Do you think that I’d be suited in the world of culinary reviews? I’ve always dreamed of someone being interested in my convoluted film reviews, but maybe I’ll start with Paris café culture as a basis and work my way from there…

It’s just a little café that I want to get my teeth into, a stone’s throw from our place and a remarkable luxury in that it’s open on Sundays and until late at night, when the rest of the 16th sleeps and dreams of clouds with silver, gold and platinum credit card linings (exhausted by a day of frivolous spending and excessive promenading).

It goes by the name of Bo-Zinc, but we affectionately term it the ‘wanker café.’

(Excuse my language, Gran & Granddad, it’s just a new swanky French work I’ve picked up…)

This local café on the corner should be an absolute gem – with an interesting and reasonably innovative menu, affordable drinks, and a cosy and charming décor. In fact, we’ve theorised that this is the end product of when rebel-rebel youths of the 16th break from tradition and attend design school, instead of studying finance.

But… I find it an ordeal whenever I go there. Back in the heady, tobacco-smoke-clouded days of 2007, you could go to the café and watch on as the waiters leant back and smoked ciggies and practised looking like Orlando Bloom. There wasn’t much else to look at, no distraction in the form of a drink, as they weren’t likely to break from their posing to actually serve anyone. Now, in 2008 and strict anti-smoking laws, the new season’s fashion is for them to talk amongst themselves.

G & I were doing out laundry the other night, and wondered if we should stop by for a drink there to kill time. Until we realised that we probably wouldn’t get served before the half hour cycle of the washing machines was over, so we just brought a laptop and a DVD of The Office to convert the laundromat into our own personal lounge room…