Once, after playing a show in a kind of village hall on top of a small mountain near the Italian border in western Slovenia, we were invited to eat at a little restaurant housed in a series of whitewashed caves near the top of another small mountain. As exotic post-coital feeding situations go it was a fair cut above the Baltis of Balsall Heath or the Frites of Flanders, to say the least. It was pretty fucking special. We ate well – I don’t remember anybody doing it badly – and were offered coffee. The irritating hippy we had brought along to sell T-shirts said she’d have tea, please.