An Italian Escape in Paris
Two dusty windows, a worn wooden door, and the faintest scent of rosemary in the air. That’s all it took for us to stop walking. My friend and I had walked past the restaurant on our exploratory mission through Paris. The old wooden door and two windows were the only details alluring to the restaurant. At a closer look, we could see the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and unlit candles nestled on the wooden tables. We were determined to be one of the people sitting at those tables in the evening.
The restaurant, small, cozy, and brimming with the warmth only Italy can provide, was a welcome escape from the Parisian winter. The few tables in the room were crowded by guests who had felt the same as we did earlier that day. Sausages and sprigs of rosemary dangled from the ceiling like lanterns. The walls held old memories in frames, like pages from a family photo book. It felt as if the problems of the world had been left at the door, giving us a moment to breathe and rejoice while under the roof of L’alimentari.
We popped open our first bottle of red with a quiet celebration. It poured into our glasses, catching the flicker of candlelight on its surface. A pan towered with steamed mussels, fighting for the top of the hill as we raced to meet the bottom of the pot. The scent of the sea and indulgence of cream kissed our every sense as we surgically extracted the flesh from their shells.
As we discuss the adventures of the day, everything falls into place, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here. My friend’s smile is intoxicating, like the wine we’ve been enjoying. The dimmed light of the room flickers in her eyes as she tells me about her favorite parts of the city. I couldn’t help but be completely taken by her. Time was passing, yet we were stuck in a moment that could’ve lasted a lifetime.
Our evening was only enriched by the gnocchi arriving at our table. Like pillows scattered across the plate, blanketed by the rich aromas of butter and sage. This was Italian at its best: simple flavors, yet carrying itself with the confidence of tradition and ritual. The nutty and herbal notes danced around me with a taste of the red fruit lingering in my glass. I felt privileged, a kind of rich that money can’t compare to. I was here, in the presence of a beautiful woman, with good food at my table, and a glass of wine in my hand. If there’s a heaven on earth, it might look like this.
