What is "bistro"

Usage examples of "bistro".

A week later Peter found Ace Barton at his favorite table in the bistro.

They ran with flying heels down the pedway, dropped two stories and ducked into a tiny bistro nestled in the angles of pedway and monorail flyovers.

They slipped out of the bistro and walked quickly along the upper pedway in the opposite direction.

My father, who can barely read or write, still keeps a bistro on the Quai de la Tournelle.

I took my package and we stepped together onto Smith, the block Euclid claimed all belonged to Arthur: a smashed barbershop with an old glass pole, a botanica, window full of votive candles and folk art, with ghetto apartments above it, and four or five of the understated, sexy little bistros Berlin was meant to undercut.

Her rounded fleshy shoulders rolled to the music of the night, her full breasts heaved ecstatically to the music of the night, mournful music that oozed from the cellar dives of Isola, pounded with the beat of a glittering G-string, music that came with mathematical precision from the cool bop bistros, music that bounced with the cornball rhythms of the supper clubs.

Viv kept quiet until they were settled into a nook of Cuvee, a combination bistro, market and wine bar.

And by dusk of that very day rumor had gone from bistro to bistro of the underworld that the police had pretty good proof who had killed the deceasedand with a forbidden atomic at thatand that they planned to arrest Willie Ecks and question him.

The ones who lived in the city were finding little pockets of shelter in the hundreds of bars and bistros scattered throughout Washington.

When it was over, the celebrants drifted into the half-dozen or so shops and bistros that had opened their doors for the festivities.

Bistros and brasseries, bars and restaurants had colonized the area, their bright lights spilling on to pavements and making the streets lively with patrons.

Two minutes later, Malachi, now afoot, walked back up Prince to the intersection with Union Street, where he had noticed a small bistro nested up against the Interarms warehouse buildings.

In the course of a reluctant but fairly extensive education in the various saloons and bistros of the metropolis, the Saint had learned to expect very little uplift, either vocal or visible, from sweet singers of sweet songs.

He admired some of the pictures at the Louvre and most of the sculpture, preferred Sainte-Chapefle to Notre-Dame, took refuge from Sacr&Coeur in the Saint-Pieffe-de-Montmartre, spent an afternoon in Versailles, a day at Chartres, wandered through Les Halles (and ate one of the best luncheons he had in Paris in the packed company of solid merchants and stall-holders testing the meat and cheese they had sold that morning), explored the various little quartiers, looked at Paris from all sides of the Eiffel Tower, loitered at the bookstalls when he meant to be walking through more museums, got some almost-exercise in the parks, took in a couple of night clubs and three movies, tried several restaurants with stars before their names (he balanced this expenditure with bistros and Left Bank brayseries), and blessed the prevalence of the French caM as pleasant easement for tired feet.

On 8 May 1924, Joe Howard was in Heinie Jacobs’ bistro on South Wabash Avenue, explaining to some acquaintances that all dagoes were cowards, when an overweight young Italian walked in through the door.