The French' could be a Gallic film set. Imagine the scene: Jean Gabin hatches a plot as Piaf warbles ‘Padam, Padam', while Ginsberg & Gainsbourg talk existential twaddle over bottles of Sancerre. These days, you can still soak up the Gitanes-stained ambience in the elbow-to-elbow, street-level bar, or puff Gauloises with the poseurs on the pavement. In the commendable absence of live music, gaming machines, blaring TVs and other pub irritants, the assembled company enjoys Breton cider and beer by the half pint only – although pastis is the tipple of choice for the hardcore crowd (more is sold here than in any other bar north of Calais, apparently). It's said that the Anglophobic Général de Gaulle composed many of his rousing wartime calls-to-arms in the dining room upstairs.