At first, I have to tell you that I am convinced that coffee’s a very healthy beverage. It’s really rich in flavonoids and these keep you safe from any antioxidants, even the French ones. So, the plural here is chosen quite deliberately, I always have to have more than just one coffee when I’m in Paris. I’ve had them in the sun, and in the rain. I’ve had coffees in high-toned places, and in places off the tracks. They’ve been served with the warmest of smiles, and in sheer disgust—which was quite amusing in a way, homophobia in the Marais, in a café on the corner of Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, because if you’re a waiter who happens to disapprove of gays, you really should reconsider working in their natural habitat. But I digress. I’ve had coffees that were just great, and coffees that tasted like way too strong a Nescafé. I’ve had coffees to go from Starbucks, and coffees in the presence of Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre at the Café de Flore, au Flore, that is if their spirits still haunt the place, I think they won’t approve of that Louis Vuitton store right next to it, some marketing idiot thought it appropriate to squeeze their bags in the tiny space between the Flore and the Deux Magots—although, who am I to complain, I always paid the bills with euros from my Louis Vuitton wallet, but at least I hadn’t bought it there, in the very middle of St.Germain-des-Prés, but on the right bank, that’s where you are supposed to buy such things. But back to my coffee sermon: I’ve had all these coffees in wonderful peace, next to Frenchmen and tourists, next to people in suits on their lunch-break and next to people in sneakers on their honeymoon, and there never were any gilets jaunes in sight, there was never any pseudo-revolutionary brutality going on, no places were ever set on fire, and so I have just one thing to say to these guys if they ever dare to disturb my peace and quiet in Paris: Get lost, you losers!