“When she mentions the name, I laugh, explaining how Zsófi had not wanted me to be cooped up with two old hens. It is within walking distance. A whimsical rooster with a cockscomb of wild hair adorns the center of the ornately carved arched entry. Painted a striated dusty blue, he holds a bouquet of flowers in his beak in a welcoming gesture. Above the entrance, tall wood-framed windows are accented with flower boxes. “It looks transported from Europe,” I say, delighted. Eva tugs ope...n the door. We cross a marble lobby and descend a short flight of stairs. Inside a small alcove, a maitre d’ clad in an embroidered black vest and white peasant shirt mans the reservations desk. In honor of the occasion, I had traded my short black number for a tiered black ruffle dress with spaghetti straps. Mariska’s shawl is draped over my shoulders. The maitre d’ comes around the desk, none too subtly eyeballing Eva’s evening wear: a floral print mini skirt and a strapless black bustier—less risqué than what Madonna might wear, but not by much.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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