by ALICE AND YANKA

When your ass is glued to rock bottom with contact cement, there's nothing like a rendezvous in the kingdom du ghetto to clear your ugly guts. The King himself you may call Rachid, and make sure you look him straight in the eyes before asking him anything you damn please, because Roi Rachid is an unprejudiced man of several lives and we're ready to be sliced up and barbecued should he not be some sort of a deity.

Rachid's empire is la 25ième Avenue, a mighty fine, unassuming, white-and-blue hole-in-the-wall, with dirty tables, music bursting out of some seriously ill-painted white speakers, and four books of academia lying by the window for those who have always wanted to fuck Micromégas.

So Rachid, mon homme, qu'est-ce que t'as sul grill pour nous?!! Des merguez?! Ké man! One sandwich then, with fries and an Orange Crush, hot sauce, hold the garlic mayo. Et pour la black, beau Rachid? Sandwich escalope? Sounds fucking lovely, so let us have that too, all dressed.

Since Yanka has been craving a great big salade au sel, we'll take your best lettuce, sir. A big plate of iceberg? Why the hell not. Proud Rachid says, "With olive oil,?" Yanka says, "Encore du sel, svp." Our host goes insane in the kitchen and whips out two baguette-style sandwiches. Alice croaks, "Can't talk no more, the merguez are like a feu de fire dans l'orifice buccal." So far, so good.

Mais qui est votre saucissier, Roi Rachid? Top secret! Mamey! Vei! These chopped-up chunks of merguez are like an all-time home run that hits the spot above the cortex of ecstasy. Et l'escalope? Ah la belle escalope de chicken. Mangez en tous, et souvent. This sucker's a pleasure, reminding one of that feeling you get from bashing all the people you hate. Our chef, being the smart one, adds fresh crispy lettuce in every sandwich to quell his specialty hot sauce. He whisks and tosses the thin fries in a large silver bowl to the crowd's delight. Bring your kids! It's more ethical than the circus! And what a gentleman, Rachid, whimsically bringing over a plate of sliced oranges for the ladies. Bravo, Rachid! Bien joué.

You are probably vomiting because we suck, but do take our word on this: though it's hard to keep up with the whereabouts of the speakers, what comes out of them is sure to entertain the ear, l'organe la plus malmenée par le staff des endroits publics. If you do encounter a Bryan Adams fuck-up, simply yell something like, "Rachid!" who will promptly return from his horrid torpor to fix things up.

We rushed back to visit our comrade a few days later, as we were told that we hadn't seen dick if we didn't sample Yank's wet dream: a kafta sandwich. Fucking Rachid was spot on again. Hell, he even managed to push a merguez poutine on us which we rammed in without an ounce of a hangover. The kafta sandwich is a mixture of ground beef patties, peas and onions, which are luxuriantly sprawled over the bread like drunk nobility on a dirty ballroom floor. Nobody will want to use this one as bait for their donkey or as a torture device, 'cause it's good.

You may find that la 25ième Avenue is rather small, especially if your ego is the size of a Mile Ender's, but it's only because you overlooked the staircase leading to the second floor. And the terrasse, two tables, chairs, plus a bench outside the digs, seats plenty. Now for the cliffhanger; c'est cheap que l'criss with no tax, ever. So let's hear it for Rachid and his sexy French!!! If anyone can find us some drugs for that cheap, give us a call right fucking now.

Restaurant 25ième Avenue
ADDRESS: 209 Fairmount W.
PHONE: Unlisted
HOURS: 11AM–10PM during the summer
CREDIT CARDS: Why?
PRICES: Most often $4.50 for a sandwich, fries and drink. Un criss de bon deal
WHEELCHAIRS: Sure
BOOZE: Alas, non
BEST FEATURE: Richard-Rachid, who happens to be his own favourite revolutionary
RATING: ***** out of ****