Searching for a great Italian coffee, we found a small cafe in Rue Charlot, sort of trended-out and full of everything ‘bio’, almost verging on what they call a ‘concept-shop’, but still really a cafe. It did indeed have a good coffee, which I now pursue with a vengence in the form of a small ‘machiatto’, with it’s head of spume from the hot milk, and the addition of a few crystals of white sugar. The harshness of the solid arabica coffee bean in its bitterness is just tempered by the ‘stain’ of milk and the moment of almost sweetness from the tiny bit of sugar. Sitting over a cup one day last week, I noticed the empty poetry shelf between the novels and the cartoon books, and wondered if they had either sold out, or never had any stock in the first place. I am loathed to rectify the situation by any suggestion I might make, so I’ll continue to stare at this consummate hollowness. SC
Source: Poesie