05 February 2009

Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys: Third Food Edition


Since you've been informed that if the Artist and I use heavily-accented French it is by no means de trop, in fact it is de rigueur, we have plunged headlong into a Parisian wonderland. Without even leaving Perthshire! Incroyable, you'll agree. Half-hearted digs at our Gallic cousins have always been common; I even heard someone say "bloody Frogs!" the other day. In 2009! So, balancing on a tight-rope between the ridiculous political correctness that has had Carol "Golliwog" Thatcher deposed from her formidable throne and the insidious xenophobia more at home in football stadia, the Artist and I went hunting for frites, and I am definitely not talking about Freedom Fries.

The big news is THIS: the grand old city of Perth has a passable - no, good - French restaurant. The Artist found it, it's name is Café Tabou on St. John's Place. We were three, me, the Artist and the Infanta. She is a capricious child at times, and has a mad penchant for butter bread, that is t0 say, any bread or toast smeared liberally in butter. Luckily our jaunty waiter (all very authentic in here readers, French staff, crap French music and checked table cloths - it was like being in a dream of utmost joy. Did I say we were in Perth?) brought us a wicker basket piled high with fresh baguette and butter. Mission accomplished: the Infanta calm and happy with the food situation. Which is all you want when lunching with a two-year-old, franchement. Now on to us. An enormous slaveringly delicious-tasting croque monsieur with frites and salad. A generous bowl of steaming moules marinières with frites and a vat of white wine to wash it all down with. This felt very French to me and the atmosphere really did transport us far from the freezing streets. The moules were fantastic, and the best part was when I said so to the waiter and he rushed to the kitchen and shouted "FANTASTIC MUSSELS" to the requisite but unexpected fat gallic chef in the kitchen. The wine list looked pretty good but we couldn't sample too much as we were chaperoning said child. The house white was absolutely fine.
So, no crise in Perth today, apart from when the Infanta threw a frite at the muddled garçon. This was highly amusing but one mustn't encourage a child to badness when she's getting trained up, even if she admits herself she is "bad to the bone".
Photo courtesy of Claudia Massie

3 comments:

  1. Food & Foreign lingo, "A que hora es el desayuno, tengo hambre, quiero comer huevos revueltos" with pan toastado off course

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  2. So do we have to explore Perth, then...

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  3. Anonymous10:19 pm

    C'etait moi qui t'a dit 'bloody frogs'

    Sinon je l'affirme, si c'est bien moi je le reaffirme... les grenouilles sont ensanglantes.

    Je t'embrasse tres fort.

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