Finding his place can be a tad problematic. I ended up walking past it numerous times, before a helpful shopkeeper figured out what I must be after and pointed me to the building. Once inside the stupendously lethargic security guard gestured at the elevator, motioning the number 5 with his fingers.
I headed to the fifth floor and found the door to Pauls treasure trove.
An extremely friendly face greeted me from the crack in the door, something I noticed afterwards was because he couldn't open his door fully due to, yes, vinyl. He showed me in and I was forced to adopt a peculiar style of walking so as to not knock over, bend or trample on the gigantic heap of music seeping forth. I wondered for a second how the lower neighbours felt about living under the groaning weight of a hundred elephants. I'd move out if I were them.
Being a non-collector myself but having friends more rabid than the rabidest dog in rabid-ville, I decided to honour their addictions and snapped a few photos and texted to see if they bit. Naturally the answer came back that they owned all the one's I sent, so I thanked Paul for his kind hospitality and wandered back out from the rabbits warren and onto the streets to hunt down a reviving cup of coffee.
Vinyl hunting is for those of patient repose. I can only imagine what living inside a vinyl shop must do for the psyche. Paul must be a bonafide Buddha by now.
These recommendations are just personal opinions based on my palate, things change, chefs get fired or replaced, places open-close, relocate, so take it all with a pinch of MSG and discover your own gems too. But please do try a few of these, they have been researched exhaustively.
"Sadness is tempered by umami, grief by the motion of slurping, hope restored by the ladling of glistening, fatty broth"