Cafe Traiteur

It was my first day in London. It was raining. I was jet lagged — tired as a horse after pulling the plows through the field all day long. I’d just seen my new apartment, paint peeling from the kitchen ceiling. I didn’t know a soul, like that one time when I was living in Kansas. (Okay, I never lived in Kansas, but I’m going for an old western feel here).
My stomach was yapping for some grub at the lunch hour, so I put on my boots and set to walking. I wandered along until I came to Café Traiteur. Looked a bit French. Nothing like those saloons back home, but I went inside anyway, leaving my covered wagon out front in the drizzle.
I sat down and had me a sandwich. French-​style on one of those baguettes. Then I set to a-​talkin’ with the owner, or maybe he set to a-​talkin’ with me; I can’t remember. And then sunshine came into my dreary day. Daniel, the owner was a down right friendly cowboy, and cheered me up like watching the clown at the rodeo. He exuded warmth and his cheerful nature imbibed me with hope. «Maybe London will be alright after all,» I thunk to myself.
The sandwich was alright, but it’s those quiches and croissants that have that scrumptious air. I had me a hot chocolate there once too, which was nothing to duel over, but was nice.
Regardless of anything else, I keep going back to this here café, because my lasso be broken if this guy ain’t just the nicest café owner I’ve ever met. I stop by and shout ‘howdy’ whenever I’m passing by. I have me a mighty fine time every time I go, and you will too.