Quotes About Cafe

Sunglasses must be kept on until an acquaintance is identified at one of the tables, but one must not appear to be looking for company. Instead, the impression should be that one is heading into the cafe to make a phone call to one's titled Italian admirer, when--quelle surprise!--one sees a friend. The sunglasses can then be removed and the hair tossed while one is persuaded to sit down.

In the mid-1980s, on a spring Sunday morning, a Volvo stationwagon parked in Brunswick Street. A young couple got out. She was trim, blonded, tanned. He was already broadening in the midsection, sockless, short and hairy legs ending in boatshoes. From a restraining chair in the back seat, he unloaded a child, complaining, flailing. They took it into a cafe. They were going to have brunch. The old Brunswick Street was dead, Brunchwick Street born. There was no turning back.

About Lucknow, I have become a frequent visitor here now and have started knowing the city quite well. In fact, I was also planning to set up a cafe here as I loved the city so much. There is so much scope for business here.

From somewhere, in college, Pip had gotten the idea—her mind was like a balloon with static cling, attracting random ideas as they floated by—that the height of civilization was to spend Sunday morning reading an actual paper copy of the Sunday New York Times at a café. This had become her weekly ritual, and, in truth

Flirtation, so effortlessly accomplished. Mention of the train had done it. Train unspecified; they both knew which. They'd ridden together and now shared the ferry, and though a thousand identical to her might have strolled past his Charlottenburg café window in two weeks, the shared destination worked its paltry magic. And both tall. This little was enough to excuse lust as destiny.

All romantics meet the same fate some day. Drunk and cynical and boring someone in some dark cafe.

In the cafe there was a lot of stylized cattiness, but this was never unkindly meant. Nothing at all was meant by it. It was a formal game of innuendos about other people being older than they said, about their teeth being false and their hair being a wig. Such conversation was thought to be smart and so very feminine. It was better, I need hardly say, to seem like a truly appalling woman than not like a woman at all.

As soon as I put my uniform on, the rest of my life solidified around me like a plaster cast. From that moment on, my friends were anyone who could put up with the disgrace; my occupation, any job from which I was not given the sack; my playground, any cafe or restaurant from which I was not barred or any street corner from which the police did not move me on.

I used to work at Cafe Mogador in the East Village. I love Mogador, but I feel like working almost anywhere will kind of ruin it for you. There was a lot of panicking while being a waitress there. I don't like to think about that. But I love the food.

I was a copy editor. I loved it. I love grammar. I'm obsessed. I was a bartender. I worked in a cafe. I was a dog walker. I was a babysitter. I was a tutor. Once I was asked to half-babysit, half-bartend.

I don't want to be in my car all day. I love getting up in the morning in Venice and walking my dogs down to the cafe to get my tea, and then perhaps going to a bookstore and sitting and reading, then walking to the beach.

Food recommendations are a must, but be careful. A friend went to a cafe I'd suggested and got food poisoning.

Meanwhile it's got stormy, the tattered fog even thicker, chasing across my path. Three people are sitting in a glassy tourist cafe between clouds and clouds, protected by glass from all sides. Since I don't see any waiters, it crosses my mind that corpses have been sitting there for weeks, statuesque. All this time the cafe has been unattended, for sure. Just how long have they been sitting here, petrified like this?

Road Kill Cafe, you kill 'em, we grill 'em!

Every time I pass a cafe, I imagine it being stormed by men with Kalashnikovs.

Two days ago, in the afternoon, Amanda said to me, I can't read books any more. Who has the time? It was the day after Oliver had left, and we were in this little café in the industrial part of the city. Who can concentrate any more? she said, stirring her coffee. Who reads? Do you read? (I shook my head.) Somebody must read, I guess. You see all these books around in store windows, and there are those clubs. Somebody's reading, she said. Who? I don't know anybody who reads.

I'll spend my mornings at the sunshine café.

A café is for "people who want to be alone but need company for it." –Noel Riley Fitch, Paris Café: The Select Crowd

I'm happy to just sit in a cafe and watch people. It's my favorite thing to do, for sure.

I prefer a change of surroundings anyway, and I like to be around some energy and white noise, so I usually go to a Barnes & Noble cafe or to the library on 5th and 42nd. In the afternoons, I do research, reading, editing, and play with the kids.

We found a pleasant little café where the men selected a type of pasta, but I chose an omelette. I had always thought that eggs were for breakfast, so I had never tried one, and I was not disappointed. It came up light, fluffy and stuffed with tiny shrimp. Every mouthful was a delight, and I began to see that appreciation of food was a way of life in France. It was accompanied by crusty bread so fresh it was still warm, and sweet butter.

Café Amelie, a patio style restaurant with great New Orleans/Southern-style food and is probably my favorite place to get brunch in the city.

The cafe windows wrapped all the way around the observation floor, which gave us a beautiful panoramic view of the skeleton army that had come to kill us.

Kleyweg's Stads Koffyhuis is a local institution that's won prizes for its sandwiches (see the trophies above the counter). This is a great spot for an affordable bite, either in the country-cozy interior or out on a canal barge (€7-10 sandwiches and hamburgers, €6-13 savory or sweet pancakes, big €13 salads, Mon-Fri 9:00-20:00, Sat 9:00-18:00, closed Sun, shorter hours off-season, just down the canal from the Old Church at Oude Delft 133, tel. 015/212-4625).