What people don’t know about the French is that they’re almost as perverted and degenerate as the Germans. (Can you guess who rank below even the Germans? Eskimos. Their nipples are always, always hard. Dirty fiends.) French glamour is tinged with depravity and the knowledge that they are 99% sure to be up for that thing you want to do but dare not ask. You know what I’m taking about. Hence their fetish for red velvet. UK barkeeps stow a billy club behind the bar; yanks keep a baseball racket. The French? A riding crop.
I only managed one proper frenchy noshing in my recent trip and so I gunned for a typical Parisian bistro/brassiere, Un Zebra A Montmartre (http://www.unzebreamontmartre.fr/). It’s not fancy, but spills out onto the cobbled street as do a thousand like it in Paris and France and not so successfully in the UK. Why can’t we get that element of cafe culture right? Is it because our bistros generally spill out onto a busy A-road, giving you a front row seat to the bull-mastiff bowel evacuation show? I digress. The place was complete with lots and lots of red velvet and was staffed by metrosexuals orbiting the aged deviant lurking, probably chained up, behind the bar.
I was efficiently seen to and got a cheap steak, well prepared, with red wine and for a price that didn’t make my eyes water (€30). My French is a bit rusty, because daddy could only afford private school and not good private school so I didn’t correctly identify the French for rib-steak. Thanks Daddy. In case you didn’t know the italics mean I’m being sarcastic. Can you get a well prepared steak in London for the equivalent for €16? I know you can probably buy one, but you know you’re going to compromise on some metric: it’ll be sinewy, fatty, rubbery or donkey. I just find the contrast so confusing. Like when Asians dye their hair blonde.
Un Zebra A Montmatre
38 Rue Lepic
Tel: 01 42 23 97 80