Sublime

They turned the car over to valet parking, and when Freddy showed his room key to the doorman, a bellman came out with a cart and brought Susan’s prepared dinner up to their room. Freddy dialed room service and ordered a bottle of champagne, a pot of coffee, and table service for two. They ate the stuffed pork chops and still-warm sweet potatoes by

consumed. If possible, the room was slightly darker than the night she had come in from and a small, single candle on every table stood in place of the stars.

“I certainly don’t deserve this dinner, I know that.” I’m not just talking about the buffalo mac and cheese that tastes so good it should be illegal. I’m talking about the invitation, sitting here. Having a place carved out for me, no matter how temporary. Handed dishes and asked questions and folded into the easy interaction of a family that loves

Mark Bittman, one of the funniest men I know and author of the much-missed “Minimalist” column in the New York Times. The first time I had it, I thought: this tastes just like perfect

collogue.

The pleasures of my life here are simple – simple, inexpensive and democratic. A warm hill of Marmande tomatoes on a roadside vendor’s stall. A cold beer on a pavement table of the Café de France – Marie Thérèse inside making me a sandwich au camembert. Munching the knob off a fresh baguette as I wander back from Sainte-Sabine. The farinaceous smel