Alice Delices is a rare place. Besides freshly baked bread, here you find people actually talking to each other, looking at books and photographs, debating the identity of artists on the wall posters next to that of Picasso and kids rolling the good old dice. We sat on the backless benches fashioned from wood, facing each other, croissants and black coffee in front of us. James, who is running the French bakery in Alice’s absence, is hotfooting about taking orders and serving the capacity guests. He has a permanent beatific