“I could have taken her to the Med, the original European-type coffee house—it was closer—but I wanted her away from Telegraph Avenue and Sam’s colleagues. She seemed relieved when I suggested the French Hotel Café, and more relieved when I asked her to follow in her car. A good thing it was; explaining the liability issues of my driving a witness in my own car in a city that is self-insured would have taken me the entire trip across town. The French Hotel is named for the laundry that used to o...ccupy its space, in a long, narrow brick building. I hadn’t realized how fast I’d been driving until I sat in the supermarket lot beside it, waiting for Fannie’s Nova to pull up. When Fannie got out, she was dressed in wool slacks and a short, boiled wool jacket, in red. The jacket was not secondhand, and it certainly hadn’t been cheap. It shouted of a stubborn inner core, or maybe just counterculture in-your-face. Her ensemble was a more stylish equivalent of her husband’s button-down shirts.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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