Last night my black and denim clad Russian took me to my favorite quirky hideaway where Mozart haunts the premises and candles glow and sparkle through the old coaching inn.



The woodstove burns as you enter, and cats stalk the dining room while the pony-tailed server presents plate after plate of home-grown luxury. Rumor has it the chef cooks up the cat meat and serves it to you as veal cutlets when the kitties get old; a rumor that gives my ex-farmer boy the creeps, but which excites me with the sheer daring of it!



To close the meal, espresso for the drive home. My lover's hulking fingers could barely grasp the tiny gilt cup as he shot a pathetic look my way "This is man abuse!"



Such a sweet and indulgent husband he is, too!