A noisette over a pétanque rink

Camilla Barnes enjoys small pleasures in Paris, for our There's A Street in my Neighbourhood series

Riquet station shortly after opening in 1910

If I walk out of my flat in Paris, past the baker's and down the rue Riquet, in a couple of minutes I will reach the Bastringue. The café sits on the corner, looking out over the gritty pétanque rinks, the dog walkers and the grey-green canal beyond.

Painted outside in thick burgundy gloss and inside in a deep olive green, it has its own bunch of morning regulars. We greet each other — sometimes shaking hands, but never more — standing at the formica counter and leafing through the free copies of L'Équipe and Le Parisien. No-one actually reads them, but we cast an eye on the headlines and with a French shrug and a ‘tsss!’, complain silently but bitterly about the state of world politics or sport.

There is no need to speak: a raised eyebrow is enough for Massil to swing into action behind the bar. The gleaming machine chugs and hisses and my noisette appears, a pyramid puff of milk on top of the thick, velvety coffee.