In one of the local finest restaurants, a roomful of well-heeled locals is tucking into plates of sesame-crusted salmon and filet mignon au poivre. Out back, meanwhile, a dozen or so diners are having a feast of their own: stinky cabbage matter to start, followed by fatty trimmings in a tepid grease sauce, all washed down with a nice drop of Château Urine de Drunkard. You can practically hear their little salivary glands kicking into overdrive as they skitter in and out of an open rubbish bin. Rudely interrupted by a couple of guys from the environmental health department, they squeal and scatter. But they’ll be back. Rats always come back.
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