It wasn’t her first visit to La Divette, the legendary spot in Montmartre.

When the man of her life asked her to take him “café-hopping” in the morning, she wanted to show him one of her favourite bars. A centre of local life that was authentic and friendly, where everyone knew everyone.

She woke up at 6 a.m. for a meeting at 8:30 a.m. just minutes away from her home. She knew her ex-husband and his tardiness like the back of her hand. All the same, she went to La Divette at 8 a.m., choosing a strategic place to observe the bar. Only locals seemed to frequent La Divette. Everyone kissed the lovely barmaid on the cheek as they came in. Everyone knew each other and swapped stories over a cup of espresso. There were no croissants at the Divette. In fact, no one but Elisa was eating a sliced baguette for breakfast, served with a big jar of salted butter. Elisa didn’t miss her usual croissant.

Lately, having just learned the history of the croissant, she had been “devouring Turks” with delight every morning.

The croissant was invented by Franz Georg Kolschitzky in Vienna, after the siege of the city in 1683 by Mustapha the Terrible. Kolschitzky, a young Polish aristocrat, sneaked behind enemy lines to take important information to the Austrian Archduke Charles de Lorraine and King John Sobieski to help them conquer the Ottomans. In return, Kolschitzky was given five sacks of coffee that the Turks had left behind as they fled the site and a licence to operate a “Kaffeehaus”.

After an initial brush with failure because his Turkish coffee concoction didn’t suit the palates of Austrians, the young Polish man came up with the idea of filtering the coffee and adding honey and milk to it. The “Café Viennois” was created.

Then, he invented a pastry that he called a “viennoiserie”, to which he gave the shape of a crescent, borrowed from the Turkish flag. All of Vienna could enjoy the emblem of the enemy in total peace…

Meanwhile, in the eyes of Elisa and the entire world, the term “croissant” conjured up visions of France, rather than Austria. Nowhere in the world could you find croissants this buttery, melt-in-your-mouth and deliciously flaky.

La Divette was the ideal spot for breakfast. A perfect décor and the friendly meeting place of the neighbourhood. 98 Rue Lepic, across from the “Moulin de la Galette”, with a view of the Ciné 13 cinema owned by Claude Lelouch and flooded with light due to its location facing the Rue Girardon.

When the Montmartrobus turned onto Rue Lepic from Rue Girardon, the driver stopped in the middle of the intersection to say hi to his friends at La Divette.

The ideal place to capture a slice of Montmartre life on the get-go. No need for a scenario, just a collection of images that seized the poetry of life itself. Montmartre was the most beautiful story ever.

On this particular morning, two bearded men came in first to drink a coffee after Elisa arrived and began to read an article by BHL (Bernard-Henri Lévy) in Le Monde about the war in Lebanon.

The two bearded men, who looked like artists, ordered their coffees after kissing the barwoman on the cheek, enquiring about her holidays and asking who would watch her cat.

Then, a woman with her white hair pulled into a ponytail waltzed in, accompanied by her white dog. The dog was welcomed as warmly as his mistress. Elisa had already met this woman at La Mascotte, where she had offered a glass to Raf from the Jungle Bar, who, in turn, had offered a coffee to Elisa.

She was followed by a mother and her baby, and then a hefty woman.

They were all greeted warmly and chatted together like old friends.

She remembered the scene from the other day when a man who looked like a bailiff or debt collector asked where the Rue Gabrielle was. Everyone glanced at Raf with a twinkle in their eye before sending the presumed bailiff to the other side of the Butte, far from the Jungle Bar on the Rue Gabrielle.

This morning, Guillaume, the cursed poet of Montmartre, came to La Divette for a coffee. He had recently explained that he was no longer welcome at La Divette, where he had been treated like a tramp. As always, he came over to kiss Elisa on the cheek. Apparently, he had come into the good graces of La Divette once more. This café-bar was too generous to close its door to poets, even the grubbiest.

He told her that his guitar had been stolen and showed her the wounds on his arms. His guitar must have been his only possession. He was wearing his big leather jacket under the blazing sun of the heat wave, probably to prevent it from being stolen, just as Roudy never went anywhere without his black hoodie, as he never knew where to put it.

As always, he told Elisa about the latest news backing his conspiracy theory, the invasion of Montmartre by fascists and the control of the top of the Butte by the pimps of Pigalle. Elisa hadn’t noticed anything of the sort.

A dream spot where you could easily set up your second home, thought Elisa.