Parched from shooting handbags at high noon, we made our way upstairs to the stairs that lead to Madame Brussels. Riding our trusty steed Theodore we casually trotted into the establishment and eyeballed the patrons, their oriental parasols twirling in the unseasonably unobstructed sunlight. Theodore was no stranger to prejudice – he had been run out of town before because the law considered his kind too dirty for eating establishments. Or maybe it was his genuine fur coat or his lack of valid ID. As he approached Miss Pearls, the madame of Madame, he braced himself for rejection. ”This time,” he said to himself “it will be different”. And it was.