By eight the stones along the pier are already warm enough for a cup, though the kettle is still on its way from the snack stall. The crabs line up with tiny sugar tongs fitted to their claws. A seashell is greeted first. Only after that, and only after a nod to the nearest boat, does a single cube of sugar get lifted toward tea.
We asked at the kiosk. "They will not take two," said the man who buys the same bun every morning. "I held out a second lump because I thought extra sweetness might keep until noon. The tongs considered it, looked at the shell, and put it back. The boat looked proud of everyone."
The pier keeper left a card by the bollard: if the boat has not nodded, please wait. Yesterday a neighbor came back at dusk with the same cup still faintly sweet. They offered the tongs another cube; the crabs declined, thanked him, and sent him home with the one he already had.