This evening I had dinner in St. Ambroeus.
A lady well into her fifties came over to my table and started a conversation.
She was with a man who was wearing a rather conspicuous jacket.
“Are you leaving your companion alone?” I asked her.

“Oh, he is so boring,” she answered. “He is my anesthetist. Are you Russian?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not. Do you come here often?”

“No, not really” she said. “My tagliatelle was too salty.”

Shortly after this answer the manager forced the lady to leave me alone.

She was probably too drunk for a decent conversation, but her anesthetist made me curious.

This is our future – we go out for dinner with our gynecologist, our psychiatrist or our anesthetist.