The rotten greens and browns and the fetid flesh lighting at Mokkabon, Ghent have something of a Zola drowning about them. Tutors at the local bad drawing school are doubtless deluged with impressions of its decaying woodwork and mirrors. The coffee is good, and to the delight of exactly half the party the rather lovely waitress picked a blond hair of her own out of the waffles, strawberries and cream. There used to be more cafes in Barcelona like this.

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