On the platter before her there was a bowl of beef bourguignon, the sauce dark with merlot; the corner of dauphinoise potatoes, gruyère-crusted top browned, bubbled with heat; there was a small plate of girolles, black kale, and white beans, scattered with breadcrumbs, mushrooms like trumpets; a sliver of a golden tarte tatin, confit garlic pressed onto the pastry like tear drops; a ramekin of pink-grey pâté, finished with a flurry of chives; there was a slice of fresh baguette that felt steamy to the touch, and a curl of butter imported from Isigny-sur-Mer at Cecelia’s instruction,
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Ugh this sounds so delish
