In the middle of Paris. In an old neighborhood. In a kitchen barely bigger than a broom closet. We cooked. We drank. We ate. We laughed. We opened bottle after bottle. And it was simply sublime.
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My Tiny Parisian Kitchen, Confit de Canard…
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In the middle of Paris. In an old neighborhood. In a kitchen barely bigger than a broom closet. We cooked. We drank. We ate. We laughed. We opened bottle after bottle. And it was simply sublime.