Ella Rastaquouère...Rasta!

On this blistering hot day in the Ba-ha-has, while Séb was stuck with the daunting task of bargaining the price of fresh fish for tonight's dinner with my Grandfather under the Nassau bridge, I was left with little to do than pass the time with my favorite bartender-slash-Goombay Smash enabler, LaShonda. On this gorgeous day, I taught her and her Bahamians friends who had stopped by the pool something new and exciting. 
Did I fill her in on American Politics? Gross. No. How about who was winning in the Olympics? Us. Duh. No, I taught her something way more valuable than futile details of our little homeland. I taught her that the French can reggae. As you can imagine LaShonda (who exclusively calls me "baby", by the way) was skeptical of such declaration as the French aren't known for their rhythm, and resisted my profound statement, thus holding my cocktail hostage.
She got me.
Not wanting to open the floor to a real debate, I insisted that LaShonda just plug my iPod into their system and let the music speak for itself. The deal was if she didn't like it, than we can release my cocktail, and talks of the French reggaeing will never be brought back to the Bahamas...ever again. It was a deal. 
After listening to several of my tracks, with some head bobs, a comment here and there, the verdict was in....
I am proud to announce that the Bahamians not only enjoyed my selections, they even plugged my name in the classic Lola Rastaquouère, which they chanted to me, and I spent the rest of the afternoon frolicking in the pool to the music of the real French love of my life; Mr. Serge Gainsbourg. Score one for the French.
Here is one of his sleaziest songs that keeps me in the mood for summer...
Bon dimanche!