I am at one of two little circular tables between the door and the tabac counter, and the door opens every few seconds to let a cold burst of wind blow at me. There is a radiator behind me, but it does no good with the steady stream of people coming in and out.

The tables have fake wooden tops and a dark Irish green Carlsberg ashtray sits on each one. No sugar cubes. The chairs are simple metal frames with curved backs and maroon seat cushions. Each leg of each chair is capped with a little rubber foot except for the chair in front of me that is missing its two left feet. All the walls are covered with the same fake wood, on the far wall are large oval pictures of two women, rather crudely painted, flanked by oval mirrors. Next to me is a long green Stella Artois pennant hanging from the ceiling.

Outside are five more tables with marble-looking tops which exhibit large cracks as well. Five flying saucer-shaped lights hang above the front part of the tabac, inset into the ceiling in beds of dark colored textured glass. Old fashioned lamps hang around the edge of the main dining section. A young woman sits at a table across from me, orders an "express," and starts writing something.