Tartine was the place of complete content for me.
It could have been the earnest sunshine outside and the way the wind had lulled to let it burn, or the cosiness of the bookstore up the street. I hadn’t purchased anything, but everywhere was brimming with book art, journals and anecdotes.
Maybe the bike-ride-blue-skies combination of the day before, and the tequila that followed had something to do with it.
But this moment – sitting snuggled amongst bright-eyed readers, writers and dreamers, the honeyed scent of black coffee mixed with expertly crafted crusts and pastries, familiar accents within earshot.
This moment – the sweet zest of the most flavoursome lemon tart, with its biscuity, soft-but-crunchy-crust, and the bite of my long black.
And I can’t say why, but damn, it was perfection.
I’ll venture back for another of these moments, perhaps at Tartine’s Manufactory.