Normally the only French thing Blanca puts in her mouth is Louis Garrel, with an occasional chaser of Gaspard Ulliel, but I made an exception to keep Michelle from whining all evening about how I never let the bitch take me anywhere.  I let the little skank drag me all the way to the place she grew up in the Philippines, the Itchy Kitty Whorehouse in Cebu.  But that never seems to be enough for her.  She is such a selfish little witch.  Oh, listen to me, doing the left’s work again.

They have an authentic menu of French cuisine at Chez Napoleon, with all the usual starters of fois grois, paté and escargots.  What came as a surprise, however, was the list of entrees from this classical French restaurant.

Michelle chose the ossobuco, which is normally found on Italian fare menus.  I chose the bouillabaisse, which comes from the provincial port of Marseille.

The ossobuco was tender, as expected, but the treat of the evening was the bouillabaisse.  Not only could Blanca pronounce this impossible-to-spell word, but when she took the first mouthful, she nearly collapsed to the floor in ecstasy.  Of course, it could have also been the three martinis I had for appetizers.

Blanca has had a lot of fish stew–most of it in restaurants, although some of it has been in frat houses, and really wasn’t so much a stew as an orgy of naked drunk fat chicks passed out on some idiot pledge’s bed–but this was the finest I have ever had.  The secret was in the sauces mixed into the broth right at your table.  Our server placed into the soup a mixture of garlic sauce and a mystery red spice, which was explained to me about thirty times, but all I hear when someone tries speaking to me in French is the Star Spangled Banner, so I really didn’t get any of it.

We ended the evening with some fine brandy and a crème caramel.  Normally I don’t like flan, and this was no exception.  It is hard enough to down crème brûlée, but this just reminded me of something Mel Martinez tried to force down my throat.  And it was nowhere near his kitchen, if you get my drift.

The only complaints I had about the restaurant were the small, confined spaces, and the soup.  The vegetable soup was delicious, except for one rather odd ingredient, which I could not identify.  The vegetable medley for the most part created a symphony of flavors in my mouth, but this one herb or perhaps legume ruined the whole experience.  Whatever the mystery ingredient was, it left the overwhelming taste of bile in my mouth.  And this coming from a woman who has swallowed more “future Republicans” than I care to admit.

All in all, it was an excellent evening.  With the exception of the soup and the flan, it was a perfect meal.  I really can’t blame them for the crème caramel, and the soup was not inedible.  So I wholly approve of Chez Napoleon.

Visit Chez Napoleon at 365 West 50th Street in Manhattan.  I suggest reservations, so call ahead at 212-265-6980.  An evening of dinner and a show starting at Chez Napoleon will not fill you with regret, like asking a bald headed demonic troglodyte to be your running mate.

And don’t forget to ask for the Freedom Fries!

If you go, make sure you try the Vaca Frita, which either means fried beef or “cow dipped in boiling oil.”  I can’t be sure.  Also, if you are game, live like a Cuban and have a mojito.  And just like the citizens of Oceana who down Victory Gin by the bottle, if you have more than one mojito you can forget your troubles, and imagine the world as a much nicer place where Sarah Palin and Mike Huckabee are in the White House.

And for postres, which either means desert or menopause, make sure you try the Cuban version of churros called Torrejas Cubana.

The prices are reasonable, and the atmosphere is authentic.  Make sure to ask to be seated in the Hemingway Hideaway, which despite how it sounds, has nothing to do with a Republican elected officials secret rendezvous spot for his mistress and/or underage male page, and/or anonymous undercover male police officer picked up in an airport washroom.

Try Cuba your next visit to New York City.  You won’t regret it, like filling your campaign rallies with insane idiots who make your entire presidential run look like something from Deliverance.