On the corner of Rue Mouffetard in Paris, an old man called Henri had been selling crêpes from the same tiny stall since 1972. He didn't talk much. He didn't smile much either. But the queue was always there, sometimes three streets long, and tourists who'd been waiting for an hour would still leave saying it had been worth every minute. Henri's secret, he once told a journalist, was that he never changed the recipe and he never rushed. "A crêpe is a conversation between butter, sugar and time," he said. "If you rush, you've already lost." He retired last spring. His granddaughter, who'd been training quietly beside him for six years, opened the same stall on the same corner the following Monday. The queue, people say, is still three streets long.
