Paris has a way of making you feel like you’re living in a novel, and nowhere did that hit me harder than at a tiny café in Montmartre called Le Coq Rico (not the fancy one, a smaller namesake). Tucked down a cobbled alley, it’s the kind of place you stumble into and never wanna leave. I spent mornings here, scribbling in my journal, and it’s my top pick for anyone needing a quiet spot to read, write, or just think.

The café’s got wooden tables, mismatched chairs that creak, and waiters who move slow, like they know you’re not in a rush. I’d order an espresso—bitter, perfect—and a croissant that flaked all over my notebook. The first time, I sat by the window, watching artists with easels and couples arguing in that passionate French way. I wrote pages about nothing: the smell of rain on cobblestones, the sound of a distant accordion.

One morning, I brought a battered copy of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. Reading it here felt right, like I was channeling his ghost. The café’s vibe—dim lights, old posters, the clink of cups—made every word heavier. I’d pause to eavesdrop on locals, catching snippets of gossip or philosophy. The waiter, Pierre, noticed my book and shared his own Paris stories over a second coffee (on the house, bless him).

Food’s simple but soulful. Besides croissants, they do tartines—open-faced sandwiches with goat cheese and figs that I ate too fast. For lunch, try their onion soup; it’s rich, cheesy, and warms you to your toes. The café’s not about gastronomy—it’s about lingering. I saw a woman knitting, an old man sketching, and felt like we were all part of some unspoken club.

Montmartre’s crafts are nearby. A short walk away, I found a bookbinder’s shop, where an artisan showed me how to stitch pages. My attempt was crooked, but he gave me a leather bookmark anyway. This café’s the kind of place where time slows, where you can read Proust or write bad poetry without judgment. Bring a book, stay too long, and let Paris work its magic.