From Anna Seghers' "Transit"

     When the Mistral blew too hard, I would come to this pizzeria and sit at this same table. Back then I was surprised to find out that pizza wasn't sweet but tasted of pepper, olives, or sardines. I was usually light-headed with hunger, weak and tired, and almost always a little drunk, for I had only enough money to buy a slice of pizza and a glass of rose. Once inside the pizzeria I had only one difficult decision to make. Should I sit in the chair you're sitting in now, facing the harbor, or in the chair I'm in, facing the open fire? Each had its advantages. I could look for hours at the row of white houses on the other side of the Old Harbor behind the masts of the fishing boats under the evening sky. Or I could watch for hours as the cook beat and kneaded his dough, his arms diving into the fire as he fed it with fresh wood.