The Flore. This is the place where Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre worked on their essays, plays and novels, all these publications that made it into literary eternity, while having coffee and cigarettes. As for the cigarettes, I cannot say which brand they were smoking and if I would have liked their taste, I’m a Dunhill kind of guy, the blue ones, but as far as the coffee is concerned, gee, no wonder they were so embittered about society. I hate that brew. It’s so nicely presented, your coffee is served in a jug, you got another one for your milk, hot milk on top, an extra glass of water, although that’s more common in France than in Germany, so all in all one really can’t complain, but still, I do. This coffee is just awful, it tastes like way too strong a Nescafé, strangely bitter, brutal, a simultaneous attack on your taste buds and your stomach, you take one sip and you immediately wanna light a cigarette to recover from it. It takes a lot of recovery time. And that’s actually the best thing about it, you just watch the passers-by and the traffic, letting St.Germain-des-Prés sink in, deeply, I can do this for hours while that nasty coffee is getting cold, and if you decide once again to re-read “Les Mandarins” or “Les Mots”, there’s a bookshop next door, you can start right away, right there where it was written.