Having decided to try out a local bistro recommended by our hotel, rather than heading into the city, we were surprised to find it closed along with pretty much everything else in the village. The only place doing a roaring trade was an Irish bar.
Having decided we fancied steak et pomme frites we set out on a determined mission to find some.There had to be somewhere; it was Saturday night. Finally, two open restaurants. Warning bells should have rung on viewing the flashing red neon sign at the door of the first but, hungry, we ventured inside. No tables...just an open space with a small ante-room, off the main reception area, housing two reclining leather massage chairs and a table displaying foot high letters, stating what was not immediately obvious - 'BAR'.
Before we had a chance to retreat we were accosted by a young French girl in skintight grubby jeans. 'Come upstairs,' she mumbled.
By this point, we both thought we had happened on the local brothel rather than bistro. This looked like the sort of establishment that charged by the hour!
'After you,' said LP. In other circumstances I might have considered that gentlemanly; at that moment I wanted to kill him. As we tentatively followed the girl upstairs clasping a wonky hand rail, about to part company with the wall, I couldn't believe my eyes when we were shown into a room complete with twirling mirrored disco ball, neon flashing lights and leather swivel seats. Amazingly it even had 4 diners.
Most bizarre of all was being shown to a table behind a set of vertical Venetian blinds that divided the room (see photo). All we wanted was steak and chips in vaguely convivial surroundings! Having been handed food splattered menus with burgers starting at €25, we knew it was time to leave. Classy...not!
'Some other time,' LP shrugged as we made good our escape and headed for the only other place open - a Chinese.
Not exactly the simple Parisienne cuisine we had planned. Things were not about to improve...after ordering a bottle of house red, that had clearly spent a long time in a very cold fridge, the owner came to take our order.
After stating that two of the three things we had chosen were off the menu, he stood tutting and tapping his notebook menacingly against his hand until I hurriedly chose something else. He spent the remainder of the evening glaring at us.
It felt like we'd stumbled upon a Triad cover for money laundering....where diners were an unwelcome intrusion into their mrore lucrative activities.
The evening was topped off by a text from Classified, saying he'd been reading my blog and wished me well with LP, which was really sweet but did slightly add to the surreal nature of an already random evening!
All too soon our time was up and I was back on Eurostar. Was the 14 hour return trip, 11 trains, 3 buses, a Triad, a restaurant fashioned on a bordello, a perfectly chilled bottle of, ahem, red and finally a car, worth it....just for 24 hours with LP?
You know what....I rather think it must have been...or else why would I be doing it all again later this week!
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