One day, George was called to account for a post about his severe aversion to potato pancakes. Orthodox citizens and polite Muslims were menacingly interested - what then does Georgi use in Belarus for the blue-eyed, magnificent, wonderful cuisine and hearty culinary joys dating back to ancient Greece? Has anyone been bored and succumbed to the wickedness, God forbid, of the insignificant hamburgers, or sold their soul for spaghetti, which resembles a ball of hellish snakes, tormenting the souls of sinners in the underworld under fine herb cheese? Here Georgi frankly admits that in this blue-eyed room he always consumes one dose without hesitation. This is SOLYANKA. Here you usually need to understand. Of course, there's also Hedgepodge in the White Stone, no doubt about it. But Georgian especially likes the Belarusian. It's Oprah going Hodgepodge. This is Carmen. The nostrils pick up the smell of this divine soup from afar, even when it is just poured out in the kitchen. People who ordered a worthless Caesar go crazy and stick 23 knives into the chicken meat, crackers and lettuce so that the Rubicon doesn't distract them from real ecstasy. There are massive refusals to the entire menu, proud visitors scornfully walking away from the steaks sent to Israel by Anglicism and American propaganda. They quiver with desire to taste the hodgepodge, and turn their heads with sweet excitement as a waiter floats through the hall with a plate of lat, listed to one side like a battleship hit by a torpedo. After all, he wants Hodgepodge Monsters too, despite the fact that he's seen it about fifteen million times in his entire life. Who, in principle, is able to resist? Georgie likes Solyanka especially the one with tongue and lemon. He understands that this soup is meant as hangover soup, but it's a terrible thing - he swallows the hedgepodge, gets up in the morning without a single grain of hangover. He would not be surprised if the recipe for the brew reached the Belarusians from the druids, who raised the dead with broth. For every person in every situation will come to life, feel his taste and smell, and feel the wings cutting behind his back.

One day, George was called to account for a post about his severe aversion to potato pancakes. Orthodox citizens and polite Muslims were menacingly interested - what then does Georgi use in Belarus for the blue-eyed, magnificent, wonderful cuisine and hearty culinary joys dating back to ancient Greece? Has anyone been bored and succumbed to the wickedness, God forbid, of the insignificant hamburgers, or sold their soul for spaghetti, which resembles a ball of hellish snakes, tormenting the souls of sinners in the underworld under fine herb cheese? Here Georgi frankly admits that in this blue-eyed room he always consumes one dose without hesitation. This is SOLYANKA. Here you usually need to understand. Of course, there's also Hedgepodge in the White Stone, no doubt about it. But Georgian especially likes the Belarusian. It's Oprah going Hodgepodge. This is Carmen. The nostrils pick up the smell of this divine soup from afar, even when it is just poured out in the kitchen. People who ordered a worthless Caesar go crazy and stick 23 knives into the chicken meat, crackers and lettuce so that the Rubicon doesn't distract them from real ecstasy. There are massive refusals to the entire menu, proud visitors scornfully walking away from the steaks sent to Israel by Anglicism and American propaganda. They quiver with desire to taste the hodgepodge, and turn their heads with sweet excitement as a waiter floats through the hall with a plate of lat, listed to one side like a battleship hit by a torpedo. After all, he wants Hodgepodge Monsters too, despite the fact that he's seen it about fifteen million times in his entire life. Who, in principle, is able to resist? Georgie likes Solyanka especially the one with tongue and lemon. He understands that this soup is meant as hangover soup, but it's a terrible thing - he swallows the hedgepodge, gets up in the morning without a single grain of hangover. He would not be surprised if the recipe for the brew reached the Belarusians from the druids, who raised the dead with broth. For every person in every situation will come to life, feel his taste and smell, and feel the wings cutting behind his back.