Accordion ballads, songs of devils and ghosts, a little vegetable anarchy. Leaves on the floor, shouted choruses, trombone harmony, homemade borscht. Then some swaying stamping drinking songs and a little snarling stage presence. End of show, and there she is, the Tomato Goddess, twelve feet high, orange-red and white. Out into the street with gongs and chants, led by lantern-light to the glade and the columns. Then he's stripping naked, being shorn of his hair. He's in the altogether, setting his clothes aflame, they're passing round wine and calling for another chorus. Then they lay him in a casket and drive him away in a Toyota and we drift away.
I'm not making this up, not one single word of it.