A crowd of grey-bearded Moldovans shout and frantically pass money back and forth around a table where deux jeunes voyous scowl at each other over a plate of chicken fingers.
When the barmaid brings around wine, unnoticed by the disaffected pair with the poultry, I inquire about the spectacle.
“Jeu de hazard,” she shrugs.
I raise an eyebrow.
“A rite of passage among the bandes. And a chance for the old men to gamble.”
I nod and pull out some Euros. “An eating contest, is a surprisingly civilized way for these punks to settle a score. Better than killing each other.”
“No. You do not understand. They will each eat one piece,” she says earnestly, “One of the nuggets, you see, is poisoned.”
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