Mixing my metaphores

I was having dinner in the Greenwhich Café in Odessa. They don't speak English there, contrary to what the name of the restaurant suggests, because the chef is French. While Sinatra sings 'In the wee small hours', I have the best steack I have had in years. Medium rare with sweet onions. Wonderful. Glass of red wine to go with it. French. In my line of view, magazine cover beautiful women smile at men. One blond the other black haired. Neither natural, but if I were a camera I would love them. When Ukranian women are beautiful they are among the most beautiful in the world. The blond one laughs. Her mouth is the centre of her beauty. 'Come fly with me', Sinatra sings. I am at a loss here. The waiter stumbles over English and French. My Russion is non-existent. The black haired one picks at her food as if it's the best thing she has ever done. Her smile sets new world records. The moelleux au chocolat is unparalleled. Sinatra is down to 'Love and marriage'. Da. I'll have coffee.
They do not speak English here.
Not a word.
Come on, Frank, say it ain't so.