Shop Signs: From the Ridiculous to the Sublimely Ridiculous, Paris-Barcelona Edition
- Published on Monday, 24 June 2013 00:00
- Written by David Jaggard
Maybe We Should All
Just Stick to Esperanto
Illustration by Charles Giai-Gischia. Visit his blog, Traits-Drôles, for a larger version and more drawings.
It is a matter of public record, thanks in large part to the tireless research of the C’est Ironique support community, that Paris is full of commercial enterprises with names that Anglophones find, shall we say, ill-advised. Like this one, sent in by reader Jim Hutchinson:
Two important details here: the shop next door sells (or rents?) lingerie and the guy out front is lighting a cigarette. I guess his hour is up. Photo: Jim Hutchinson
In previous installments of this recurring feature (see part six, which contains links to parts five, 4, III, B and une), I limited my scope of investigation to Paris, with the occasional detour to the provinces. But of course the pleasure of inadvertently inappropriate English doesn’t stop at the French border.
And thus, because there are other cultures deserving of our attention, because I want to do my part to promote international misunderstanding, and because I just spent a week there engaging in R&R&RR (rest and relaxation and rube-like ridicule), this week’s C’est Ironique has a special guest city: Barcelona.
I was happy to be in Barcelona, which happens to be one of my favorite places on Earth. And the people of Barcelona were happy, too, judging from many of the signs that I happened to see.
There was this school in the Sarrià-Sant Gervasi district:
A baby in a mortarboard sitting on a train. What’s the message here? Get a degree and you’ll still end up riding the freights?
And this bookshop:
Despite the name, it does not sell English books. Which made me unhappy.
And best of all, this, ah... Actually, I’m not sure what this place sells:
This store was always jammed, leading me to conclude that when it comes to mood enhancement, pills beat books any day.
Besides the meds, why are Barcelonians so happy? Could it be because they keep seeing three little words?
Not those three little words — just three English words. It seems to be a Catalan marketing fad to name commercial outlets after what they have to offer. Like these two eateries in the Ribera district:
So if you’re in (a) that neighborhood and (b) the market for food and drinks, you must then choose between music and life. Much as I enjoy a nice tune, I think I’d have to opt for maintaining the old vital functions.
Then, after dinner, what else goes with wine and song? This fashion shop has the answer:
Three of my favorite things — and in the ideal order!
Other places in Barcelona seem to be happy getting by with just two words. Sometimes apparently selected by a monkey at a typewriter:
This is part of a chain of three stores. The other two are called Stout-Skip and Bock-Jump.
Well, at least absurdity is better than obscenity:
I’m not sure which is worse, their judgment or their spelling.
If you do shop there, watch your back. And if you shop in this next store, watch your... Well, just watch it:
T-shirts, denim jackets, fur-trimmed fedoras...
Just as the road from procuration leads to incarceration, the pavement from Pimp leads to:
It’s hard to see in the photo, but it sells women’s shoes with very high heels, lending new layers of meaning to the first two words of the popular vulgar expression for that type of footwear.
I guess I’m glad it was closed. Now, to return from the wearable to the edible, this next establishment was, fittingly, closed as well:
Check it out on “Metamorphosis Mondays.” The waiters wear costumes.
If the idea of servin’ vermin puts you off the idea of dining out, you can buy some groceries here:
How’s the food in that store? And how about the service? The pricing?
On second thought, maybe it’s better to eat out after all. But not here:
The house specialty must be carne de vaca con crema en el pan tostado.
Which brings us back to Paris, where reader Roger Foreman spotted a few restaurants that serve similar fare:
Well, if you don’t want to eat glop tonight, what do you want? Photo: Roger Foreman
I think I know what happened: the owner gave his five-year-old daughter her first taste of raw octopus and then asked what she thought he ought to name the restaurant.
It’s probably the same owner, only for this one he asked his 13-year-old son to think of the name.
And even then, he only chose “Puc” because his first pick was already taken:
Just wondering: does “ki” by any chance mean “hour”?
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