There's a particular moment when you're sitting outside and the city switches on its lights. The sky was still holding onto blue, but the street lamps had already started glowing amber. I was at one of those quiet corner tables, the kind where you can watch the evening traffic without being part of it.
I ordered the croquettes first, partly because they're best eaten while they're still steaming. The outside was that perfect golden brown, the kind that cracks slightly when you bite through it. Inside, something creamy and mild, maybe potato or mushroom. I dipped one into the sauce they brought, something pale and buttery. It's one of those dishes that doesn't announce itself loudly, but it's exactly right when you're not looking for anything complicated.
The wine came next, dark red, catching the candlelight. Around the table there were glasses of beer going amber, water with ice. A woman at the next table was reading something on her phone, not really eating. I watched the street beyond the terrace, the way the subway entrance glowed from underground, people moving in and out with that purposeful evening walk.
I kept coming back to the croquettes because they were still warm enough to matter. There's a small window where fried things are actually good, and if you miss it, they become something else entirely. Heavier. Less interesting. The sauce helped, cutting through whatever richness had started to build. I wasn't rushing, but I wasn't lingering either. Just present with it, the way food deserves sometimes.
By the time I finished, the street had fully shifted into evening mode. More people walking, more lights on. The kind of transition you only notice if you're sitting still enough to see it happen.