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Bloomsbury Kitchen Table

Busy crowd, busy district, full of Chelsea buns calling you to grab one. A man in the black stares at me in vain. Long September twilights me to the perfect squares. Glittering limestone diners, the scent of fresh air rejoices me in perfection. The journey begins by following the woman in purple, and the warm plates ease me with full of emotions. The crispy Parmesan sphere directs me to the hemisphere of the blue lagoon, followed by the landscapes of Greek suburbs. The medley of escargot and garlic melts in my heart forever. The next station is "La Parilla"—the smoked paprika lamb cutlets transcending my knowledge to feel the arduous endeavors of the Spanish bourgeoisie. When I said no to desserts, I heard a circle of an orchestra playing "Happy Birthday". Base or cello, french horns, and a clarinet on the floor without a clarinetist, followed by the voice of euphoria, the voice of you in a black tie dress.

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