My table is fairly big, round, orange sherbert colored with a black rim. The coffee came with sugar cubes. The front is wide open, the green of the Tuilleries just across the street. A little white poodle yaps away from under one of the tables and the waitress runs to play with it. The place is fairly empty now, so I guess she doesn't have anything better to do. She sounds perfectly French but she is not, which becomes apparent when she starts talking to a customer in English.

The multitude of cane chairs have yellow mesh seat and back coverings. The leather couch I'm sitting on is yellow-orange. Three out-of-place wooden chairs with brick red siat cushions are also visible nearby. The sun is out, but it's still a bit chilly where I'm at, since I'm too far into the place to have it shine directly on me.

The dog is now in someone's lap, and she's holding it like a baby, shaking its little legs around. A staircase runs upstairs to another dining area, apparently. Earlier a waiter sped by and the sandwich on his tray didn't quite make the turn and tumbled onto the ground. "Merde! Merde!" he called out, visibly upset, and with good reason. A lot of time had gone into putting those tomatoes and cheese into that baguette.

There are orange globe lamps and lights along the wall that look like oversized luminous pineapples. The waitress is yammering away to the group with the poodle, and she rolls her eyes at all the appropriate moments, not a care in the world.