Out for a bite at the local bistro, my thoughts reach out accross the room, seeking a sense of the authentic experience, the embrace of a France gone by.
I gaze over at the prints of old French plays and rural country scenes, spread out across the terracotta coloured wall, and varnished panelled boards, the faint tunes of accordian playing artisans, each seeking to evoke an ambience of France - the sights, the sounds and the scents.
And yet;
The lighting is just a little to clear, bright and constant to really replicate the sunlight of some Aquitaine sky or even the flickering evening lamps from some Brittany farm.
The floorings is just too swept and clean, failing to show the footprints of a ploughman trudging in from the fields carrying with him the scent of the country.
The waitress‘s uniform just too starched and pressed, and questions carrying with her an accent that’s just too full of Australian twang.
The lighting is just a little to clear, bright and constant to really replicate the sunlight of some Aquitaine sky or even the flickering evening lamps from some Brittany farm.
The floorings is just too swept and clean, failing to show the footprints of a ploughman trudging in from the fields carrying with him the scent of the country.
The waitress‘s uniform just too starched and pressed, and questions carrying with her an accent that’s just too full of Australian twang.
No it's just another corporate clone, and my dreams of authenticity will have to await that visit to the plates of beans of toast, served up with mugs of too strong tea, delivered up on a slightly chipped plate with the bent cutlery and big red sauce bottles you can only find at Sid's Greasy Cafe, Parie.
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