Rouge Café in Rittenhouse Square

Rittenhouse Square looks a bit Parisian, and Rouge Café looks very Parisian.

I came this time to Philadelphia decided to walk at random and just enjoy. The city has a spiritus loci, a ghost of its own, since the beginnings. New buildings appear among old ones; or replacing old ones. The streets remain the same. People change, the streets remain the same, the air remains the same, that air that's special to Philly. Prague is like that. Actually any place is like that: there are some places where it's obvious.

It was now four o'clock in the afternoon. I was near City Hall. As randomly as I was walking, I wanted badly not to miss Rittenhouse Square.

I headed West on Chestnut Street, up to the 18th, where I took left. A great facade after one block, I crossed Sansom Street, another block and I was now in Walnut Street, facing the square.


Rouge was there, and also Devon, as I knew them, with seats outside just across the park. I had my memories from Rouge Café; times when I was coming there and sitting at a table on the sidewalk, sipping a cup of coffee and enjoying the view around.

This time all seats outside were occupied, so I entered and took a place at the bar. They had a wonderful wine, Château La Forêt, a French Pinot Noir. You cannot drink more than half a glass, or you'll get drunk: it's heavy, and it's gorgeous. I finished my half glass slowly, while looking outside through the window, at the alleys in the park. It was the place to start writing a story.



I was trying to imagine a possible story, to be written, or at least to be told. A story starting in the square, or just here at Rouge, with patrons viewing the square through the window. I ordered a bottle of British black beer; I don't think there is another place in America to find such a delicacy: Samuel Smith Taddy Porter, coming here from Yorkshire. It goes well with oysters, or with clams, but I did not have so much time.

A guy was sitting near me at the bar, together with his girlfriend. He was probably in his early forties, very solid, with his head shaved, she was slim, in her early twenties, with a wonderful laugh. They were calling in me the memory of a movie seen long time ago; he was like Jack, tough and possibly mixed in all kind of risky business, she was like Vicky, trying unconsciously to believe dreams had a sense.

Only they were not Jack and Vicky, for a simple reason: that movie had been made in Taiwan, while the two seating near me at the bar were speaking Russian.

My story was beginning to take shape.

(Philadelphia)