Just back from re-visiting Paris (lucky us), with memories fresh and rekindled of hours spent people-watching over café (not 'coffee', nor 'latte' and certainly not 'cappuccino') or, later, a glass of wine or occasionally in colder weather a marc de bourgogne; fresh croissants or tartines for breakfast (hurray for baguettes and jam with incomparable French butter!); efficient, rapid waiters, whose professionalism -- mistaken for unfriendliness by some used to gushing 'my-name-is-Buttercup...' servers -- is matched by their quick welcome and quips for regulars even of short duration; the daily 'menu' and luscious tarte tatin with sinful crème fraîche; flashes of high and low fashion, especially during Saturday-shopping hours and at the ends of working days (o.k., our primary haunts are the 6th arrondissement); expected and unexpected brief encounters with friends, acquaintances-by-face, once in a while minor celebrities of one sort or another, but above all strangers made neighbours by and in this haven of urban civilization, the Paris bar-café.
P.S.: And French dark chocolate, oh my goodnesss!! -- bravo especially to 'A la Mère de Famille'!!