Foreign coffee shop

As many stories do this one begins at at the equivalent of what you might call a coffee shop.
John had strolled a few blocks past his normal chain cafe in the center of the old city to a little place he had passed by the other day.
The day gave the offhand shop an authentic elegance; though in an alleyway the sun shown through on polished cobble and a summery breeze swayed the plants hanging in nearby residential windows.
The shop was one of those hole in the wall places, like a cavern blasted in the buildings ancient facade and covered in plaster.
It consisted only of a stand with the usual concesiones, and a single electric stovetop. Behind the counter say a plump bearded man with a serious disposition but clear smile lines; the kind but stern face common among the elderly locals.
There was no room to sit inside but three tables with mismatched chairs had been placed just outside. Instead of a name a large sign over the store simply proclaimed “Coca-Cola”.
It was well known that the more run down the establishment, the better the food. Passing by on the previous occasion he had smelled the most wonderful shakshuka, a vegetable and egg dish, and had made a mental note to return to try it. And so here he found himself.