Finding Chez Georges

I sat on the Champs Elysées, looking for a bar that might please me; But it was late at night and try as I might, I couldn’t get hosed as the bars were all closed.

I found a chair out in the night’s cold air and philosophised about how I could get ossified; And such was my determination to find some lubrication, that I sat out all alone, scrolling on my smartphone.

I knew I’d have to escape the coin, because the prices there would have me done; so I flew my map around, hoping a more suitable establishment could be found.

I arrived at an old wooden affair, with a bit of a stale air; and when I entered the door handle rattled and the barman looked embattled; but I persevered and was quickly cheered because the prices are cheap and the glasses are deep.

I went en bas to avoid any drama; I wanted to do a bit of reading — with some pretension — you’re probably feeling, this is no point of honour, I’m nowadays a bit of a flâneur, but let me be, because in Pari-ee everyone’s a bit of a dandy.

So I was sitting with my book, when an elderly German lady gave me the look; this had me shook because there was no way she was having that much luck; my heart began to sink imaging what she might think but she was fermented on the drink and had me tormented in a blink. So I said to myself fine, and downed my glass of wine; I left her hard and returned upstairs to get jarred.

So if you’re looking for cheese on a platter, or pretzels to make you fatter; if all you want is a bit of banter or a quiet natter — or indeed any of the latter, Chez George is where you should come to gorge.