I am a huge fan of French cafés, which next week will throw open their doors for the first time in months. To me, there is nothing more French than sitting at a corner table in one of these rapidly disappearing establishments sipping coffee while wrestling with a densely argued opinion piece in Le Monde or Figaro. Half the pleasure consists in being distracted by the comings and goings of the waiters and other customers, who frequently look as if they could have been drawn by Toulouse Lautrec. With any luck, there will also be the small but satisfying drama of a delivery van on the street outside holding up the traffic with sublime insouciance or a motorist aggressively manoeuvring into an impossibly tight parking space.