The Seven Days War

Desperate for edible foodstuffs, Sheena gave up on the trendy-shite-pub scene and settled for a reliable source of nourishment and comfort.

Yes. The Cafe Rouge is indeed a chain restaurant. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And screw it. I confess. I love the Cafe Rouge.

Sheena discovered it last winter during a dreary stay in Greenwich. I now understand why it is called "Mean Time". I ate there everynight because the Pie House scared the bejeezus out of me with those jellied-eel special signs in the window.

Bistro comfort food. A kitchen that is open past 10pm. Cheap but adequate wine list. Nightly specials. Dessert menu that stirs one's willpower to shop for bigger jeans next payday.

We needed a break from the fragile egos of the sheltered twenty-something waitstaff of Britain's whinger class. These waitresses were lovely, hardworking charmingly accented Continental types who could crack a smile without sarcasm and double-check on any off-menu requests. Merci, my lovelies.

Steak frites. Mayo on the side without asking. A bliss-out rose to start with the homemade chicken liver parfait that put a sparkle into the most jaded Aussie farmer eye. Creme Brulee perfectly blowtorched as only a prison-break Martha could possibly conceive.

Good night my friends. Good frickin night.