"From then on, I knew I had not been mistaken in my obsession. The bread and butter : simple but always delicious when both are good well sourced. The cute ceramics they came on did a lot in turning those secondary roles into show stealing ones. 

The second starter a "Pho" revisited tasted nothing like Pho but delicious nonetheless : simple blanched vegetables on which a light broth was poured. "

Three weeks only have passed but I already feel at home in this scarred place where homogeneity does not stand a chance, where every building looks out of place and so, incidentally, I find mine.

Less than half an hour away from the border, in the prolongation of the french riviera, there is a village sitting high above the mediterranean sea. Once the victim of an earthquake, it was rebuilt in the sixties by a bunch of hippyish artists, long haired and looking for a tower to host their dolce vita. Bussana Vecchia is the three by four streets town where I spent the last few days. 

It could be found in light, in darkness, or a balance of the two, in romanticism or in dirt, in the lines of Sylvia Plath or in the warmth of a café, it is everywhere if we dare look at it. 

 

 

 

Food too can be poetic, when the combination of textures and flavors is just right, when it manages to surprise, to shock, or to comfort. 

As I gulped down what might have been my fifth caipirinha - they were exceptionally cheap and it was my birthday - I recall saying « If I were to die tonight, this is exactly where I would want to be, drinking cheap caipirinhas with you in orange plastic chairs ». Having sobered up since, I have reconsidered the question. 

" In my home I am always the one cooking but I never thought « Fuck, where has my feminism gone? ».

Nora Bouazzouni, author of "Faiminism"