He's staring critically at the proffered assortment; this batch has already been picked over a bit, but there's plenty left to choose from. He has to choose carefully. Exercise self-restraint.

Decision made, he gathers a watercress and cucumber sandwich, as well as two vanilla wafer biscuits, loading the small china plate he takes from the stack on the counter. Hardly the most decadent things in the case, bland in comparison. There's a variety of puddings, creations covered in ganache, ornate sandwiches laid out on different breads. Even the croissants are homemade.

"Anything, really. Their rolls are really good - actual crust, with a crunch, none of that spongey stuff that the supermarket dares to call a loaf."

He leaves the case, strolls over to the coffee drum, and, picking the largest of the mugs, pours himself the Turkish option, right up near the brim. No restraint there.

"I used to have to order this in Dari." No cream, no sugar, just the coffee is balanced upon the plate. "There was this vendor, in Tehran, who'd moved from Afghanistan - he was the best, hands down, but if you didn't speak Dari he wouldn't serve you. Very old-fashioned."