Behind a Curtain in Perpignan

TWELVE rocks lounge on polystyrene plates. I untether then slip their silky flesh, which doesn’t want to yield at first. As I sip their cool saline reservoir like a shot, I hardly notice that my chair perilously tips away from the counter (writes Douglas Blyde). Harvested from nearby Leucate, north of Perpignan, their ripe cucumber scented, iodine freshness mingles well with an almost translucent calcium dry white from Roussillon’s searing vineyards.

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