I sit at a little round table of faux granite. Bentwood chair. The easy chairs by the windows are prized. When one becomes vacant, people pounce. It all seems a long way from Sadr City, Kabul (or the cafes of Brunswick for that matter.) Here, the crowd is well-heeled, quite genteel and there’s not a soul reading Crime and Punishment or belting out words on a laptop. A big brown canvas awning hangs out protectively and welcomingly over Dundas Place.

A cluster of red and white cane chairs on the wide pavement. From inside, big windows and the glass front door offer up fine views of the passing parade. No-one seems in a hurry here. No-one appears anxious or tense. The standard Laurent fare displays itself prettily in the display cases — croissants, Danish, meringues, apple-puffs, escargots, donuts. Loaves of bread for purchase. Cakes in the window. Water in silver jugs — help yourself. More expensive tempters like a green “Mirage” or a wicked chocolate “Christine” are up the back. (Ah, first mobile-caller in an hour, but he keeps it short and muted.)

Good coffee (Monte). My long black is a centimetre too full but I don’t mind. Some of the great lb’s in this town are shorts anywhere else.

Do cafe-haunters invade foreign territory all that often? Probably not. Hard to imagine any of the crowd here, at Ray, in Victoria St. It’s mid afternoon in winter. A glorious soft sun floods the windows, illuminating floor and table surface. An “02” tram comes into view. Why are there no spare parking places? Come on guys — walk here or catch the tram. It’s the land of big white dogs.