“Food?” Mike asked in Russian. “Beer?” The beer in Russia was generally awful, but he’d never picked up the taste for either the local wines or vodka. Georgia wasn’t noted for its beers either, but he could always hope.

“Stew,” the woman said, nodding. “Or sava. Beer, yes. Bread, cheese?”

“Stew,” Mike said, nodding. “Beer, bread, cheese. What is sava?”

“Is meat,” the woman said, shrugging. “Is hit.”

Mike wasn’t sure what that meant but he nodded agreement.

“Sava,” he said, his stomach rumbling.

“Ruskiya?” the woman asked, looking at him curiously.

“American,” Mike said. “Traveling.”

“Speak English,” the woman replied, smiling broadly. “Little.”

“Speak Russian,” Mike said, grinning. “Little. No Georgian.”

“Nobody speak Georgian,” the woman said, smiling still. “Get food, beer.”

“Thank you,” Mike said. “Am very hungry, very tired.”

“Is bed,” the woman said, pointing overhead.

“I accept,” Mike said, nodding. “Petrol?”

“Is down street,” the woman said in English, pointing further into town. “Is close.”

“Not tonight,” Mike said. “Not with this,” he added, waving outside.

The woman chuckled at that and left, headed for the rear. She took the door behind the serving counter so presumably the other door led to “bed.”

Mike spent the time while she was getting his meal to check out the group in the room a bit more carefully. Most of the men were dark and burly from work, and appeared to be mostly drinking beer in tankards rather than wine, which was unusual in the area. There were a few plates around but the general intent seemed to be drinking as if there was no tomorrow. They were checking him out as well but they didn’t seem unfriendly, just curious. They also were generally quiet, most of the talk in low tones.