My partner and I once during the 90s happened to be in Budapest, and went to what can only be described as a Soviet-era-esque restaurant behind the Comic Opera House - waiters who literally waited, for ages, before they came to take our order; red velvet curtains that were so moth-eaten they were a monument to the abiding strength of cotton and, only possibly, silk (cannibalism of a sort…); chipped tableware with gilt edging that had been dishwashed to a femtometre of non existence; and the piano player. Oh, the piano player. Keen, was he, to take requests from the diners therein…we got him going on Sinatra numbers and to this day whenever Fly Me To The Moon, Witchcraft or Autumn in New York comes on the proverbial radio we both start laughing and approximating his renditions. “Vly me toocha moo” is as close I can get given the constraints of the written word.
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