Recipe for happiness: go to the Coffee Club, order the morning breakfast set with Blue Mountain coffee. Enjoy the charming mise-en-scene of the proprietor and a favorite regular discussing Porsches amid a well-curated collection of teacups and glass siphons.
Magical alchemical ritual commences: fire is lit, water bubbles up the alembic, swirls around the grounds, siphons back down. Pour cream from a tiny carafe into the resulting cup, take pleasure in the dozen lentil-sized milky vortices that bloom at the first turn of the spoon. Sip and wait until invisible hands pass a plate from the back room.
On the plate: two thick slices of uniformly golden toast, a pile of gently scrambled eggs, a tiny scoop of perfect potato salad, an equilateral tomato wedge, a tangle of paper-thin cabbage shreds, an orange and apple slice trimmed lagomorphically for maximum eating efficiency. Eat, breathe, read Calvino and hope to return some day.
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