ABSTRACT
In the marble-tiled hallway, a pianist in a tuxedo feeds the nouveau-riche clientele of the bar opposite with clichéd classics. But the Bar Anglais is hardly a bar at all, more a long lounge serving the obligatory Kir Royales at expensive prices. Football folk and their escorts are at home here, oblivious to the prices as FIFA handles the tab. The leather armchairs, and amboyant historical portraits are all bathed in a yellowy light that atters the over-made-up customers.
