102 | August• 2017
CAFÉ SOCIETY
Behind us, a young man with pre-
maturely white hair and tortoiseshell
glasses is leaning in, eavesdropping,
just as we are. When he takes out
his camera-phone to snap a discreet
photograph, James whispers, “Now
that’s a real flâneur.” We stifle a laugh.
But soon my friend grows serious.
Flânerie is more than a source of
amusement, he says.
“It’s a philosophy, an ideal. People-
watchingisawayforusParisians
togetoutsideourheadsandbere-
minded that others exist.”
As he speaks, we catch a glimpseterrassesof Boulevard St Germain, on
the Left Bank, became the spiritual
home of the café dwellers of the Lost
Generation, which came of age during
the First World War.
The Art Deco interior of Flore once
welcomed intellectuals such as Jean-
Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir and
Albert Camus. Today, despite the con-
tinual influx of tourists, James tells me,
Flore – with its neighbour and rival,
Les Deux Magots – remains one of the
city’s great places to practice flânerie.
No sooner do we arrive than we
find our ‘theatre’. Three gentlemen
in their 60s, bellies bulging through
their blazers, read newspapers around
a table. They are, we decide, perfect
subjects, managing that delicate bal-
ance between eccentricity and self-
awareness that is so necessary in this
city of performers.
A cocker spaniel rummages for left-
over pieces of croissant beneath their
feet. Its owner, a man with a white
beard, raps the dog, Caliphe, on the
nose with a newspaper for over-in-
dulging, then announces his depar-
ture.“Jevaisliremonroman–I’m
goingtoreadmynovel.”
Rumbling to his feet, he bids his
companions farewell.
He proceeds five steps along the
boulevard before we see him shrug
and turn back, resuming his place,
no explanation. Caliphe jumps up to
claim an adjacent chair. The man holds
court for two more hours. His compan-
ions leave; more arrive.
Parisian cafés are not just for
socialising with friends