Here’s what no one tells you about a café located in the most photographed neighborhood of Quebec. Not the Instagram photos, not the Google reviews. The real diary of a week, chronicle by chronicle.

Monday · 7:12 a.m.

The first espresso of the week always belongs to someone who still doesn’t really want to be awake. This morning it’s a man in his fifties, gray wool coat, who comes in without looking at the menu. He orders just with his fingers: two small index finger taps, that universal gesture meaning two espressos.

He leaves five minutes later with his two empty cups neatly placed on the counter. He didn’t say a word. He will come back tomorrow.

Monday · 11:30 a.m.

A couple arrives with two strollers and four children between five and ten years old, more or less. They look at the menu silently for a good minute. One of the children asks if we have Coca-Cola. We don’t. He asks for orange juice. We don’t have that either. He finally accepts a hot chocolate which he drinks very quickly as if it were a matter of life or death.

The parents order two lattes. They sit outside on the terrace even though it’s still chilly. They need fresh air, it shows. They stay for forty-five minutes. It’s long and short at the same time, depending on which parent you ask.

Tuesday · 8:45 a.m.

A German tourist comes in with an unfolded paper map, which is hardly seen anymore. He is looking for the funicular. We explain in English, with hands, eyes, everything we can. He understands. He leaves in the right direction, map folded in the pocket of his raincoat. He will come back to order a hot café au lait twenty minutes later. The funicular was closed for maintenance.

Wednesday · 2:20 p.m.

A young photographer spends two hours on our terrace with his camera placed on the table between him and his flat white. He is not photographing the coffee. He is photographing the people passing through the alley. He has that sideways, attentive look, not dreaming but taking notes. Before leaving, he asks if we have any charcuterie boards. We do. He orders. He will stay until 5 p.m.

Thursday · 9:15 a.m.

A neighborhood resident comes in every morning since we opened. She always orders the same thing: a cappuccino with a little less foam. Today she asks if we can add cinnamon. We can. She says it’s to celebrate something. We ask what. She says she finished reading a book she hadn’t been able to finish for three years.

This is the best reason to add cinnamon we’ve ever heard.

Friday · 5:45 p.m.

The weekend starts here on a Friday evening, when the neighborhood changes pace. Workers give way to strollers. Voices rise a notch. Someone orders a glass of wine. Then another. The espresso machine runs faster, Quebec cheese boards come out one after another.

A man settles in alone with a book and a glass of red wine. He reads for two hours without looking up. Before leaving, he leaves the book on the table. It’s a novel by Patrick Modiano. We will put it behind the counter to see if anyone asks for it. No one will ask for it. We will end up reading it.

Sunday · 10 a.m.

Sunday morning is the slowest and most beautiful service of the week. People arrive without watches, without schedules. They stay a long time. They watch the street. Sometimes they speak softly as if the neighborhood is still sleeping a little and they don’t want to wake it up.

This morning, a man orders an espresso and asks if there is music playing. We tell him yes, sometimes, but not this morning. He says that’s fine. He sits by the window and stays for an hour and a half with his empty espresso in front of him, watching the cobblestones wet from the morning rain.

This is what a café at Petit Champlain is. Not just coffee. A place where people arrive with something and leave with something else. We don’t always know what. But we see it on their face as they leave.