Cafe de la Comedie has nothing to do with comedy. Like so many other Paris cafes, it takes its name from the somewhat-celebrated street on which it sits, a stone's throw from the Palais Royal. It is small and has matching plastic wicker chairs with red-and-tan seats and backs. Like most cafes, it is small, sprawls out across the sidewalk. There is a second floor solely accessible through a spiral staircase. Towards the back of the street-level dining room, the walls are panels of mirrors upon which some hard working soul inscribes the daily specials and wine list. In the morning, a basket of croissants lies invitingly on the counter. Two waiters work the morning shift. One is young and mostly inexperienced. The other is older and works too hard.
The first work day after two days of rest, and the streets are again clogged with the perpetual gridlock of traffic. Most of the weekday's clients are regulars, like the woman who si