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I’m chattin’ her up—price, rules, whatever. She’s cool, but I’m pissed—hate the hagglin’. “What am I, a fuckin’ flea market?” I think. Still, she’s got sass—calls me “Mr. Fancy Pants.” Cheeky bitch! Makes me grin tho—happy as a pig in shit. Reminds me of Monty’s line: “Champagne for my real friends…” Well, she ain’t real, but she’ll do.

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First off, I had a meeting at this café on Place de la Mairie. You know, the one with the weirdly good croissants? I’m talking buttery, flaky perfection. But guess what? I get there, and the place is packed. Like, standing-room-only packed. I’m like, “C’mon, people, it’s just coffee!” But whatever, I squeeze in, grab my café au lait, and try to look all professional.

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