There’s a quaintness to Jacques–Jean “J.J.” Tiziou’s abode on Osage Avenue beyond the kind typically embodied by West Philadelphia's colorful rowhomes. It’s reflected in the year–round Christmas lights strung across the narrow zigzag staircase and above the table, which, aside from a small lamp, are the only source of light in the dark wooden dining room. Deep shadows paint the faces of the soirée guests. Brows furrowed and eyes twinkling, the visitors exchange words and bowls of thick pottage. Somehow, I’ve found myself a part of the semimonthly tradition as nearly as old as I am—Tiziou’s French soirées.