I am cowering under the table by the bar with my glass of champagne when the guy under the next table downs his and heads for the door, anxious hands stretch out to drag him back to safety but he cries: No, No, the mob is in the street and I must see which way they are going, for I am their leader. Mom, I recognize the type, there are guys like him in every market and some of them survive, at that, but such scenes are not what I look for when I come to Paris, France, for lunch.
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