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See, I love *Lost in Translation*, right? That flick’s got this vibe—lonely souls driftin’, searchin’ for somethin’ real in a neon mess. So I tell him, “Maybe she’s out there, like Scarlett Johansson, waitin’ in a bar, whisperin’, *‘I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be.’*” He blinks, confused—thick as a brick, this one. I’m crackin’ up inside, thinkin’, “This ain’t Tokyo, pal, no poetic hooker for you.” Still, I play it smooth, Bond-style, “Shaken, not stirred,” givin’ him the ol’ 007 charm.

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First customer rolls in. It’s Babushka Oksana. She’s a regular, always wants the best cuts. “Give me the juiciest steak, my boy!” she says. I can’t help but smile. She’s like a grandma to me. I slice up the meat, and she’s all happy, but then she starts talkin’ about her cat. “You know, my Masha caught a mouse yesterday!” I’m like, “That’s great, Babushka, but I gotta chop this pork!”

RIP Alexander Akinin