“Four floors of voluptuousness – or how Rue Major Martin vibrated more than Croix-Rousse” This was happening in the 70s, in Lyon, long before hipsters transformed bouchons into tapas bars and the word “authentic” was printed on checkered tablecloths.
On Rue Major Martin, in the first arrondissement, between two discreet cobblestones and three glasses of Beaujolais, stood an institution not exactly listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but dear to the hearts of certain gentlemen—and sometimes even a few slightly… curious ladies. Right next to the famous Café des Fédérations, a temple of quenelles and a pot of Côtes, stood a building that was unremarkable to passersby… but well-known to regulars. Behind a door as discreet as a notary on a spree hid a four-story brothel, no less! A veritable Tower of Babel of pleasures—where one climbed faster than one came back down.
On the ground floor: the reception, run by a certain Ginette, a former cinema usherette turned warm-hearted welcomer, with a voice that would make a trumpet blush and an appointment book fuller than a minister’s diary. It was the telephone switchboard of paid love, the SNCF of timed cuddles.
The first floor? Oriental ambiance. Entering it was like a tale from the Arabian Nights, except instead of a flying carpet, it was a threadbare carpet and cushions that smelled of patchouli and bedroom secrets. On the second floor, Parisian clichés reigned: garter belts, French cancan in the background, and a young lady named Monique (or Mauricette, depending on the day), who swore like a carter but knew how to make you forget your pay slip in no time. The third floor? More discreet. Special for loyal subscribers. You entered with a password—often a dirty joke about quenelles or a coded nod to the local charcuterie. It was the “insiders’ club,” the Holy Grail of the provincial gigolo. And the fourth? Ah, the fourth…
Where it was said that notables, undercover cops, and even a few priests on vocational breaks came to seek comfort and verbal whipping, all to the sound of disco music and heady scents that could have killed a horse. Between Rue Lanterne and Rue Major Martin, it took only one step to go from the Republic to voluptuousness, from quenelles to eroticism. Rumor even has it that some customers came in for a pot-au-feu and ended up with a spanking—“the old-fashioned way,” as they say in the bouchons. And then, one day, all that fell silent. The curtain fell, the drapes too. The building was converted—into well-behaved apartments, with laminate floors and smoke detectors. The memories, however, still linger, like the smell of polish mixed with the nostalgia of simple pleasures.
