A year later I stopped by and there was a rug made out of what looked like a lynx and which I hope bites the owners in their dreams. Outside on the sidewalk, tasteful 1940s kitchenware just like what I got at a yard sale years ago for one-ninth the price. Some asshole apparently bought the lion-skin rug; that or it moulted and had to be retired. Staff and space were still perfectly pleasant. If wildcat skins don’t fill you with outrage and you’re willing to spend money instead of sleuthing around in junk stores, you might do fine here. In that case you ain’t me, babe, as Mr. Zimmerman said.