Au Cochonnet Marin

“If a man smiles all the time, he’s probably selling something that doesn’t work.”
George Carlin

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Once upon a time, in a galaxy far far away, lived an amalgam of quarrelsome tribes called “Terriens”.

They coexisted under an eccentric set of rules called “democrazy”.
Under this arrangement, every four years all tribesmen (regardless of their mental condition) were summoned to select a chief, a liege lord.

And so one year, after being deluged with fantastical claims, the Terriens picked an individual who vowed to bring them back to the Promised Land. A land of milk and honey where everybody (except a few of course) would live a prosperous and happy life.

They chose a leader who was called Drake (the name of a male duck by the way).
He was very wealthy and he was also dubbed the Gift-Bringer of the East. All his followers expected a great deal of plundering and looting in return for their votes.

During his drive for control, Drake made numerous promises but shortly after being triumphantly hoisted on a shield by his warriors, he wavered.
He realized that there was a very big gap between free flowing rhetoric and action.

He also quickly discovered that people can be fickle, and that hell has no fury like scorned mercenaries. After a brief honeymoon period, peasants carrying pitchforks and torches soon started to gather nightly in front of his castle demanding satisfaction.
They also began to call him the Flapdoodle Whisperer.

Drake who was notoriously thin-skinned didn’t like that. He retreated to his ivory tower and ordered his minions to raise the drawbridge. He also decided to ignore troubadours and minstrels to disseminate his ideas and only communicate with his legions with tweeting birds.

In the meantime, Christmas was fast approaching and in spite of the existing hardship, people furiously engaged in the greatest commercial hustle of the year.

On Christmas Day, Santa who was traveling on his SPPS (self-propelled photovoltaic sleigh) noticed a disturbance on Drake’s estate and decided to have closer look.
He did not like what he saw.

Drake had been talking ceaselessly about “cleaning the black lagoon” but when Santa looked at Drake’s swimming pool he couldn’t help but notice that the pool was full of very wealthy “swamp creatures”.
He decided to give the Drake a taste of his own medicine.
Instead of the gold, frankincense and myrrh that Drake had expected, Old Nick dropped a big lump of coal in his stocking and disappeared, chortling in the dark.

And if you paid close attention, you could have heard his jolly voice roaring in the night: Ho, ho, ho chump! Or was it hump, bump, dump, trump?
Who knows?

‘Merry Christmas, nearly everybody!’

Alain

“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.” –Virginia Woolf

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After years of indifferent, faux French cuisine and bad service, it looks like the Larkspur Left Bank Brasserie finally got it right.

Last Sunday, on the spur of the moment, we decided to go the Left Bank for brunch.
We arrived around 1:00 pm and were seated right away. In the past, a disagreeable (bordering on rude) hostess gave an unpleasant welcome to people who dared showing up without reservations.
This time, without having to flash a Global Entry security pass we were promptly seated.
Restaurateurs should never forget that the smile or the frown of the hostess sets the tone for the dining experience.

Since the weather was clement, we opted to seat outside.

The patio of the Left Bank is dog friendly and we dined surrounded by a multitude of four-legged beasties. Personally, I think that dogs should be accommodated in any restaurant. They are usually better behaved and less troublesome than some overindulged brats.
Brats could be seen, not heard!

The brunch menu is not large but varied and reasonably priced. Every dish is priced between $11.00 and $16.00.

I ordered the Assiette de Saumon (smoked salmon, radishes, crème fraiche, capers) and my dining companion opted for a Lamb sandwich.
We were both pleased with our choices.

Our waiter was friendly and diligent and we did not have to fiddle with our smartphones waiting for our dishes to materialize.

After years of wandering in the restaurant wilderness, it looks like the Left Bank finally found its mojo again.

A pleasant dining place. I give it my seal of approval.

Alain

“Remember, sex is like a Chinese dinner. It ain’t over ’til you both get your cookie.”
Alec Baldwin

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I must confess that I squander a lot of time trawling the Internet.
Yes, this is a weakness of mine. But to my defense, I must argue that “Idleness is the enemy of the soul”, and to keep my mind active I trawl the vast ocean of the World Wide Web.

Most of the stuff I gleam on the web is not really amusing, but once in a while like an old Forty-Niner of yesteryear, I find a nugget in my gold pan.
And that’s what happened yesterday.

My eyes caught the following paragraph:

“Every September 12, the people of Russia are allowed to take the day off in order to have sex. Sometimes, if a baby is born exactly nine months later, the parents will actually get cash prizes.”

 I don’t know how you feel about Putin and his policies, but you have to admit that this is a hell of an idea.
A day off to have sex! ‘боже мой’ (OMG!) Just like evading taxes, this is pure genius!

To keep his people docile, Vladimir gives them what they want: sex.

Hillary could learn from this. Instead of “fighting for equal pay”, Hillary should have sponsored a (paid) day off to have sex.
“Stronger together”? Lame. “Shagging together” much better.

If the Donald ever decides to turn on his good friend and attack Russia, September 12 would be the time to do it. When everybody in Russia has his pants down.

When you get to know them, Russians are friendly people. Full of ideas…There are many successful Russian entrepreneurs in the US, and they are successful because just like Volodia (diminutive of Vladimir), they think outside the box.

Have sex, and get paid for it! Pure genius!

Alain

 “I blame my mother for my poor sex life. All she told me was ‘The man goes on top and the woman underneath.’ For three years my husband and I slept in bunk beds.”
Joan Rivers