Hidden Treasures

As I draw my unfortunately imaginary KillAllTourists3000 and vaporise an entire tour group of Italian adolescents outside Leicester Square Tube Station ('Butta werra izza Trafalgar??? Whya you shoota me???), I begin to slow-release the permanently festering hatred that I have for the West End. A spaghetti carbonara made from offcuts of Shellys shoeboxes and discarded polystyrene BigMac containers from Burundi maybe? Perhaps Steak & Kidney Pie rehashed from reprocessed lambs' umbilical cords and 14-day old chip-fat gravy? What shall we have for dinner tonight?

But tonight is different. I have a glint in my eye. I am in classy company. It is time to take a risk. No Aberdeen Steak House for us tonight (sorry Erik, you gotta convince me it ain't from your home town), not even the Angus. The corner of my eye has seen something, and it knows best. A hidden gem of a bistro may have just entered my field of vision.

We walk into 'Beaujolais' and get the customary French greeting:

'Hrrmnnn?'

Two please.

'Hrrmnnn?'

Two please, can we sit at the bar?

'Hrrrrmnyesh. Grmmmnfgd.'

As the spoils of the war of our fromage platter are divided (blue cheese for she, smelly for me), we start to take in our surroundings. Or rather our surroundings start to take us in. A stout, portly and one suspects JackDanielsy Frenchman barges into my left shoulder, the bar, and probably an oil rig in the North Sea at the same time; he curses from afar an unfortunate customer who has taken lawful advantage of his bladder-induced absence to rob him of his barstool. 'I'l m'a niqué ma chaise, je vais le niquer!' he bellows, in the absolute certainty that his neighbour - yours truly - would not understand his bold assertion that 'He fucked my chair, I will fuck him!'. As I share this beautiful linguistic nuance with my companion, the owner comes over and shares some of the wondrous history behind this magical venue we have discovered par hasard.

We are sitting at the bar, au zinc if we were in France, and in front of us lies a discrete brass plaque commemorating the life of Tony Hogan. We are told in a very reverential and respectful manner that Tony, local patron of more than 20 years, was THE archetypal English gentleman, favourite guest, and that he had passed away recently. Up on the wall, we are shown a members' board, complete with each local's In/Out sliding marker. Tony's is at the very top, set to Always In. We understand immediately how much this person means to everyone here, all four barmen stop to describe Tony as a local legend never to be forgotten. It is a very touching moment.

We are but new people in this bar full of past, present and future. That the owners take a shine to us and care to explain the significance of the place we are lucky to be in is more of a crowning glory than a mountain of chantilly crème topping on a rich chocolate mousse. Which makes part-owner Jean-Yves' words all the more special after we have enjoyed a fantastically entertaining soirée of cross-Channel banter. He waves regally at his clientèle and turns towards me. 'This wine bar has been here for 30 years and there are only locals here.' he whispers, his salt and pepper (avec hint of Brie) beard rustling and bustling nervously as he leans towards me and continues 'You will be locals, I know it...'.

He is truly not mistaken. My friend and I had entered this Narnian enclave within the infernal chaos of Soho with the innocent hope of escaping reality for but a short while. Ethan, you would be proud of me...