Petite Is as Petite Does

Robertson Davies says to read deep rather than wide. Wendell Berry says to find richness and depth within  limitations. I am making a molehill out of  a mountain.  And a rich, deep, molehill  it is. Built soundly of hume and peat and the ashes of our critters, and sweat, blood and tears, and yard dirt dug up with a tablespoon.

The Petite Gourmet on 8th Street, across from Eastern Market, a building that could not be more loved without being burst from the inside out, is tiny and plain, has no menu and no sign that I remember. It is a mountain within a molehill. Nice pâtés, cheeses, mustards and other simple sandwich fixings sparingly spread between baguette halves. Understatement to the max, as they do it in France. We try here, but are unable to lean hard enough away from our grain.

The best the owner could do in the business card department was tear off this bit of paper from, um, I don’t know from what. I did not want to forget the place, the girls in the window adorably Frenchified to the point of appearing to be plants. And I do not mean the potted variety.


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