A King-size mattress of foam thrown hastily on a burnt bean floor. Later the tongue gets dragged across a foul remnant of a brew made by someone with no soul.
Two choices - salad or pasta, with a few tomato saucy variations and whatever the discrete filling is will remain a mystery. A single boiled basil leaf died in vain. Just like mama used to make, if she didn't really love you. A bit pricy, no atmosphere other than the hum of the kitchen fridge. Bored, almost suicidal service.
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