The table is sumptuous.
Tablecloth thick and soft like a blini, thin glasses, sparkling cutlery.
The clientele feeds a melodious murmur with their babble.
We have placed before you, without you even noticing, a flute of excellent champagne.
The butler brings a calligraphic menu, the first of which makes your mouth water.
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But suddenly the map gets blurry, unless it's your eyes.
The paper, between your fingers, turns into a black powder which soon covers the tablecloth.
It melts like dirty snow.
One after another, the guests evaporate, the chandelier goes out, you barely have time to grab your overcoat from the cloakroom - it was the only one left, hanging from a hanger - and there you are. on the pavement.
It's raining, of course.
It's bitter cold, you're starving.
You wake up with a start.
The gastronomic columnist is a poor fellow like the others: he also has nightmares.
Deprived of its purpose
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