A few weeks ago, I wrote about the opening of Table 28 before I had actually been. That was the backstory. This is the rotisstory.

Sunday night I stepped in out of the rain and said hello to my dinner. “Robert,” having just descended from the spit, was resting quietly on the counter. The suckling pig would soon be joined on the table by a roasted Coucou de Rennes. But at this early hour, before the others arrived, there was time to sip my wine and watch Marie-Aude sharpen her knives.

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