a very short French story.

Happy New Year to you on this the date when the rest of the world write it the way America does – 1/1/11.

There have been many many hits and people are looking at this blog all over the world – there is a map of recent hits above.

I say looking at it and I hope most of them have read it but thanks in any case.

After the Christmas break and holiday with all the turkey, mince pies, sausage rolls and Christmas pud we ventured out to one of our check point Charlies – The Farmer's Market of course – and went to the French Restaurant Marcel's for lunch.

We couldn't quite make up our minds about the special or anything else on the menu so we both settled for Coq au van; we've had it a few times before and, I have to say, it's usually very good and a good stand by.

I have never been let down at Marcel's and have eaten loads of things on their menu. It usually has quite a pleasant ambiance with an accordion player wearing a striped shirt and beret (I kid you not) adding to the atmosphere; especially in the evenings as the tables, as with every other place there, are in the open with a canopy over the top.

So the French music, the hub bub of the market with the occasional chiming of The Farmer's Market Clock adds to a very pleasant experience.

As I sat there looking at the menu it reminded me of one of the times I was at Cannes trying to sell my film; I was with an old, dearly departed friend David Capey; he was a fine editor and general film maker.

During various festivals in Cannes the restaurants and bars increase their prices many fold but we knew of a place at the base of the Palais where the workers would go for their food. The menu there, as in Marcel's, was on a chalk board and on one of the days it said frits and something as the special so we settled for that. We hardly spoke any French but we knew that frits meant chips – French fries.

So we settled down at our table with a couple of glasses of red wine.

We would drink complimentary pink Champagne all day and red wine at meals.

The food in front of us looked very strange; I recognised the chips, of course, but what was that with them? It didn't look too good and from what I can remember didn't smell too good either.

It was piled up with onions and when I looked closer at it it reminded me of a body part; not a pretty body part in fact a naughty bit; not too naughty but a naughty bit shared by men and women and not the cheeks in fact the bit in between.

Was I going to eat this thing on my plate; this thing that looked like somebody's arse? I looked at David and he tried a fork full; “not bad” he said.

I tried some and it tasted awful; the worst taste I have ever experienced ever ever ever!!

“We're eating tripe, matey” he said.

Not long after that I took a course in French.