The omelette was good, the show better.

What made the omelette at the Cafe L’Arsenal in Paris so good was the show that came with it — not the quality of the eggs so much as the quality of the atmosphere enchanted by a magical woman who seemed to do everything. If, like many other establishments around the world, the Cafe L’Arsenal had been affected by the post-pandemic shortage of help, you would not know it. The woman who ran the show — the maîtresse de cérémonies — appeared to do the work of three people.

With a smile like sun breaking through clouds, she greeted groggy customers seated at small, square tables indoors and out. She took orders. She set out red-and-white check tablecloths, napkins and flatware. She moved behind the counter to whip up cafe lattes and espressos in ceramic cups. She made small talk and laughter with construction workers stepping into the cafe from the Rue Saint Antoine. Two men sat at a sidewalk table in animated conversation. One of them constantly stirred his coffee as he spoke, and he did so more vigorously each time his voice rose. Children with backpacks started appearing on the sidewalk, on the way to school. The speed and frequency of men and women on bicycles, scooters and motorcycles picked up considerably as we waited for breakfast — an omelette for me and a croissant for my wife, with two cafes au lait. Women in bright print dresses and white sneakers marched to work. Parents crossed the street with the youngest children, on the way to a pre-school around the corner. A father in a T-shirt and jeans balanced two boys on a foot-powered scooter. The children called to the magical woman running the Cafe L’Arsenal. As they turned the corner, their small, cheerful voices carried over the din of cars in the street and conversation in the cafe. The maîtresse answered them excitedly from behind the counter, as if she had just recognized her own grandchildren.

The racially mixed parade of children — boys and girls with their mothers, some with their fathers, some with both — continued for 15 or 20 minutes. A man in a white shirt and tie entered the cafe. He sat at a table and immediately started reading a newspaper. Almost simultaneously his breakfast of coffee, bread and butter arrived. An elderly couple ordered coffee at a sidewalk table. After telling the magical woman of the Cafe L’Arsenal they were from Canada, a conversation in Parisian and Québécois French ensued. The construction workers bid each other a good day and left. My omelette suddenly appeared before me, hot and fluffy, in a cast iron skillet. It was good, but not the main attraction of the Cafe L’Arsenal.