Elegant lady in an Osaka café

Manong Ralph, my cousin Hannah, and I explored the neighborhood to buy groceries and some coffee. We turned a corner because it had begun to rain. We were supposed to buy groceries at the nearby Seven-Eleven, but we were distracted when we saw a quaint, old store that smelled of fresh bread and warm caffeine. We went in, transported into a different realm of sorts. The store also smelled of old wood, like ancestral houses in the provinces, and a piano concerto—Chopin, perhaps?—was playing from an old stereo. Beside us were old men smoking, their eyes glued to their newspapers. Hannah, sensitive to smoke and smells, coughed violently. I told her to keep it low; otherwise it might be construed as offensive, as we were in a smoking area, after all. Meanwhile the elegant lady, who ran and possibly owned the store, could not keep still. She wiped the counter, washed the cups, kept everything spotless—all these as the she made drip coffee and toasted the bread with cheese for the three of us. 

Don't we all cherish these random, surprising, unplanned moments?