Mary Winston Nicklin

On the long-awaited June day when restaurants reopened in Paris, I met a friend for dinner at Vivant 2. We hadn’t been out in so long, we had almost forgotten how to order. The brisk waiter brought us amuse-bouches and let us linger over the menu, watching the chefs bustle in the open kitchen, the dishes sent out in a cloud of fragrant steam. After so many months of meal planning during the pandemic, it was tellement agréable to let someone else prepare the fish with beurre blanc sauce. And when we finally ambled outside, giddy on a few glasses of crémant de bourgogne, we just had to stop to take in the scene.

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