by ALICE and YANKA

It's one hell of a sunny Friday afternoon and we're lost. Our chauffeur, Kathleen, always says she knows the way, but that's a lie. Rue St-Jacques is beginning to mess with our heads, and Alice is all screams again: "Hook a left, tabarnak! AT ONCE!" The sight of the Rose Bowl calms her right down. "I brought my lovely purse," she says. "Let's fill up."

We land at PJ's Pub within seconds, because we're very weak sober. Yet it's hard to say why we dash onto this particular terrasse. Are the wicked speakers playing away our favourite song, "Mister Telephone Man," not enough of an admonition to keep us away? Well, no. For our driver's in heaven. True, y'a d'l'homme en masse se faisant dorer l'chapeau d'cowboy - yes, happy men drinking like professional animals with a certain knack for conversation: "Bend over, baby!" Hé, back off, la graine!

The music's verging on Foreigner so we don't hang about, even though our waitress talks all classy, serving us beer in buckets filled with ice. Besides, the broad postered on the billboard to the adjacent stripclub has been smiling at us for a while. What the hell is she trying to tell us? Is she in trouble beneath that grin? We can't let her down, hence our drifting across the parking lot for a venture down into the grotto otherwise known as Les Amazones.

Two bucks each and the bouncer sets us loose. It's dark and the air is sticky - reminiscent of the jungle. But where are the beasts? We're ready for depraved men lining up before les isoloirs and lost ladies riddled with needle-marks, bills stuffed dans tous les orifices imaginables. Instead, we are greeted by our waitress, Sandra, a student of literature in the pink of health. Moreover, she speaks with such eloquence that Yanka barely understands her.

We grab a menu: standard - lasagne, hamburger-steak, poutine and the likes. We order les ailes de poulet ($5.95) with le sous-marin au steak, waiting for some tits 'n' ass.

Still no show, so we study the chicks working the floor. The ebony/ivory thing's in full-effect: d'exotiques grandes blacks digne du cat-walk chatting away with their counterparts from Miss America, each one maintaining perfect balance on their nasty-looking pair of stilts. Our attention moves on to the décor. With walls of mirror, brass chairs, comforting neon signs forming the letters B, A and R, and a row of empty pitchers lit like an Italian cathedral, the interior's an instant hit. Ravissant!

Alice gets going: "Du Sangliiiiiiier frais! Au plus crisse!" And before long, our waitress hands us the usual condiments with two take-out containers. Are we getting the axe? Nonsense, a special touch. We struggle to dig out the wings from underneath the pile of fries. Limp, wet, and salty, our poultry leaves our tongues panicking. Le sous-marin is also special in its own way. Here, we're dealing with an entire troupeau d'boeuf sliced up into thousands of slabs, the lot crammed into penis bread. There may have been lettuce somewhere along the line, but, like the plastic cheese, it remains outshone by the zoo. We eat everything, feeling sorry for the lonely pole up on the stage.

Finally, the emcee, in his private lingo, announces la belle Jessica, so very unadulterated, who's behaving like she's out on a stroll in the park on a Sunday afternoon. Le libertinage, oublie ça! Then comes Miss Clairol, who seven seconds later is working the floor like a demented asticot. The third girl, vraie championne, gives it all she has, emulating scissors, spanking her ass and flying around the posts in a feverish appearance. We fancy sticking around for Ebony, but we suspect she's being kept for la grande finale. So we creep out of our hole, have a few words with the billboard, and catch the 90 to look for a job.

Cabaret Les Amazones
Address: 6820 St-Jacques W.
Phone: 484–8695
Hours: Sun-Tues, 4pm–3am; Wed–Sat, 11am–3am
Worst feature: The ladies' room, borderline filthy
Credit cards: Not Visa (grrrr…), ATM
Wheelchair access: Unless you're into extreme sports, don't think so
Price: $8 la danse
Rating: **** for décor, * for debauchery,
** for food (out of ****)