Setting: Seven-thirty in the evening in the café/bar in the village of Auvers-le-Hamon, France: population 1,500
The café owner, a tall, thin man is leaning on the shelves behind the bar, his arms crossed. One customer, a reddish man with a long shaggy moustache, is seated at the bar. I’m also sitting at the bar, reading the local newspaper (what they call here “the journal of squashed cats.”)
Shaggy moustache: (looking out the front window) Pfffhewww. Cold out there.
Bar owner: Sure is.
Shaggy moustache: Much colder than yesterday.
Bar owner: Much.
Door opens. In comes a youngish, clean-shaven man with dark hair. He sits at the bar, orders a beer.
Youngish man: Phew. Cold out there. W-pp-hhhh. (bats hands)
Bar owner: Wophhhpf. Sure is.
Youngish man: Colder than last night.
Café owner and Shaggy moustache together: Woophffff. Certainly is.
Door opens. In comes another youngish man who also sits at the bar and orders a pastis.
Second youngish man: Fhoo! (slaps upper arms) Cold out there.
First youngish man: Hoohfff! Certainly is!
Café owner: Colder than last night.
First youngish man: You can say that again!
Second youngish man: Pwfff. Much colder!
Shaggy moustache: Wffofff.
Shaggy moustache: They say it’ll be even colder tomorrow.
First youngish man: Heard that too.
Second youngish man: Fufffff.
Me: I don’t know if anyone’s noticed this, but we are in mid-November.
Very long silence
Second youngish man: (slowly) She’s right, you know.
Bar owner: (equally slowly) Yes. She is.
Very long silence.
First youngish man: But still…
Shaggy moustache: Yes, but still… pwfff. Cold out there.
 There’s a considerable amount of onomatopoeia in French bar conversations. I’ve reproduced the sounds as closely as possible.