I opened this café with the best of intentions: to provide a salon par excellence with a focus on good food and live entertainment, a third place to relax and slow down against the rising tide of modernity. A space where one might, after a long day of work, sip a drink, nibble a pastry, or maybe even kick a raunchy can-can. But absolutely not to paint shit.
Please understand that I am in no way attempting to pish posh, or worse, call ballyhoo upon the many wondrous distractions this city has to offer. I’ll have you know that the electric lights of the penny arcade are one of my great pleasures. Window-browsing through our arrondissement’s many fine boutiques? A parsimonious joy. And don’t even get me started on the opium dens. But I’m sorry, the buck stops when a dude in a chore jacket takes out a goddam pastel tray during our nightly cabaret.
Withal, I recognize how the tastes and cultural mores of the audience are subject to change. I myself recall lifting an unwieldy lamp of whale oil upon hearing my favorite brass band’s signature ditty. But times are different now. This is the Belle Epoque, and also, that was a huge fire hazard.
