My first memory of New York: melting mouth, mellow and fragrant with a slice of cheesecake bought at the corner, with a big "latte cafe" to open my heavy eyelids by fatigue of the journey. Moment of absolute happiness. Unique and fugitive. And now, six years later, life repeats itself: I saw it a few days ago, in a store, the cover of the book Keda Black; I travel feverishly its pages; I feel instinctively that it is good, I rush to the dairyman, I'm stepping the advice of my new friend (in fact, Keda, where have your name?) and soon roar of happiness. So this book? this is my "madeleine" to me.
