There is no café at the home of everyone's favourite Stalin-loving pacifist, despite his famous declaration that there was no love sincerer than the love of food. Instead, there is a small shed selling gardening stuff and ice creams.
Still, it gives you a chance to meander around the gardens and peer through the window of the writing hut, musing on the man and reflecting on the works.
And realize that he got it wrong. It is not alcohol that is the anaesthesia by which we endure the operation of life. It's a Cornetto.