I had about 45 minutes to spare on Saturday afternoon, in between my late lunch (a sandwich from my new friend—I’m addicted. Is it wrong that I dreamed about it/him last night??) and my facial (my “folly facial”). So I popped into this little salon de thé that I’ve always had eyes for: Royal Bar.
Turns out, I’m not the only one who has eyes for it. With its glowing, charming interior, it’s made the perfect set for many fashion shoots.
The proof of these shoots and the models from them hang on the walls, along with other dubious art in cheesy brass frames. And yet the place is still darling. The lovely proprietor sees to it. (Horrible picture but that's what I got.)
He has the sweetest disposition, moves smoothly and quickly amongst the eight wee tables, and serves a (packaged) financier along with tea. It’s all such a curious blend of kitsch appeal and true charm.
Next time, I’m getting whatever’s hiding beneath the rose petals.