At The Café

Every Wednesday afternoon you can find me here. Sitting against the back wall, watching the world drift in and out, picking out the locals from the tourists, listening to the banter between the waiters as they rush around taking orders and flirting with the attractive women and men, making up stories about the people sitting together.

It's warm outside. Why is that poor kid wrapped up in a jacket and scarf?
Everyone at that table has got to be Italian. Except for the guy wearing baggy jeans.
He's been talking on his phone and ignoring his dining companion since the moment they arrived. No wonder she looks so bored!
Those two are definitely American. And they must not realize that some of us can understand every word they're saying.
What an adorable dog!
The couple in the corner who can't take their hands off each other either just met last night or are having a red-hot love affair.

I also stop here because they make a mean café serré.
Which isn't an easy thing to find in Paris. Or anywhere, for that matter.

Every time I go into a coffee place in the States (I'm not going to name names, but it's always the kind of place that takes itself pretty seriously) and ask for a ristretto, a coffee drink that any self respecting barista could make with one hand tied behind their back, I get confused looks, followed by one of two questions: "A what?" or "Is that it?"
Which always amuses me.
I mean, all I'm asking them to do is make a very short shot of espresso, which I don't mind having to explain if necessary. And which is less work than almost anything else they have to make, other than maybe a cup of tea.

Would it be better if I ordered a skinny sugar free vanilla decaf latte with no foam? (yes, that's a rhetorical question)

So every Wednesday afternoon I order my serré and settle in for an hour or two of non-stop entertainment.
Spending time at a Parisian café...there's just nothing else like it.