Count of Monte Bistro

"I think I'll be needing two glasses. Vin de pays. Hold that; that would be six. No, make it four for the vin de table."

"And for dessert? The sous chef makes a wicked souflea; always rises to the occasion. It's a mere one sou. Should it not rise to your satisfaction you can sue the sous chef for malpractice. Of course that action has to be brought in the Court of Monte Cristo where the alleged tart, I mean tort, occurred."

"Thanks pal, but I'll pass."

"Tres dommage. Fromage then, perhaps. Still no? Very well then you cheesecape. "

"Let's see. That then comes to a total of fourteen. If you would be so kind as to put your clothes on the table and stand on the block there."

"Credit card won't do?"

"Please, Monsieur."

"Even Master Card, master?"

"No; and we don't accept Visa either. On this island all visas need validating and the valet is away. Most of them are fake, anyway."

"Really now," echoed Danos. "On credit? Give us a break here, DeVille."

DeVille takes a closer look at the masked man. Seemed like there is something familiar here.

Once Deville complies Danos stands from his desk, takes hold of the horsehair martinet and walks in front of the man standing there butt naked on the block. Deville looked at Danos without recognizing him because of the sparkling white mask.

"Hands on you head, s'il vous plait."

"Where do you wish to be served?"

"Huh? Oh. On my derriere, I suppose."

"Bon. Will you be wishing assistance, this afternoon?"

"Assistance?"

When Danos looked up, Deville followed along to see a chain hanging down above him with handcuffs.

"Think I'll pass. I'm hand-de-capped enough as it is."

"It's only five chits. If we have to interrupt and call for assistance during the service, it will be ten. Late fee, you understand."

"I'll still pass."

"Bon."

That said, Danos takes up position behind the man and begins lashing his back with the horrid horsehair martinet. After the third horrific stroke DeVille turns.

"I said my derriere; not my le dos. And don't lay them on my le so hard."

"Don't play the drama queen, DeVille. We already have enough of them as it is. This is merely a spanking for boys who have been bad. Weren't you ever spanked?"

Danos continues on lashing away with Gusto, the Sicilian.

DeVille struggles on for a few more. Suddenly he takes his hands off his head and starts to jump down. Instantly he is grabbed by two strong arm, bare chested blacks wearing red Turkish bloomers, much as if they were harem guards. That isn't surprising since they actually are from Constantinople.

In a flash DeVille finds himself back up on the block, ratcheted up onto his tiptoes by the overhead chain.

Danos confronts him with a smile.

"That will call for the surcharge that I mentioned of ten, my bon friend. Late fee, you know."

The friar interrupts his below deck jacking. Hum; Danos seems to be taking a personal liking to this one. Hummmm.

After another vicious half-dozen Danos pauses. "How are we doing monsieur; let's see here; it is monsieur DeVille, right?"

"I said my derriere; not my dos, asshole."

"Must be your accent. Then the acoustics in here do leave room for improvement. The ceiling tiles need replacement. They do wear out, you know. They can only absorb so much screaming."

Back Danos went to his labor of revenge while the friar resumed his labor on his love piece.

In the past the friar's dates had always resisted his piece de resistance after the entrée, just when he thought his piece was divine and irresistible. That was when he decided to forget the ladies and to go with the dates there in his garden.

Once again Danos turns to face DeVille.

"How are we doing now, DeVillage," he asked with a smirk.

"It's DeVille."

The tormented, sweating man with his back ablaze looks Danos in the eye. Yes, there is something familiar about him. "Don't I know you?"

"Per chance. But you haven't answered me. How's it going?"

"To be honest I'd rather be having dinner with Andre."

"Hey, I heard the other day that Cadillac likes it up her exhaust pipe; that she's a backseat driving instructor. Any truth to that, DeVillage?"

Good lord, thinks DeVille; he has to be one of them good-old, back-home boys.

"Who told you that?"

"A little birdie; a Thunder-Birdie. They're a-ford-able these days, you know."

The friar pauses to put his jackhammer in idle. Hum; double-hum.

"But we need to get along, little birdie."

"It's little doggie. And it's DeVille, mister mysterious mask man."

"Whatever. But the good friar is giving me the eye. In this room there is a no-loitering rule. Fortunately, business is booming and we must keep things moving along, little doggie, is it."

By the time Deville completes his horrid payment-in-advance purchase for dinner, his back is bloody jelly; somewhere between strawberry and blueberry.

Deville redresses very so carefully realizing that he would have to be back in response to future stomach demands. When handed his chits he is told that the ten for the hands-assist has already been redeemed for his convenience.

"Bon appetite, DeVillage," called out Danos as DeVille leaves for a shit, shine, shower and shave before advancing on the bistro. He'd leave it to others to storm the Bastille. You see, the expiration times and dates on the chits were always marked to expire within 24 hours. Take-home bags seemed always to be out of stock. And the open-container rule dashed any thought of bringing home a leftover wine. All had to resort to the resort rules.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Now French cuisine didn't have a monopoly in the bistro. Though it reigned supreme, there were others dishes served up twice a week.

For Italian night there was no change in the spanking implement used in buying admission chits, but there was a peculiar, mandatory addition. They would get feathered from head to toe.

"Just wait till I get out of here. I'm going to report you to the humane society for your inhumane treatment. Not only that, but I'll be seeing that the Audubon society gets wind of this. You can look forward to a tar-and-feathering, my fiend. Shit; just when you need a friend, they send you a fiend."

For the dreaded English Nights, the dessert was always Figgie pudding. Of course figs from the friar's garden were used - those that didn't measure up to their intended purpose. The rattan cane soaked in brim was in play for that day. Many an evening the bistro would have vacant tables on English Night. They could add salt to their wounds some other day.

Most dreaded of all was Scottish Night. The entrance ticket was punched with the tawse. Far worse was the fact that the meal was partaken to the cat's screeching of a piper. For that night chits for tisane were essential for survival digestion, were one simply having to attend. Being an herbal tea, it too was readily available. Herbs went far better in one's stomach than further up one's arse.

If a dinner wasn't well attended there would be a repeat course dished out the following evening. The chef would make things right even if it took three nights in a row.

German Night featured franks and sour sauerkraut. Meals were available via dog-whip purchased chits. As an alternative two-for-one were made available via the horsewhip. Inevitably one would ask how much for that doggie in the window, and to be frank about it.

Bamboo was provided for purchasing chits for Asian Night.

Nights of Arabia chits were bought with the kurbash. The Knights of Columbus would lend a hand in that, wearing their snazzy outfits to provide fine dining atmosphere. Take-home memoirs signed by its Supremes' cousin, twice removed, and countersigned by the Potentate, trice removed, were provided at no addition charge at the exit door.

Although it was backbreaking work getting tickets to the bistro, once one was there it was well worth it. Far better than trying to survive on a baguette-a jour while your fellow inmates described the previous night dining delicacies. And there was no charge for the cutlery. Chits were only require for wine accessories; one for a straw and two to get ready for a siphon.

The food was excellent as were the wines and the service provided by adolescent ragheads who also assisted from time from time in insuring that the friars prostrate didn't run dry.

To round out the evening music would be provided to complement both the meal and the digestive.

The standard musical fare was performed by a string quartet that was comprised of those would-be mechanical engineers who had flunked out only then to have their applications to musical school rejected.

Occasionally there would be a strolling accordion player who was said to have once provided background music for Edith Piaf as a child on the playground. And only once.

Then there were the barber-shoppers. Naturally their theme song was "chit chit arey; chit chit arey." They were real plagiarists. They went and turned Red Sails in The Sunset into:

"Red Tails in the sunset;"

"Our asses are blue;"

"But we'll have more fun yet;"

"Before we are through."

On the Nights in Arabia evening the establishment went all out. A belly dancer would be smuggled in to exhibit her charms, dancing to the sounds of fiddles, the kora, and to the beat of the tama, all played by talented ragheads who would inevitably decline requests for ragtime. They were superior though to the wanted-a-be engineers who had never been able to get through arithmetic with its frigging fractions.

That evening was always well attended with a huge quantity of couscous consumed by the few concierges of couscous.

That was the opposite of Scottish Night when the piper had to be protective by one of the black, Turkish guards as the gruel was gruelingly consumed.

When the Count would see that one of his three old buddies was in the purchasing department he would sometimes have the piper in attendance. As the purchaser was being flogged the piper would prance round and around him a-huffing and a-puffing. Just like with buying "assistance" it would be five chits to have him go away. But if midway through the performance you couldn't take it anymore, and you feared a busted eardrum, it would be ten so as to include the late fee.

For Scottish Night earplugs and earmuffs were put on sale. You see there was a minimum to have the piper not play. So the earplugs and muffs provided insurance; quite limited as it were by the small print.

The piper had a decent repertoire. His selections that appeared in the top ten on the charts were the worse, you see. The diners would pay chits to have a tune go down and off the chart. Payola in reverse. The same with the chit purchases when one received rather than paid for chits. When questioned, the friar would explain that the Satanic Scriptures were quite clear on this matter. It is better to give than to receive, my son.

No one knew quite how but somehow La Vie En Rose would keep popping up on the Scott's charts. Any booing and the maitre'd would call for a sing-a-long. The tune really wasn't suited for a wind instrument like the bagpipe, but try telling that to him; him so set in his wayward Scottish ways from way, way up north where aspiring young musicians would get high in the highlands.

Another favorite of the piper was When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. That would bring extra tears to the puncher's eyes while under the lash. What diabolic torture.

Every so often the friar the friar would try to inject himself into a songfest with his rendition of Some Enchanted Evening. But he had grown so tone deft from listening to all that screaming day in and day out that inevitably he would break in off-key.

One day a guest from Leon, gastronomic capital of the known world, couldn't take it anymore. One more note, if you can call it that, and I'll be needing a gastrostomy, he cried. When he bought the requisite ten the standby barber-shoppers were substituted who went and stood by the fire singing, over and over and over, Oh the fire is so delightful; let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

"I've been ripped off," he cried. "It's a scam you scumbags are running here! It never snows here, you snowflakes."

One afternoon after having dished out lashes without letup for some ten minutes, a Turk takes it upon himself to take a break. He walks around to face the wretched man while holding his arm.

"Does it hurt?" Now the question doesn't come from the Turk, but from wretched wretch.

"It's my arthritis. Flares up sometimes, just at the wrong time."

"Have you tried Aleve?"

"No, but I appreciate your concern."

He then pulls out a pack of cigs. "Here; want a Lucky?"

"No thanks, but I'd walk a mile for a Camel."

"Well you did come close but didn't quite make it to camel-land; nor Camel-ot land either. You might try Dr. Teale's. A twenty minute soaking in his Epson salt bath works wonders."

"Enough, already," yells the Friar. "Get back to working his back, Turk. Then you clean him up with a cold brim shower. You two are getting too kissy kissy here."

Some days between his first and second cumings the friar would become bored and becalmed. The jester would be summoned before he became bewitched or, far worse, beguiled.

The jester was a midget who did a great imitation of Groucho. He would have a duck standing in the wings ready to waddle in wherever the secret word was spoken.

Day in and day out the only words the duck hears however are AAAAAAAHHHHHH and OOOOOHHHHHH which he misinterpreted for words of acclaim. Of course they weren't in his lexicon, poultry as it was.

The benevolent friar had thought he was being generous when he had chosen the secret word for the chosen few; one that every wet-back frog would certainly know: ribit. Wrong. ribit; ribit? Double wrong. But I thought two wrongs made for a right. Only for Chinese parents and their baby Wong. Just ask Chene.

"Make that one sing," screams the friar.

Immediately he lights into Oh What a Beautiful Morning only to be cut off by Flag. "It ain't morning! It mourning."

"Sorry. Oh What a Beautiful Mourning."

"You're off-key. Belay that and give me an A," says the Turk.

"B B B B B B."

"WHAT!"

The wretch smiles, sheepishly. "Just tuning up; he, he."

"I'll tune you up, by friar. THWACK!"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"

"That wasn't fair, friar: He didn't say Simon Says! This is a total farce; a frigging farce."

That isn't the only thing he get wrong. When Flag ordains that frog legs be put on the menu, he gets not a single taker. "What do you take us for; frigging cannibals?"

"You seem to like that word frog that you stole from me."

"What word?"

"Frigging."

"Alors?"

"Well give me another."

"Okeydokey: Aloha."

"Not in Hawaiian; in French, cochon."

"Alors."

"Forget it. Go back to frigging with my frigging blessing."

"It isn't you word anyway."

"What's that!"

"It's from an old nursery rhyme."

"Really now. And just which one might that be?"

Old Mother Hubbard

Went to the Cupboard,

To give the poor dog a bone;

When she came there.

The cupboard was bare,

And so the frigging dog had none.

"I would stand corrected, but that would be rather embarrassing under the circumstances."

At closing time for the purchasing department, which was fairly early, what with their having bankers hours, the poor duck would be seen dejectedly ducking out with the hallowed chit still in his bill; a chit that could have paid the bill.

Another escape for the friar from bore-doom was meditation. No surprise in that, what with his cutting quite the religious pious figure.

No one really knew the depths of his religion. Thank God for that for his one God Almighty is none other than one Melvin J. Brooks from the lands of brooks - Brooklyn.

Having made so many stars he had come to consider himself to be celestial.

Yes, the friar could always turn to Mel through meditation since writing to his agent got you nowhere. No, no one had an envelope big enough for His zip code. His was an astronomical number of digits that your measly ten could never handle. More than a gazillion gazillion, which is a lot of gazillions, by God.

And just you go and try calling him. You'd be put on hold and have to listen to As Time Goes by, over and over and over and over, for all eternity.

When Flag was on duty working up a steam in his hose beneath his desk he would call for one of the Turks to cool him off. You see there was no air conditioning in the purchasing department. One of those bare chested black with their red bloomers would come over with his huge red feather and fan him.

At other times a Turk would exchange his Arabian sword for the same feather and feather the chit purchaser as he was being flogged. In-between lashes he would feather the poor souls back much as if he were dusting a lamp shade. Then he would feather his privates, all the while giggling. Those Turks could be such comedians.

Careful however what you say though when they're toting their sabre, for their French was limited.

Once when the friar had had enough from those M.E. student dropout barber-shoppers and had yelled "coupe" a Turk took him at his word. When the 911 responders arrived they gave him a heads-up which, by that time, was three. When the responder insisted on charging for three, when he could easily accommodate three heads and tails in his one watercraft, the friar throws a tantrum. "Fine; next time you call 119, you cheese cake; I mean cheapskate."

"What was that" yells Flag.

"I got to go. Where is the head?"

- - - - - - - -

One night when the piper thinks he has it in the bag guess who shows up? No one other than Count Basie himself.

Back home people had told him that since he had played jazz so much on Royal Street with all its bistros, that he and this here Count of Monte Bistro fellow just might be related. Check it out. Miss this and you may be making one royal fuck-up.

Yeah; just look at me, said Ellington.

And what about me, added Presley The First.

That did it. When told to take it from the top, Basie takes it from the top; from the top of the score and lyrics.

Not knowing what the count looked like when Basie gets there it so happens to be Scottish Night. He takes one look at the piper wearing this thing-a-ma-jig and thinks the jig is up. This "guy" is no frigging jig relative of mine from the looks of it. Then he finds out that there is no piano in the bistro either; just the barbershop quartet singing The Trolley Song.

He flips out; goes bananas; grabs a scotch and soda and away he runs with the piper in hot pursuit, which was allowed in this jurisdiction.

"Hey; let's give it a whirl, man. Never got it on with a Boston Blackie. Need to see if it's true what they say about Dixie and about y'all having one humongous hell-of-a. . . ."

"Sorry; I don't know her. Do you mean Miss Dixie Cups? I know The Dixie Chicks' cups are humongous."

Speaking of Dixie, a special punishment was administered to those caught poaching in the Friar's patch. They would be put to the slavish task of de-weeding de weeds as the barber-shoppers sang "Oh I wish I was in the land of cotton." At such times Flag would show the flag by serving as overseer. "Put your backs into it boys," he would say as he has a Turkish gardener lash away on their backs. "And don't you smoke them weeds neither, you hear now."

Get caught breaking into the winery, or breaking a beaker, and you would quickly find yourself a whining, not whittling away the hours.

But getting back to basics, and to Count Basie, soon both Basie and the piper become winded from the chase. "Let's take a break. Need to save my wind up for the windbag."

"Okay, windbad, but not meaning no ill will, you understand, it's still an ill wind you blow."