Moscow. The Kursk Station Restaurant
Nothing to drink! Mother of God! Indeed, if you believe the angels, they're fairly drowning in sherry in here. But now there's only music and music with some kind of mangy harmonics at that. Yes, that's Ivan Kozlovsky all right. I recognized him immediately; there's no one else with a voice that nauseous. All singers have equally nauseous voices, but every one of them is nauseous in its own way. That's why I can identify them so easily. Well, of course: Ivan Kozlovsky. "Oh, Chalice of my fore-bear-ers. Oh, let me gaze for-e-ever upon you ny star-r-r-r light." Well, of course, Ivan Kozlovsky. "Oh, why am I smi-i-tten so with you. Don't reje-e-ect me."
"Will you be ordering anything?"
"What've you got, just music?"
"What do you mean, just music?" Beef Stroganoff, pastries, udder..."
I felt sick again.
"What about sherry?"
"No sherry."
"Interesting. You serve udder but no sherry."
"Verrry interesting. Right, no sherry, but udder we've got."