Oswaldo Costa
Oswaldo Costa
Hitherto lost, I find myself in Paris, a fortune only slightly compromised by the presence of extended family. Last night I took my sister and in-law to La Cremerie, a place that had previously eluded on account of its minuscule tabular supply. It was a splendid experience. Platters of head cheese, milk cheese, charcuterie, and smoked tuna were irrigated by Raisins Gaulois X and 09 Dard & Ribo Hermitage (having fended our waiter's suggestion of Mosse rouge). My intent was to ply my familiars with extremes of range, from frothy and glu glu to extracted and portentous. Imagine my surprise at finding both liquids sitting placidly on the same fruity and friendly curve, like cousins of differing temperaments bearing the same family smile. One more empirical notch for the, at first odd-to-me, idea of natural convergence.