This month troops went on intrepid journey into unknown hinterlands of St. Aubin.
Arena - Bistro Soleil. In my day a Bistro meant Paris, discretion, gingham table cloths, and chianti bottles with candles stuffed in 'em. Now it's bargain night at lighting emporium, striped pine, and hootchy koochy music loud enough to count as sonic weaponry. Personally think it's a Bolshevik plot.
Seventeen chaps mustered in Bistro Soleil bar - I've had more room in latrines on Indian troop trains, Men reviewed menus and made plans of attack only to find more menu on new fangled back-lit wall displays. Made note that enemy very cunning - strategy obviously to confuse.
As front line cramped, troops advanced to open ground of dining room. Here enemy craftily split men between two tables - refectory type with bench seating around, for those fellows like yours truly with more mature figure this meant Instant Immobilisation. Enemy proving more devious by the minute.
Although menu interesting, reports to H.Q. were that quality varied.
Starters; Fried Brie good, pate not; escargot too garlicky; smoked trout O.K.; hors d'oeuvres good
Main: Steak good; fish good; veal cordon bleu texture of old chamois leather; seafood brochettes had more onions and peppers than seafood.
Puds; Most noticeable - trifle. Big enough to have scuppered the Grafspay.
Service; Brisk, infrequent and administered by young flibber-gibbettes in tight -tee shirts - not good for a chap's blood pressure.
Wine: Fair but pricey.
However, victory once more to Mensa. We ate their food without visible after effects, drank their wine without choking on the cost, and demanded more coffee.
Enemy's defences collapsed because they tried to engage in too many sorties at once and did not notice our devious raising of noise level, nor our capture of open space at end when several members held ground on dining room floor for further conversation and exchange of pleasantries while enemy had to wait to close.