What makes the French so infuriatingly French?

By Philip Delves Broughton

From our old apartment in Paris, I used to walk our dog down the Boulevard Saint Germain past the once bohemian, now touristy, Cafe des Deux Magots. At around 7.30am, while Paris slept, lined up in the windows of the cafe, each at their own individual table, would be four or five American men peering over their coffee cups into the street. You could tell they were not French from their books, their baseball caps and the fact they were up that early.  
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