Dinner at Magali's

Magali, the artist whose work now dominates my flat, included my New York guest Rose along with her dinner invitation to Barbara and me.

She also added her artist/sociologist friend Brigitte and her historian/Cathar/anarchist husband Serge.

We had planned to eat in her garden which overlooks marsh grass leading to sea. The Tramontane put an end to that unless we would have wanted to hold down everything in the gale-force winds.

Her house is tiny and was dominated by the table set with square glass plates. Candles provided the light and African music the background.

The food was Mideastern a tribute to her growing up in Morocco.

Magali’s daughter, Sarah adopts strays. Therefore Hubert, a teenage boy who sleeps in a tent in the garden and his fluffy pup with its patchwork grey and black fur welcomed us. Hubert helped cook. The pup’s responsibility was to sit in laps. Charlotte, the Siamese cat, another foundling, shared that job. Later Miriam, another Sarah adoptee, walked in. She was staying there after yet another fight with her mother.

The conversation was lively. As always politics -- American, French, German, English, the war
--was a major part. Serge told of a vignerons uprising in the early 1900s in nearby Narbonne. They wanted tougher standards for the wine. The government sent in troops, but the troops refused to fire on their fellow countrymen and shot into the air. Other artists’ work was discussed.

After the taboli, salads, spiced meat had disappeared, Brigitte cut the multi-plum tarte she had baked. Magali produced a bowl of fresh figs, picked from her tree that afternoon.

Outside the wind howled. Inside things couldn’t be much better.