Bosnian coffee shop.

St. Louis has one of the biggest Bosnian commmunities in the U.S., so one of our tourist goals for my visit was to go to a bosnian restaurant and perhaps coffee shop.

The restaurant we went to was okay, but not stellar. I had kebabs in a big bake flatbread (which is a typical Balkan dish), but the kebabs weren't that good and the flatbread was greasy, and though they gave raw onions to put on, they didn't give sour cream! They were also out of cabbage salad, so I had to get a regular one.

My one Dutch friend got stuffed cabbage in a tomato cream sauce, which was much too rich.

The waitress/cashier was nice, though, and when I asked to put a tip on the credit card, she was like, "I don't get it."

"Get what?", I was like.

"The tip," she said, "The managers don't give it to us if you do it that way. Only cash."

After that, we walked to the coffee shop that we had passed by on the way to the restauarant, this ultra-modern cafe with weird chairs and tables and dark lighting, amidst which you could discern here and there eastern european guys in tracksuits drinking coffee.

By the time we got there, it was just some younger people up at the counter, and one guy in a tracksuit with a crewcut and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth was sitting by one of those video machines like they have at bars where you put in a dollar to play some sort of electronic game, and it was a "find 5 differences between these 2 pictures" game, only the pictures were of huge-breasted naked women leering out at the player.

The waitress had the tightest jeans on I've ever seen, and this t-shirt that was even tighter, and left about 2 inches of her belly showing, which made my one Dutch friend miss his wife.

"[my one Dutch friend's wife's name] has a stomach like that," he was like.