We finish with warm apricot and marzipan tart paired with cool crème fraîche and a little pile of disarmingly light vanilla beignets, gilded with whipped cream, raspberries and a dollop of jam. As I swipe my finger through the last of the jam and lick it clean, I peer back into the restaurant, past the chalkboards, the happy, wine-drunk diners, the tiny open kitchen, the pastiche wall of postcards, and wonder, “Where can I put my stained bedsheet?” I’ll gladly lie and stare at the ceiling, trains roaring above my head, for as long as the oven’s hot and the…
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