Enough with the Red Velvet

Mother and I went to the Louvre. Twice.

On our second visit, Mother was especially keen to see Napoleon's apartments. We misunderstood, assuming that they would be the apartments of the Napoleon. Not so. They actually housed not the Emperor who embraced the ancient world and its aesthetic values, but the Emperor who embraced ladies who amplified the size of their rear ends.

We walked through one room after another, marveling at how much gilt, carving, and ornamentation one family could cram into a single set of rooms. Finally, in the grand salon, a room where entire factories of red velvet came to die alongside potted palms and gilded chairs, I turned to Mother.

I opened my mouth (cue slow motion) and she said, 'it's the proverbial French whorehouse.' No need for me to speak, obviously.

So let's revise history a bit. Napoleon III lost his crown and his country not because he met defeat at the hands of the Germans. No, the French kicked him out for one reason and one reason only. He was tacky.