FROM PARIS VIII
The Three Horsemen of the Marais.
I sit beside the open window—my hands are so slicked with sardine oil, they’ve begun to gleam, catching the golden streaks of late afternoon sun.
Scattered crumbs from a baguette cover the table, the consequence of unceremoniously ripping flaky hunks from the loaf in order to provide a vessel for the oil-drenched tinned fish. The simplest, most deliciou…