Mariage Frere

The luminary teahouse bears many things, not the least of which are the gentlemen sporting angular features and cream-colored linen suits, flitting around and giving disapproving looks when customers reach for Earl Grey. White noel displays and hand-blown glass teapots in the windows to the front, dim interrupted by skylights glinting off the glass cases of tartins in the back, and me between, having dragged my brother inside. He is irreparably bored and for the first time in the day, I shrug it off, promising I’ll design T-shirts with him later. We had finally found it,.

The tearoom itself is yellow and lovely; sconces and columns and curlicued framework, polished tables and the click-clacking of patrons, the scent of a six page menu of proper and lesser aromatics, crushed herbs, flower buds and essence. The cards are thick and the explanations precise. As usual, I understand next to nothing. But that has never stopped me.

Across the way, I point out, he can be buried in gold-plated potato chips on chains and neon sneakers. Though right now, I will do what I came here to do, and that is to act like a 40 year old British woman in a sweater set, who could stay all day, if only time and inspiration allowed…