But never mind the museums and art galleries, it’s worth a visit for the magnificent cafes alone. Tucked away in a snug booth, watching the bow-tied waiters jink between tables, in a café that has barely changed in a century is an experience you just don’t get in Starbucks, where often the only thing that can claim to be old is a muffin nearing its sell by date.
It was in one such café that Elisabeth asked me if I would be interested in going to a bar she had found in one of our guidebooks. Through a mouthful of cheesecake I mumbled that I wasn’t particularly fussed. Then she told me the name of the bar.
Half an hour later we’re in the Museums Quartier and I’m gleefully peering through a very large bumhole into the interior of Bar Rectum. As I tweeted to Arkayeff, I've made an arse of myself in plenty of bars in my time, but I've never been in a bar made of an arse before.
Anyone who has had an endoscopy will notice this bowel is UC free.
Note the Germanic attention to detail: beanbags in the shape of shit.
