It all began with a new pair of shoes.
You know the kind- sassy, sexy (and in your personal sweet delusion, they make you look thinner).
It may have been a birthday party but it was the shoes that really needed to be celebrated.
Reservations had been made.
The crowd had been assembled.
The champagne had been uncorked.
Let the magic begin at Coquette.
If there is another restaurant, in this entire city, that speaks to the parisian cafe vibe so vividly then I don’t know where it is.
You enter and are transported- sparkling chandeliers, dark woods, tiled floors, stiff-starched tablecloths, waiters in folded aprons, heavy flatware, a chatty atmosphere with lovers nibbling each other in the corners- and the food! Divine!
Glasses clinked- salutations declared- figs devoured…
|Magazine at Washington Street|
|Celeste Fig Salad
with buratta cheese and arugala
with baby turnips, oxtail sausage,
currant tomatoes in a port wine reduction
|Instead of a formal desert, we were brought these dreamy