Around 8 o'clock we would break for une pause. The model would throw on a robe, palettes and paint tubes would be cleared, and we would congregate around a cluster of ink-stained side tables. A baguette would appear; then, a thick slice of pâté, marbled with fat and aspic. An oily wedge of comté would immediately overpower the lingering smell of turpentine. Then came one—no, two—no, three—bottles of wine. All red, of course, since it was fall in Paris and already quite chilly. One of the more hardened-looking men always had a bottle opener on him and would pop the cork before we even began setting out the little water cooler plastic cups we used in place of wine glasses.