Romantic Lil
We didn’t want any bread, but then we saw it. Puffed up, it looked like gigantic Indian puris with black blistering from the wood fire. A trail of olive oil had been drizzled onto the plate. “Hmm,” I mused, “let’s have some bread.”
At 6pm, our table at Lilian was sun dappled, rays casting the shadow of my wine
