|
L'Express "Le magazine" n°2608 – June 28, 2001
The news got around the capital in the space of a few weeks, from the locker room of the French stadium to the coffee distributor of Canal +. And the info wasn’t lacking in spice: in the depths of the XVth arrondissement there’s an atypical, festive and radically different place. On my honour it’s just perfect for summer. Situated in the middle of nowhere, on a plot jammed between a disused factory and France Telecom’s empty offices, La Bodega’s circus is none other than the much acclaimed kind hybrid monster. This charming circus is genuine. The clowns and the acrobats too. The rest, the café-restaurant-nightclub, is the work of a handful of southerners, past Bodegas, in Bastille. Tapas are eaten in candlelight by the platefull, while applauding the clowning about and Circassian achievements. The noise level quickly increases around the tables. That’s the aim of the game. A stag party in one corner and an army of giants standing elbow to elbow, hollering a couple of indecent chants in another. Then, as quick as lightening, the professional clowns have handed the floor over to the amateurs. Yves, on sound, “plays everything and anything, old-fashioned stuff in preference, but stuff they all truly long for”, according to Virginie, one of the managers. Joe Dassin, Serge Lama, Madonna, Patrick Sébastien, Spainolades, same thing and why not? Only one house rule: above all else not to be fashionable. No more pretending to appreciate tartar(e) at 300 francs a go, or techno. Dady’s boy, the country bumpkin, the run of the mill, Guy Forget, David Hallyday, the cheerful team of Jean-Luc Delarue (Réservoir Prod) all sweating, joking, shouting, throwing their arms in the air. The natural aspect for the moment goes without saying. Special favours and forthright VIPs have been shelved. In this compulsory whirlpool, everyone appears to regain the primitive ability to party, be it during one of the never-ending-parties, evenings between friends, or amid one of the Indian files of guests that tend to run about at an uncle’s wedding. A childish hysteria the dictators of select good taste and fashion scorn. The henceforth has-beens…
A. Mh.
|
