For the main course, there is the option of chicken or fish. Chicken is one leg, which Robèrt himself (that's him, the scowling, shirtless, and unshaven fellow over there, wearing an apron, shorts, and flip-flops) will personally burn into unrecognizability for you. Nothing less than carbonized will satisfy his exacting standards. Robèrt will take the extra step to ruin your chicken each and every time. People who've had the temerity* to step over to the grill preemptively and suggest that, perhaps, this order could be a little less cooked find themselves quickly in the street—next to Madonna.
The fish option is a small, barely cleaned, whole red snapper, prepared with similar attention to detail—which is to say, burned to shit.
Price for these delights of land and sea? Fifty euros (about seventy-five bucks) each.
Add a chilled bottle of the cheapest rosé on the list to stave off the summer's heat, and ameliorate, perhaps, the taste of campfire in your mouth, and you're talking five hundred dollars for lunch. Merci—and fuck you very much!
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* - pārgalvība

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ahh, cik jauki, izmests uz ielas blakus madonnai!

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galdautiņš-celiņš uz bruģi

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