Canal St Martin

The restaurant is hidden in behind the canal. We ring the doorbell. I am dubious. You can only get in if you reserve, and you can only reserve if you know someone. The restaurant is unlisted.

We are escorted to the back of the restaurant and seated next to the open fire. It smells like a Canadian winter.

Hugh -- dressed in black corduroys and red suspenders, moustached and grey, who only come in on Wednesday, unless you call and ask him to come in another day – serves us French country food cooked up a Vietnamese Buddhist monk.

We tear at grainy bread and balance cheese on torn edges, taking care not to knock over the wine. We  still manage to do so, twice.

We end up in the apartment of an Argentinean architect, drinking champagne and playing a game that involved smelling socks. I think I may have won.