Felix's Taqueria - Julia's choice of lunch venue - and while I sat on one of the stools at the small, high table, bags on the floor beneath my feet, she selected a plateful of pick and mix tapas to share between us, luckily remembering that my tolerance of chillis was a lot lower than hers so making a balanced selection.
While we ate we watched a window cleaner with the air of a madman, leaping and jumping to reach the higher parts of the windows, climbing onto the sill and holding on precariously to the fragile ironwork, spray container of water and sheets of newspaper for polishing off tucked into his belt ready to be used alternately. From the number of passers by who stopped and spoke to him he was well-known, however such were his antics that the proprietor was eventually forced to go and ask him to desist - or find something to stand on.
The oval mirror not only enabled us to watch him but also exaggerated the apparent darkness of the corner we sat in - the stained and ancient appearance of the plaster must have been intentional, as was the area of exposed brick, partly to retain the 'genuine antiquity' appeal of the French Quarter. Whatever the falseness we both felt ourselves immensely fortunate to have spent a week in New Orleans, and were sorry that this was our final lunch.
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