When it’s this hot out, it’s best to remain indoors, even in late summer. But the processed air gets so stale and stuffy, and the thought of all those assorted germs incubating in other people’s sinus cavities, is enough to make you forget about the weather and seek shade, iced tea, and the solace of a good book, or with luck, a few moments of pleasant conversation. Perhaps now you can understand what brought me to this row of wrought iron tables under the wisteria-covered awning at Mathilde’s.

Mathilde’s is a small café, the only one of its kind, at least in this area. And it is here that I wile away my time when the chance presents itself. The outdoor ceiling fans keep the air circulating just enough until the breeze stirs again and clears the dust off the waxy leaves of the plants. At the center of Mathilde’s patio, surrounded by date palms, hibiscus, and banana trees, is a small fountain—nothing fancy, just a trickle of water down a series of shallow basins, gurgling, in mimic of a gentle rain. In other seasons, I recall such a rain, but these days are mostly parched. When the rains do come, the weather is violent and angry—a reminder that one day the elements will rise up and reclaim all this land in the name of the Gulf of Mexico. But for today, I try not to think of that future and refresh myself with tea steeped with papaya and passion fruit.

There are many regulars at Mathilde’s, some I know well, but most I’ve spoken with only casually or they’re familiar by sight. Of this latter type is a distinguished-looking gentleman, quite tall and striking in appearance. He stands well above six feet and carries himself with a bearing both unapologetic and upright. No matter the weather, I have only seen him wearing light-colored suits of airy fabric, either an ascot or no tie at all, slip-on shoes, and always a wide-brimmed hat of Panama style from under which wisps of brown hair are escaping. When he is not engaged in conversation, his expression is stoic and chiseled. In the company of others, especially young females, his face becomes as fluid and expressive as the most accomplished and seasoned of actors. Without question, his most noteworthy feature of all, however, is a pencil thin mustache that looks like it has been freshly painted with the precision of a razor-sharp wand.

But even this is not what caught my attention first. I was initially held spellbound by a medium to large dog at his side, patterned of a gray so wispy and ephemeral, and yet with the richness of marble, to produce the dominant impression of his wearing a blue coat. If this coloring proved illusory or merely suggestive, not so the piercing blue of his eyes, in sharp contrast with the brown of his master’s. Oddly, the dog also wears an ascot and a navy blue beret. On another animal, with a different owner, I would have rightly found this absurd. Yet somehow this combination, and the curious way the dog emulated his master’s carriage and gait, even down to the dignified expression on the animal’s face—if a dog can be said to wear an expression—made everyone regard this pair with the utmost respect.

Though the dog walked with the man on a leash, the man never once tied the dog to anything when he went inside for his espresso. The dog sat without being told, head held high and slightly cocked, looking with disinterest about the courtyard until his master returned, coffee in hand—always, always with a bottle of Evian, and a cup, and a saucer for the dog. Anyone passing by could not help but greet them both with a hearty Bonjour!