I was sitting at the bar at Moro the other day with a bowl of artichoke-chorizo soup and the whole host of accessories that came with. The bowls of ground pepper and coarse salt were little plumps of clay into which a thumb had been pressed just before they were popped into the oven for firing. They fit, perfectly, a pinch.

Under a platter—a platterlet, really, a platelet—of olive oil, the steel bar counter had been branded in fine, tiny letters: “Verdigris. London”. Verglas-verdigris-square de Vert-Galant, Michel Leiris y retrouvé, et tout d’un coup je me situais dans l’hiver passé, où je travaillais sur mon mémoire et passais mes jours dans des pages fortement marquées au crayon.

It is not so long ago I left New York and everyone I used to be there. I remember the snow and how quiet it would get, right after. I remember nights out and nights in. At unexpected moments I might, in a flash, remember walking down Sixth Avenue, past Radio City Music Hall, heading for the F train home. I don’t miss it, which is a little surprising, I guess, but I feel okay about that too. I feel like I took a left out of 2005, and this year is several blocks behind already.

Still, when I read Joan Didion’s “Goodbye to All That”, (thank you, Leo), something stirs.