Quotes About Cafe

As I stood there thinking, I saw a general with as many medals as I got hair, sitting at a front table at the outdoor cafe on Fankonin.

Café Philosophe on rue de Temple in the Marais

In the uncertain ebb and flow of time and emotions, much of one's life history is etched in the senses. And things of no particular importance, or irreplaceable things, can suddenly resurface in a café one winter night.

Nel flusso indefinito del tempo e degli stati d'animo gran parte della storia è incisa nei sensi. [E cose di nessuna importanza, insostituibili, ritornano così all'improvviso, in un caffè.]

In the uncertain ebb and flow of time and emotions, much of one's life history is etched in the senses. And things of no particular importance, or irreplaceable thing, can suddenly resurface in a café one winter night.

My mum and dad ran a family cafe in Sligo for 35 years and worked long hours. We grew up in a very hard-working family and had a lovely atmosphere, as we lived above the restaurant. It definitely made me want to work hard, whatever I chose to do. As the baby of seven kids, I was definitely a bit spoilt.

The European style of living is seductive: fewer hours worked, more hours at the cafe, less concern over self-betterment. But that style of living does not produce a purposeful life.

I could see myself in that café. I was there, at that table, maybe admiring a new pair of French shoes, purchased in a chic little boutique, or picking at a pastry with Parisian red fingernails. I could taste the coffee, smell the smoke from the next table's Gauloises.

café a la piel del hombre, tratando de decidir cuál era más oscuro. Su tono iba más allá de un Werther's Original. Más allá de una esposa de futbolista. Este era un moreno nivel televisión de horario diurno.

Because were were both probationary constables, an experienced PC had been left to supervise us - a responsibility he diligently pursued from an all-night cafe on St. Martin's Close.

I don't really get into a writing routine until March or April, when I'll write a few hundred words a day, often in a cafe in the morning after the school run.

café, and dozens of people wandering

He smiled. "What's going on?" "Why does something have to be going on? Maybe I just missed you." He gave me an uncharacteristically streetwise look. I had a feeling I knew where he'd picked it up. "Yeah, I missed you, too." I wasn't looking forward to the turn the conversation would take when I brought up Yukiko, and felt no hurry to get there. A waitress came by. Harry ordered a coffee and some carrot cake.

I might not seem like the type who could sit at an outdoor cafe drinking a latte, but I am. Why? No motion required. It's just sitting. Sitting and sipping. I can't imagine a neurosis that would prevent one from raising one's arm to one's mouth while holding a cup, though given time, I'm sure I could come up with one.

I want to go to culinary school because I love cooking. One day I'd love to open up a restaurant or cafe

Arguably, "solitude" is an urban word. The café is the urban equivalent of the desert cave.

If I don't feel like writing on a certain day, I just go to the cafe and hang around.

Café. Donne de l'esprit. N'est bon qu'en venant du Havre. Dans un grand dîner, doit se prendre debout. L'avaler sans sucre, très chic, donne l'air d'avoir vécu en Orient.

At the halfway point of the journey making up real life, we were surrounded by a gloomy melancholy, one expressed by so many derisive and sorrowful words in the café of lost youth.

Strangely enough, the first character in Fried Green Tomatoes was the cafe, and the town. I think a place can be as much a character in a novel as the people.

We stopped to grab something to eat in a wooden hut of a café that, at one time, had been a brothel. A wandering minstrel came in to sing us a melancholy song. He explained it was about the homeland he had lost and longed for. The emotion was heartfelt.

The Higher Grounds Café is officially open for business!" she announced.

Let's get lunch at Aunt Carrie's. She looked away, trying to hide her vivid memories of the outdoor café. She and Alex had gone there as kids, sunburnt, their hair stiff with salt and their bare feet, to eat clam cakes and blueberry pie.

There is indeed, perhaps, no better way to hold communion with the sea than sitting in the sun on the veranda of a fishermen's cafe.