia with legs. She went on to explain that the above museum quote is a fancy way of saying Outsider Art, which like patisseries and haute couture, is a fine concept brought to you by the French, who named it Art Brut in the 70’s.

Outsider Art it fun, and weird and the very definition of quirky. I LOVED it. Without even looking at my notes I can tell you about the decoupage covered forms by a Cuban cigar roller, the larger than life illustrations by a Chinese qi gong practitioner, and my personal favorite, the delicately intricate sculptures made from random typewriter and radio bits by the French artist AMC.

To accompany the art, there are essays on the work by artistes like David Byrne, Ron Arad and Ann Messanger, talking about their inspiration. And at the end of the show there is a worthwhile giftshop and très Anglo-saxon café.

Sponsored by trend-setters like Derrière restaurant and the Merci store, this is THE place to be this season (which was a turn off, but I was wrong) and for 5€ and entry it is a great bargain, to boot. Just like Santa, the Museum wears Red and White, and also like the Jolly Old Soul, it is only in town for a brief time and will be leaving with Christmas. So hop on your sled (or take the RATP) and visit the show!!!!

The Museum of Everything / 14 boul Raspail / Wednesday to Sunday
11am to 7pm / 11am to 8pm on Friday + Saturday / Until Feb 24

Tis the

As a child I would spend my Thanksgivings around the dinner table at my Grandmother’s house with the rest of my family, all 30 of us. My Grandmother would insist on using her finest china, sterling silver and crystal glasses. She didn’t worry about the clean up, counting on her 3 daughter’s in law to leave the kitchen spic and span. The next day, full of energy and raring to go, she’d throw me, my brother and our cousins into her station wagon with her vicious toy poodle Bucky and we’d head to The City for the Christmas window displays.

San Francisco’s Union Square is a great place for leche vitrine-ing with Macy’s, Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman Marcus at each corner of the square. But my favorite windows were the windows at the local, extremely exclusive GUMPs where they’d install elaborate Victorian rooms with silk brocades and golden baubles and in each room would be a litter of orphaned kittens or puppys read for adoption through the SPCA, who had a table in front of each window to make it all easy.

As a kid I loved these windows and the frolicking pups. And as an adult in today’s world I appreciate them even more because they were about doing something for someone (or something) else and not blatant mass commercialism.

I am not a Grinch and I still love visiting the animated holiday windows in Paris, but this year I was a bit put off by all the branding. The city’s department stores alternate animated children’s windows with windows featuring fantastical products of what can be found by stepping beyond the glass. Fair enough. But it seems to me that just this once, at Christmas time, they could give a commercial-free moment to the kids and leave the animated windows to pure fantasy. Louis Vuitton chose to do otherwise this year, creating scenes of LV bag toting dancing polar bears and rockette-style dancers on LV trunks. yes, they were beautiful, and yes the the kids loved them, but I found it all over the top.

Princesses on a merry go round

The windows at Printemps showed considerable more class. Decorated by DIOR, with a discretely placed logo decorating the animated windows which were product free. The theme is Paris, with windows that feature skating on the Eiffel Tower, the Opera and ball with costumed princesses dancing in the arms their princes charming. They are gorgeous and elegant and made me want to be 7 years old all over again.

Not that the Bon Marché cares what I think, but I’d like to congratulate them for getting back on the right track, because the last few years their windows have been tragically adult-oriented, forgetting the kids and destroying the festive spirit. This year they almost make up for it with particularly fun ramps that lead the kids to the decorations behind cut outs of the roof tops of Paris. The black and gold clad windows were designed to celebrate the department store’s 160th birthday and what better way to celebrate that by featuring the monuments of the Rive Gauche? they do it this year with joy and style, making it a merrier Christmas for everyone.

St Malo

photo from the restaurant's webpage

Two weekends ago we went to Cancale, and I raved about our trip, and it was fantastic, but then life happened and I start writing about more timely stuff, like the Paris Photo Festival, which I really encourage you to go see, which means I got side tracked and didn’t fully finish talking about our trip, which is fine, because, well, do you really care about every little thing we saw and tasted and experienced? I hope not, for your sake! On the other hand, I do like food an awful lot and we had some great meals on this trip that I really want to remember so I can book places for our next trip, so today, I am indulging myself and making a list of my St Malo favorite foods. First, the fish that got away.

On our first trip to St Malo, Mr French gave the a list of three restaurants he’d heard were absolutely stupendous and he told me to pick one and book it. I did, and the meal is still one of the best meals we have ever shared (more on that in 30 seconds). Number 3 on the list no longer exist, but number 2 is Le Chalut, a very traditional looking fish restaurant with a chef who once worked at Ledoyen and the Ritz. Michelin, Pudlowski and Mr French’s locally based colleague all rave about this place, so this weekend Mr French was determined to go. Unfortunately he did not share this ambition with me and he is not exactly the ‘plan in advance’ kind of traveler, so we arrived for lunch 20 minutes after the kitchen had closed. which means we absolutely MUST return to St Malo.

Another reason we have to go back is the dinner we had at St Placide, a truly exceptional address well off the beaten path and outside the city’s ramparts. This is the memorable meal I mentioned above. We didn’t make it there this trip. We ate there 3 years ago and we still remember much of the menu in detail. The sea bass with Tonka beans and the lobster with vanilla and ginger are now our benchmarks for inventive cuisine without too much fuss. And the dessert was full of surprises with pop rocks causing flavorful explosions in our mouths, leaving us giggling like school girls. Seeing a 50-something, French, ex-Rugby man giggle like a school girl, well, Mastercard could use the moment in their ad campaigns.

Not every meal can be an orgy of gastronomy. En fin, not for a size 10 body that will be returning to Paris to be surrounded by size 2 friends. A bit of restraint was in order. A simple meal in Brittany means one of two things; fresh oysters by the sea, or crêpes. Cancale has the oyster beds so crêpes were in order. There may be 200 crêperies intra-murs in St Malo. How does one choose? At 15h in the afternoon, you just go to the first place with an open kitchen, so we fell into An Delenn. Having lived in Montréal for 5 years, I was terribly amused by the Québec flag bunting the owner had chosen for his decor. The menu feature maple syrup, blueberries from Lac St Jean, and I suspect they’re working on adding poutine at some point in the near future. In the meantime, the crêpes were truly artisanal and we watched in amazement as he peeled apples for new orders, beat the eggs, galette by galette and flipped some of the best crêpes we’ve ever had.

On the way home that afternoon, Mr French was driving peacefully along when the woman next to him, arms flinging, screeched insanely, “Beurre Bordier, OH MY GOD, this is where beurre Bordier is from.” I had just seen the Cheese Shop run by perhaps the most famous butter churner in all of France. And it must be love, because instead of turning on me and laying into me for my insanity, Mr French calmly found a parking spot and I got to visit butter mecca. I strolled through the place bouncing on the balls of my feet and clapping my hands with joy, even though I couldn’t buy the butter because it would never have survived the trip to Paris and I can get it at my local cheese shop 6 days a week, anyway. A butter geek. Who knew? Yes, we suspected, but nobody really knew for sure until now.

At Bordier they had a flier for L’Ecole du Goût de St Malo. The cooking school that very well be our next excuse for visiting St Malo and the inspiration for another post like this one!
Le Chalut / 8 r. de la Corne-de-Cerf  / 02 99 56 71 58

Le St Placide /6 Place du Poncel / 02 99 81 70 73

An Delenn / 4 rue de la Harpe / 02 99 40 16 53

 

 

The Photo Festival

Mr French and I were strolling aimlessly around the ‘hood one Saturday when this photo caught my eye and stopped me in my tracks. I can’t really say why, but somehow, it transported me, chasing away the grey skies and warming me to the tips of my toes. Being a curious girl, I stepped inside the Galerie 54 to learn more.

Mr French was thrilled because he’s looking for new chairs and he has a soft spot for the mid-century pieces that he detected sitting just beyond the photos in the gallery’s window. So as he started looking around and heading down into the vaulted ceiling basement, I started asking questions.

The lovely Juliette, the gallery’s owner heard me chattering away and came down to see what all the enthusiasm was about. I told her how much I loved the photo in the window and she explained that it was for the Photo Festival. I went from enthusiastic to ebullient.

Not to be out done by Paris Photo with its stable of international galleries, the local art galleries in the St Germain des Prés neighborhood have joined forces to present the Photo Festival. Now in its second year, the festival runs throughout the month of November, featuring artists from across the globe. Unlike Paris Photo, walking into the galleries is free, and the show lasts long enough for everyone in Paris to have a chance to stroll on by.

Juliette explained that this year’s theme is Voyages and Dreams, which explains why the photo in the window inspired a ‘take me away’ moment for my winter weary self. For this year’s event the galleriest has selected Xavier Roy’s photos from Brasil, featuring black and white photos shot on film, a genuine rarity today and the perfect medium for capturing the grit and grain of South America.

Curious about the Festival, Mr French and I headed out to explore the other galleries, like some of the shows, finding that others just looked like a collection of someone’s vacation shots. We were fascinated with the vintage prints from the 1870’s at the Librairie ALain Brieux, amused by the work of Elliot Erwin at Frederic Got and totally entranced by the photos at Librairie St Benoit-des-Pres. Like Arnie would say, “I’ll be back.”

The Photo Festival runs until Nov 30.

You’re on (not so) Candid Camera!

I have this weird obsession with Fotomatons. Weird because the photos that come out of those booths tend to add a decade and rather large jowls to one’s photo. Hardly flattering. The photo booth photos are where I notice my neck wrinkles and the fact that my nose is six shades redder than the rest of my face. You go in the booth, throw away some money into the machine as your palms get all sweaty, your heart starts pounding and your mind goes in to a panic about which pose to strike. Unflattering, wasteful and stressful. Where’s the joy? Not really really sure but I think its nostalgia for dreampt of childhood moments I never really had.

When I say geeky, here is an example of just how far its gone…. last month I could be found at the Fotomaton in the Bon Marché department store, having my photo taken with a Marjane Satrapi illustration of Catherine Deneuve for the department store’s 160th birthday celebrations. A few days later I was fighting through crowds of fashionistas to get into the Fotomaton at the Roger Vivier cocktail, just a few shoulders away from Inès de la Fressange and finally I was selecting between images of snow leopards or penguins for a sheet of four photos with M and my 7 year old niece at the San Francisco Zoo.

This week I got particularly excited when I passed by the windows of the Bonton boutique on the rue de Varenne in the 7th because they’ve got ginormous star shaped sunglasses and 1970’s afro wigs to wear in their Fotomaton.

Below is a list of the vintage Fotomatons in Paris. But, keeping true to my inner geek, I’ve created a Google MAP, as well. Smile for the birdie!!!

Boutique Citadium
50-56 rue Caumartin 75009,
Métro Havre-Caumartin
Ouvert du lundi au samedi de 10h à 20h

Boutique Bonton
5 Bd des Filles du Calvaire 75003
Métro Filles du Calvaire -OR-
82 rue de Grenelle 75007
Métro rue du Bac
Ouvert du lundi au samedi de 10h à 19h

La Maison Rouge
10 Boulevard de la Bastille, 75012 Paris
Métro Bastille et Quai de la Rapée
Ouvert du mercredi au dimanche de 11h à 19h, nocturne le jeudi jusqu’à 21 h

Le Forum des Images
Forum des Halles Métro Les Halles
De 12h30 à 23h30 du mardi au vendredi et de 14h00 à 23h30 le week-end

Boutique Prairies de Paris
23 rue Debelleyme 75003 Paris
Métro Filles du Calvaire
Ouvert du mardi au samedi de 11h à 19h

Le 104 (art space)
104 rue d’Aubervilliers et 5 rue Curial, 75019
Métro Riquet, Stalingrad, Crimée
Ouvert tous les jours de 11h à 20h

Le Palais de Tokyo
13 avenue du Président Wilson 75016,
Métro: Iéna
Ouvert de midi à minuit tous les jours sauf le lundi


 A larger version of Fotomatons in Paris map

 

Friday@Flore

Another grey, rainy day in Paris and I’m feeling particularly washed out after last night’s tryptophan rush from all that turkey. Almost didn’t make it to the Flore, but like a true pilgrim, I pulled up my boot straps and headed out the door despite the gloom all around.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And boy, was I glad I did! And no, not because of the cute boys above, but because I discovered I’m not the only one with the November blues. Parisiennes seem to be suffering too, and they are fighting back with fashion. Rumour has it black is eternally “in” and its still just about everywhere you look, but this season, I’m seeing something new.

 

 

 

 

 

Color. And lots of it on men, women; young and old. Which color is irrelevant. I saw red coats, orange umbrellas and fushia handbags. There were green trenchcoats and bright blue scarves. Some went for the total look, while others were happy with just a splash of sunshine.

Everyone from the most elegant, sophisticated madames to hipster wanna-bes is having a go at the color wheel these days and it is refreshingly fun and light hearted, inspiring me to head home, take of my boring black sweater and replace it with a plum purple turtle neck. Things are looking brighter already!

 

Ready made!

Woot, woot! It’s Thanksgiving, MY holiday. I LOVE this feast because it includes everyone; Muslims, Jews, Hindi, and my personal favorite None of the Aboves, this is a festival for anyone who is thankful for all that they have in their lives, a great habit to start, because when faced with the most dire situations, gratitude can save us. And yes, I admit, I love this celebration because I’m a glutton.

I’ve lived out of the US for most of my adult life, and no matter where my wanderings take me, I always set aside this day to give a feast for family and friends, sharing the idea of thankfulness with the world. For the last ten years, I’ve been sharing from Paris.

This year was nearly a disaster. I was convinced that Thanksgiving was the last Thursday of the month, which is the 29th. Friends from Montréal will be in town and I was trying to get them all worked up for the big day when I got an email.

“We were just in Champlain, NY this weekend and all the posters mention Thanksgiving on the 22nd. Sorry, but it looks like your kitchen slaves will still be in Canada, ay?”

I went into utter panic. Not only would I be less two slaves, but I had to notify our guests that the date had changed and order the bird!!!!

The bird. The thing about Thanksgiving, is that it requires a turkey. Paris kitchens tend to be tiny, with tiny ovens. Not exactly the ideal conditions for cooking a big bird. My first year here I was desperate for a solution when I passed the Rotisserie stall at the Richard Lenoir Thursday market. A few dozen light bulbs went off in my head, making me dizzy, but also giving me an idea. Perhaps Mr Roti could roast my bird. A quick conversation later and I learned that not only would he be happy to do it, but he was already doing it for several other yankees. I ordered the bird, put down my deposit and I was set. He didn’t even ask for a birth certificate or a proof of domicile. It was so easy, it was almost like not being in Paris. I was thankful already!!!

This year M Fontaine, my butcher on the rue de Sevres had agreed to spin my bird on his rotisserie, throwing in a delicious wild mushroom stuffing and roasted chestnuts to the bargain. I called in a desperate panic. His wife answered and assured me it was not too late to change the date. “What is your name again, Madame?” “Madame French,” I could hear him yelling at her in the background. I am not the only American who gets her bird from M Fontaine, but apparently I am the only one who would mis-order and call hysterically on a Sunday afternoon.

What else will be eating tonight? Mashed potatoes with about a litre of cream, Bordier butter and wild mushroom gravy, Green Giant canned corn, corn bread, my special cranberry sauce, green beans with pine nuts, and pumpkin pie with home made whipped cream. Bon Ap’ everyone. And remember to be thankful!!!

Cancale can cook

Our stay in Cancale was an absolute dream, with unexpected great weather and absolute calm. The weather, of course, was pure luck, but the peace and tranquility was thanks to  Les Maisons de Bricourt. We stayed at their Cottage Les Rimains, which is delightfully far from the maddening crowd, over looking the bay. Each of the four rooms has paned windows which frame a spectacular view of the bay, reminding us that nature is the ultimate masterpiece.

I was a bit surprised that no one offered to take our bags upstairs. This is a Relais et Châteaux, after all, but it was the only hitch of our entire stay and not being a whimp, it was not a big deal, but being a reporter, I feel the need to mention it in case it would bother others. After getting over the spectacular view, we saw that there were treats waiting for us; home baked biscuits, fresh apples, exotic dried fruits and Chouchen, a local honey-based liqueur.

Every morning we’d rise and head through the garden, beyond the white picket gate to begin our run on the GR34, water lapping the foot of the cliff.

Breakfasts were spectacular, whether served in our room with country ham and local cheese, or enjoyed after a run in the town square at the Grain de Vanille, Les Maisons de Bricourt’s salon de thé. Our taste buds were dancing with new discoveries; from the first bite of the morning’s pommé pastry to the bulgar powder we added to our yogurts.

On Saturday night we had reservations at LMdB’s Michelin starred restaurant, Le Coquillage, set in a 1930’s Chateau Richeux, several kilometers from the Cottage. We were familiar with the chef thanks to his spice shop in St Malo, which we had discovered on our last visit to the region. Being a spice loving, chili pepper-heat deprived Californian, I was an Olivier Roellinger fan before we took the five steps up to the front door.

A basket of fresh autumn squashes greeted us, with an invitation from the kitchen’s gardener to help ourselves. If I’d dared, they’d have been the perfect decoration for this week’s Thanksgiving dinner, but they were somewhat larger than my elegant little clutch, and I’m ultimately a fashion first kind of gal.

The place was literally jumping with staff and diners. Everyone happy and relaxed, fashion ranging from jeans and boyfriends sweaters to Chanel suits. The food phenomenal. We both chose the a St Jacques (sea scallop) tartare for our entrées and I’m still getting a thrill from the hit of crunch and flavour I’d get as bits of citrus exploded between my teeth. Mr French’s plat was abalone, fished from the bay by a certain Phillipe, while I spoiled myself with lobster grilled in the chateau’s fireplace.

There was an entire cart of mini pastries to choose from, most of them featuring excitingly fresh flavours and spices, with a few traditional rich offerings thrown in for good measure.

After the meal we curled up in leather club chairs, sipping herbal teas and digestifs, by a fireplace in the salon before being escorted “home” by our driver. Yes, we had a driver. The Chateau Richeux has 13 rooms and suites just above the dining rooms, but for guests staying further afield at LMdB’s cottage, they offer a free driving service for dinner, keeping the roads safe for everyone. Not a bad idea after an apéro, a bottle of wine and the digestifs!

We ended the night lulled to sleep by the melody of the sea. Sweet dreams afloat.

Les Maisons de Bricourt / +33 (0)2 99 89 64 76 |

Sally sells seashells

One year ago last week, Mr French and I PACSed, which is to say we entered into a civil union, which is hard to explain, but basically, we’re officially almost-married and since I’ll jump on any excuse to party, it seemed the perfect excuse for a celebration.

Given last month’s schedule with family obligations, holiday plans and business trips that kept us apart for nearly three weeks, the only real way to celebrate was to escape to a place where we could calmly sit and gaze lovingly into one another’s eyes sleep, preferably far from our children and their constant reminders of what pathetic old saps we are.

Remembering a good friend and his excitement over his 50th birthday weekend at Olivier Roellinger’s hotel and restaurant, Les Maisons de Bricourt, I called up the folks in Cancale. They had a cottage room available, perched on the cliffs over looking the oyster farms. Sounded good to me, so I booked.

The folks in Cancale? Can what? Canale is a charming little fishing village on the Brittany coast, but few people ever hear of it because it is forever in the shadow of its two imposing neighbors; St Malo and the Mont St Michel. This is too bad for all those who merely drive through on their way from one Heritage site to the next, but fantastic for those who stop and can have the place to themselves.

acres of oysters, slurp!!!

In France, the town is known for its oyster production with farms that stretch out for miles and miles into the bay. The beds disappear completely at high tide and then reappear., *poof*, like magic!

The GR 34, an idyllic hiking trail with stupendous views, follows the coast from here to St Malo and we could see the trail head tempting us with promises of health and well-being, like Ursula tempted Ariel. Instead of going for a walk, we opted for only restaurant still serving lunch, Au Vieux Safran. Tourist central with a line of restaurants, I was not expecting much, so I was floored by the perfection coming from the kitchen. My shrimp entrée melted on my palette with hits of bay and a touch of salt, the moules were beyond reproach, while my fries were crisp on the outside and utterly creamy on the inside. I didn’t try Mr French’s meal because he chose andouille, and I will never be French enough to enjoy ammoniac notes of urine with my pork products. When I complimented the waitress on the incredibly good freshness of our meal, she reminded me of Cancale’s privileged situation ‘entre terre et mer‘ and made it clear that there could be no excuse for bad food in this part of Brittany.

Properly fed, and no longer terrified that we’d return to a town with absolutely no dining options, we at last headed to the GR34, our silhouettes hand in hand, disappearing into the woods.

Au Vieux Safran / 2 Quai Gambetta / 02 99 89 92 42

 

Going Home

This is not going to be a maudlin post about how you can never go home again. After three years from the Bay, I was home. Okay, my second home. But home, none the less.

Mostly, I just hung with my peeps and lived the life I used to live. Wonderfully magical for me, can’t believe you’d find it interesting. But there were highlights that may have you clicking onto Kayak to plan your own little holiday by the Bay. So I’ve taken the best of’s shaken, not stirred and poured them into one serving for you to savour.

In the morning, I rise early so that I can make the 8:30 Rhythm & Motion dance class with Wendy or Ryan at the ODC. This is a drop-in class for both professional modern dancers and lay people, even the soft flabby ones like me. This year, as I extended, step one, two, three-ed across the wooden floor, sweat pooling in every curve, including between my knuckles, my mind kept telling me that this was America’s solution to 50 Shades of Grey. Who needs a book when you could be in a hot, sweaty room, surrounded by a fair number of particularly fit, good looking guys, all of them completely unavailable to women? You’ve got your groove on, feeling 20 years younger as you bump and grind to music that has your blood pumping, taking care of yourself in a way you rarely do. Grrrr….. where was Mr French when I really needed him? (ps, they’ve got classes in Cincinnati, too, it anyone is interested…)

I know this is the place for me, because the class is full of friends from my past life, some of them totally unconnected; a girlfriend from high school, several moms from my daughters’ old school and writer friends.

M and I head to Haight-Ashbury, where there is something of a mix and because she is a teen. This area is teen heaven with all its cheap vintage shopping, albums stores (we’re looking for the Runaways lp… anyone?) and the thrill of walking past head shops as hippies sing, barefoot in the streets, totally enthralling my little Parisienne. We bump into a friend from my high school days and make an improptu visit to her home, just around the corner.

Thanks to FaceBook, M still has friends in SF, even though we left when she was 5! For lunch, she’ll be with her copine and I’ve got plans with Auntie J, my BFF since the 9th grade. I’ve requested that we meet at Zuni Café, known for having the best burgers this side of the Atlantic, served with original, house made pickles that I can’t get enough of. It is an unusually sun day, so we get to sit outside, watching antique J trains go by, the homeless with their shopping carts and the nutty lady next to us who spent her entire meal in deep conversation with her dog. Its all great, but the food is even better, with a Meyer lemon meringue something-or-other I am still drooling over.

We’ve got some time left and Auntie J needs some new clothes, so we head to Fillmore Street in the posh Pac Heights district. This is SF, where even the rich shop with a conscious, so Ralph Lauren is next to a charity shop, with Marc Jacobs not far from Goodwill. Truly, something for everyone.

Eventually, I find M and we hit Valencia Street taking photos of murals and stopping to purchase dried chilies. We explore (or walk by blushing) too-cool-for-thou cafés, fantastic vintage shops, original fashion, the woman friendly, anti-sleeze Good Vibrations sex shop, Dave Egger’s Pirate store, Paxton Gate taxidermist and bromeliad florist, and lots of very exciting eateries. Our destination is ¡Venga! Empanadas, where Spanish born, Argentine raised chef Manuel Godina and his crew make everything from scratch, serving up the best empanadas north of the equator with some perfectly blended sangria, all of it served in a sophisticated, fiesta inspired bar where 3O of our local friends will be joining us for a lovely soirée. Most of my friends have younger, kids, so the place is full of giggles and squeals. We all look fantastic, not one of us has aged, except the teen boys who grew a metre in our absence. We stroll home through crowds of the dead. It is Dia de los Muertas and the surreal moment is the perfect note for a most perfect visit to our not-quite home.

 

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