In my old fantastic, walkable neighborhood, I would go to the local independent coffee shop 1-2 times a week. I don't drink coffee, but they made a nice cup of tea, in several different forms. More than that, they knew me. Steve knew my order when I walked in. "London Fog today, or something else, Villanelle?" Steve and I had several conversations about literature based on my novel-cover graphic tees I wore most days. I knew when Steve put in his notice to move back to Texas, where he was from. Etc. I would sit and write for a couple hours. If I was there long enough, I might order a second beverage or a cookie. The cookies were handmade by a lady who carried them in, and then went straight into the bakery case and usually didn't last more than an hour. Divine.
None of this is particularly mustachian, by most definitions. But it meant enough to me that if I still lived there, I'd have considered returning to work part-time before giving that up.