A good place to enjoy a meal, to observe the enjoyment of others (in their meals and in each other), to talk about food and its place in our lives, to laugh (not so loudly that it will annoy the folks at nearby tables), to explain, and to have things explained, to remember the way past meals fit into and defined the moments that made us who we were, and who we were to become.
The couples at some tables — especially in places that specialize in coffee — occasionally consist of but one person and a laptop. There’s something about those little tables that attracts and holds on to writers; apparently it was so long before writers substituted keypads for ballpoints, or fountain pens, or even well-sharpened quills (Paris’s Cafe Voltaire has been serving this purpose, along with its coffee, for centuries).
There’s something about the conviviality of such places (perhaps memory is stirred with the same spoons as the coffee or, like coffee, bitter memory is sweetened in the stirring) that is conducive to writing.
Or maybe it’s just that writing at a quiet little table is more pleasurable than having a regular job. Come on over to my site: