Brunch-time is one of the best times of the week, a context of space and time either short or long lasting, without any rules. I like it because you can be alone, in New York as in Milan without having the feeling of being watched, perhaps by commiserative eyes. I like that leisure atmosphere, having no constictions and no particular etiquette to follow. I like it because it marks the end of the week leading you through sweet and savory to the beginning of a new one, an interlude of bacon, fried eggs and muffins. The best one, I have to say, is the brunch in Paris: at the Cafè du Palays Royalafter wandering around the jardin or any brasserie in the Marais or Saint Germain de Pres. The typical Parisian’s artistic (also slightly cheeky)temper, is quite fashinating. They are the only men in the world who can manage to look attractive even before shaving, hiding their uncombed hair under unconvincing ugly hats, wearing large shapeless cargo trousers and pulling them off incredibly well pairing them with worn out monk strap shoes instead of the same old sneakers. In the picture a ceramic plate by Fornasetti