Paris is, amongst many other things, a literary city. It features in the work of many great writers. Between the two World Wars, because of its relative cheapness and prohibition in the US, many Americans came to stay, write, eat and drink. One such, of course, was Ernest Hemingway, bon viveur if ever there was one. He told of his life in Paris in “A moveable feast”. A lot of the Paris he portrays no longer exists. He describes, for example, watching a neighbour going downstairs to collect the morning milk. This was provided, not far from the Boulevard Saint-Michel, by a passing herd of goats led by a goatherd. There are however places which Hemingway frequented which remain the same. In this category is Brasserie Lipp, the traditional 19th century café/restaurant near the Boulevard Saint-Germain. I once had lunch there with my wife on the proceeds of a windfall which we decided to blow on a no-holds-barred trip to Paris. Because of its reputation we entered Lipp with trepidation. The decor is typical brasserie, all brass and mirrors. The waiters wear traditional white aprons and were, to be honest, somewhat intimidating. It was heaving. I began to relax, feeling we were not going to get a table. Then it happened. The realisation that this was a welcoming, friendly place. Someone signaled “two?”, a waiter appeared carrying above his head a small table which he proceeded to insert in a gap which he created by easing diners and their tables to one side. We were now sat in a long row of joined-up tables, like the top table at a wedding reception. Again I had been made aware that there is no deep snobbery to eating out in France. There may be a money barrier but if you get over that once in a while you will be treated the same as any other customer. The same as Ernest Hemingway in fact.