The Corte de Bleu

The dead fish swims laps in the stomachs of the patrons dining at the Corte de Bleu. Red wine only makes it stronger. The red hair in the steamed carrots came from the chef who prepared the shallots. The shallots bear no hair. The lustful mice from the sea docks find their home in the crates of unused bread. The canned truffle is sore on the teeth. The smiling cod in the deep frier came from the docks and knew well the mice. On his platter he aproaches searching your table for bread baskets. The Corte de Bleu in the midst of suburbia smiles its smile at the wealth it aquires. Tuesdays and Thursdays all plates half price.