Ass chicken: deciphering culinary code in the window.

France, characteristic in deep respect for ancient traditions, has "re-entered" after the summer hïatus, and with, as ever, a notable galactic boum. The loud blowing of horns crowds out the evening rush hour, daily and apocalyptic in dimension, distinctively crescent by 3.30pm and waxing into full cornucopic splendour until around a quarter 'till ten. I mused, this must be what is referred to as Chaufferim, and I wondered what ramshorns these may be ... provençal or bourgogne?

Led by the tip of my nose, as the French say (mené par le bout du nez), my eyes stray again onto the ready-besmattered window of another fast-food refectory. This time, the fluo decal screams these three words: "ASS CHICKUN CHIKKA".

At once the spirit is troubled: is this an important new French delicacy of spring birds, or a reference to the soups of Southeast Asia made with that most fatty of sweetbreads? Is allusion made to the ultra-pungent Korean soya paste of Changkukjang? Or is my skittish vesperal gaze being pointed in the direction of spindly, black-enshrouded urbanite shiksas who totter atop crooked paving slabs into the shimmering haze ahead?

Or is my skittish vesperal gaze being pointed in the direction of spindly, black-enshrouded urbanite shiksas who totter atop crooked paving slabs into the shimmering haze ahead? Quotation

Is all this what makes Paris into the undisputed gastronomic capital of the world? Or is it a kind of mental word-puzzle, a passe-temps to while away the langorous hours in this hub of interminably delayed rail transport, a clue based on a well-known culinary axiom, Tandoori, Tikka, or Jerk Chicken? A Jamaican proctologist? Or is that Pokemon? Or "Sudoku", in which case the accent would firmly be poised on the last phoneme. Waking again, it dawned on me that "ASS" stands, after all, for "ASSIETTE", a plate or dish.

The remainder of that thread of mental imagery should not be indulged here.

I'll have what he's having . . .

Paris may indeed be the world capital, if no longer of gastronomy, then, assuredly, of cosmopolitanism. Mais bien sûr, but of course, my little rosbif friend, in the evident sense of High life, High fashion, and High cuisine . . . you say . . .

Mais non !! Du con!! I want to say that each dewy day brings its own eyebrow-twitching, pouting, hunched shoulder-dislocating, lip-vibrating, salvia dispersing, (often canine) Frogger-like journey, into a véritable onslaught of new fragrance, and bewildering texture, once more boldly to go where no anglo-saxon has ever gone before (complete with Benty Grange helmet) . . . a berserking into that which cannot readily be described afterwards, neither qualified nor explained leveraging known tongues, smacking, no less, of UFO abduction, and attendant timeloss, and in parting, even more so, if one dares draw that comparison, than in the lesser-known 17th century Welsh mining village, eponymous Makhn-a-Fayg.