Tripe Friday on my Mind

The place smells of blood, but looks like heaven. Eager diners of all shapes and sizes, colours and creeds, religions and vices huddle over beading pint-glasses of beer or bottles of red and white wine. Buxom Cape waitresses skirt around the cavernous and brightly coloured eatery bearing plates piled with hearty fare. The noise is one part late-night whore-house, one part Ukrainian political debate. Yes, it is Tripe Friday at Dias Tavern.

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