Diane Kruger wants coffee and a croissant. No water, no açai berries, no seeds, just black coffee and a croissant, which she tears apart with hands and teeth. She has just slipped into a rooftop suite in New York's Hudson hotel to meet me, without entourage or fuss. She is wearing a black and grey cashmere jumper, leggings, flats, an expensive-looking bashed-up leather jacket, and her hair is shoved up into a little sumo wrestler bun. She folds herself up in the straightbacked chair, feet under bottom, hands full of pastry, nibbling like a squirrel. She is no head-turner. It's a slow burn. Gradually her fine-featured blondeness morphs from merely pretty into something more unexpected, something cold and perfect that stays with you after she leaves.