Ooh La La!

It's Sunday morning and I'm at Wired Le Bistro, a très chic little cafe in La Jolla whose name belies its fabulousness. It really is one of my favorite spots in all of San Diego. The inside is cozy enough to make you want to stay all day but trendy enough to be in keeping with its cuisine's Parisian edge. The ceiling undulates with old burlap coffee bags that have been tacked up above, seating options include hard wooden high backs, black wrought iron chairs, or cozy eggplant-hued benches that outline the perimeter of the room. I enjoy the old-fashioned patisserie glass case, and that they imported the female servers.
If I were a gentleman, I'd be tempted to haunt this cafe for nothing more than the beautiful women who drift past the tables. The first time I was here, I knew they were French before they opened their mouths to speak with their quick, sharp little consonants and longer sweeter vowels that charactarize their accents; petite graceful bodies, hair slicked back to expose their fine bone structure and wearing black. You can also tell a french woman by her Mona Lisa smile curling slightly and inexplicably on her rosy lips. Somehow, it makes me feel more beautiful to be around them.
Today, at the urging of the server who recognized me, I ordered crepes nutella (as in that sinful hazelnut/chocolate spread Europeans have the good sense to put on everything) and a cup of coffee, and cream. Her recommendation reminded me of an important fact I wish all to know: the key to ordering a breakfast that won't leave you with a bellyache. It's simple; order a plain coffee if you're going to have a sweet dish, order a sweet coffee if you're going to have a savory dish. That's it, don't be seduced by an indulgent mocha to accompany your crepes, or you'll be sorry.
I think now would be a good time to mention that I'm being watched by a handsome young gentleman. He is with a woman who isn't offended by her date's inattention to his and blatant window-knocking at me as I sit on the other side of that window on the patio. His feet dangle two feet from he ground, his plate, bearing a large sweet roll, is poised perfectly at mouth-level. His mother watches fondly as he takes advantage of his position. He reaches forward with both hands cupping the back of the roll, scoops it toward his face and sinks his teeth in. He then flings his arms apart that conveys some sort of achievement and turns to look out the window, directly at me with full mouth and messy face as if to say, "check it out!" I assume a serious face and nod approvingly. He grins with flaky bits and cinnamon frosting all over his small teeth and turns back around.

In unrelated news, a bee has alighted on and made a home of my book which is in my purse. My book that I would very much like to be reading as soon as I've posted this. However, he's been there 45 minutes so far and seems to have decided that my tome makes for a good napping spot. I have a straw I could use to prod him away from my belongings but in a zen moment, I decided that this would be an unkindness as I wouldn't like to be awoken in such a manner. So he stays.
What I love even more than the sun-drenched patio with its wood-framed umbrellas, and strong European coffee is that every time I'm here I am privy to a variety of languages. French on left, South-American Spanish on right, Castillian Spanish behind, some language I can't identify at the table in front of me, old women two tables away slipping in and out of their old Italian in croaky tones complete with hand gestures. By sitting on the patio I miss the great music inside, but I gain the musicality of these different dialects as they float around me.