It’s not so hard getting used to running on Paris time, so that where once upon a time I couldn’t help but arrive five minutes early, I now turn up eight after the hour for a one-p.m.-ish brunch date. We sat in the Saturday sun, Maud and me, and there were the pigeons flying about ’round Place Saint-Sulpice, and the woman and her quilted Chanel handbag on the rattan café chair next to me. My Orangina winked, catching the light.

Saturday night we turned left into a secret, the streets were shining from rain and the city, we turned left, me and the boy, and I was wearing a magenta dress, we turned left for rue de la Main d’or, dark but for the glow at the Petits Joueurs. Inside, drawings on the walls, and a fillette de vin on our small square of table. Olivier is the chef with the belly and the ponytail, the dark eyes. With delicate fingers he garnishes the greens at the bar just before he calls out, “En sortie !” If you are lucky, it will be your dinner en sortie de la cuisine, a salad with grilled chorizo, or a duck confit hot and salty with golden potatoes crispy just so.