An Epilogue to Food Poisoning

I consider myself to have a stomach of steel. I always eat cookie batter rife with uncooked eggs, I don't make a stink if my meat looks a little pink, and I just cut the moldy corners off of cheese. And nearly 100% of the time, I am totally fine. Growing up, when we had steak at the house, we wanted it put upon a plate still "mooing".  I sling raw chicken around the kitchen like that discus throwing babe from the 2012 London Summer Olympics. No joke, I just never thought it was an issue for me.

Until 2012, I had gotten food poisoning once in my entire life, and it was from eating one of those Veggie Patties from Subway, so in other words, I pretty much deserved the hell that I reaped on myself. Then last year I went to dinner at a lovely place in Astoria called William Hallet and sh*t got cray. It was violent y'all, and to make matters even more shitty (as though food poisoning can get any more shitty, and I mean that both literally and figuratively), my friend Santhi was in town and we were supposed to go to brunch to catch up the next day! Unfortunately, I had to cancel because my body had become a bacteria fueled battleground of vom and sadness.

Well this past Friday, my dear friend Santhi was back in town again, and we got together at A2 on the LES with our friend Bruce. Now, I'd be lying if I said we didn't hit it pretty hard. It was a reunion of high school friends, and a good night out was in order. That said, we kept ourselves together and made it our mission to find some late night snacks. I wouldn't usually opt for the pizza covered in meat, but whatever, I was super hungry. I nom nomed that thing like there was no tomorrow, and then it was time to head home.

(Yes those are stickers on our faces. Yes, we knew they were there.)

I got home without a hitch, which is rare at that hour. Things were looking good! I played Matt & Kim extremely loud to the distaste of my sleepy boyfriend (and apparently later went renegade and posted like every single one of their music videos on FB, but seriously, they have amazing music videos, check this one out). I drank some water, washed my face and went to bed.

And then Saturday at 9:30 AM, all hell broke loose. WTF. How was this happening? Did I legit get food poisoning AGAIN? When Santhi was in town, AGAIN?! What was this dark magic? And though another friend jokingly posed the question, "OMG! Is Santhi poisoning you?" I have ruled that scenario out as a feasible option. It's pretty obvious that I should not have eaten pork laden pizza at 4 AM. God knows how long that stuff had been sitting out. PS - Is there any kind of health code regulation for pizza joints that just let the pizza sit out at room temperature before throwing it into the oven? It just seems like a playground for foodbourne illness now that I really think about it. I guess it takes getting violently ill sometimes to utilize critical thinking skills. Never again, my friends.

Anyway, yesterday sucked balls. Lars, despite having to listen to husband/wife synth pop for several hours the night before, was very good to me and made sure I had what I needed all day. I drank an entire two liter, erm, tried to drink an entire two liter of seltzer. That did not turn out well. I will spare you the details. Lars put on "How It's Made" a show on the Discovery Channel that shows products being created in factories, usually of the industrial variety. I almost feel like this was a cruel joke because the first thing that popped up on the screen was, "How It's Made: MAYONNAISE!" WTF. This also did not end well. I will spare you the details here as well.

After several hours of watching Bob's Burgers, I finally fell back asleep and when I woke up I felt a bit better physically, but mentally, I was totally effed. And this is the realization that I've come to after this weekend - I beat myself up for things that I have no control over. I do this really often. For someone who thrives on going to camp out music festivals, I may be one of the most neurotic people you'll ever meet in your life. I've seriously been sitting in my apartment completely depressed at the fact that I was unable to accomplish anything yesterday. I was super ill! What the hell did I think I was going to accomplish other than shitting my pants in public, or throwing up in front of a bunch of tourists on the subway? But then I think, hey, if that had happened, maybe I'd have a great story! Ugh. What's wrong with me? Dude, my brain, it's so whack.

So today, I spent some time getting hydrated, making lentil soup, catching up with my friend Melissa (she convinced me to leave the house which was muchos therapeutic) and doing some restorative yoga in my living room. During the yoga video, (I found a great daytime restorative flow on doyogawithme.com) the instructor repeatedly used the words "surrender" and "let go". Those words were exactly what I needed to hear today. I spend so much time killing myself over things that are not my fault, and it's totally unfair and unrealistic to think that I can be everywhere at once. It's time for me to let go, and accept life as it comes at me rather than try to be on constant damage control. I need to take time for me. I need to take time to be me.

And I guess that is what this long blog post about puke and self-discovery is really all about. I'm coming on the close of probably one of the worst months I've ever known. I do find it rather funny that the universe decided to end this one with a bang by making me hella ill for the last two days of this God forsaken time period, but all that aside, I do believe that I learned something. What doesn't kill you, certainly makes you stronger. Forgiveness is key, especially when it comes to forgiving yourself. Getting to see Santhi once in a blue moon is totally worth getting food poisoning. Oh, and never eat pizza covered in every pork product known to man at 4 AM. That sh*t might kill you.

Cheap Eats - Diego's Mexican Grill

"It's pretty magical when it snows in Times Square."

That's something that my sister said when she was here visiting over St. Patrick's Day weekend, and it's something that I've always thought myself as well (despite the fact that any other time of year I am two seconds from murdering any person who asks me "Do you like comedy?" Yeah, I like comedy. Who doesn't like "comedy"? What kind of dumbass question is that anyway?). There is some kind of whimsy that comes from watching the snowflakes dance upon the 6 block radius that literally never sleeps. And with that, we had planned quite a fantastic day to coincide with that feeling.

We got up early to score cheap tickets to a Broadway show. Hannah had never been to one, and I took it on as my sole duty to ensure that she did not return to Bowling Green, KY without an experience of that nature. My generous Nana had sent me some money with which to "show my sister a good time". Now, we contemplated drinking this away like two lost souls, but decided, meh, you can do that anywhere (and the Times Square/Hell's Kitchen was overrun by underage drunkards wearing green top hats. Eff that). So we opted for tickets to Chicago and a pleasant brunch instead. (THANKS NANA!)

Considering it was the day before St. Patty's - i.e. the day when every 18 year old from Jersey and Long Island fills up a 20 oz. Coca-Cola bottle with Captain Morgan's and hopes that they will be a instigator or victim in a date rape exchange - it proved quite a challenge to find a brunch spot that fit our pre-theatre needs.

We saw a sign outside of Diego's Mexican Grill that read "$4 Mimosas, Margarita and Sangria with your brunch entree". In Hell's Kitchen, this was a win, so we wandered in. This place was DEAD. There was one person sitting at the bar enjoying some chips and salsa, and that was it. This was especially surprising for around 1 PM on a Saturday, and might have been considered a red flag by some. However, I attributed the quiet scene to the raucous sh*tshow that was occurring inside the surrounding Irish pubs. God help us all.

The Bartender was immediately warm and inviting, and told us to sit wherever we liked. We told him we'd make his life easy, then proceeded to seat ourselves at the bar. We were greeted with a basket of warm corn tortilla chips with zesty, spicy salsa. It was a nice touch. Then we took a look at the brunch menu. This place was cheap, which was another surprise for the neighborhood. It appeared that none of the entree prices exceeded $15, and they each came with a complimentary coffee, tea or juice. And with the adult beverages ringing in below a Jackson, it was party time.

I ordered the Chilaquiles verdes con huevo ($11) which came with tortilla chips, cheese, bright tomatillo sauce, sour cream, black beans and topped with a perfectly runny sunnyside up egg. This dish was doin' it for me. It wasn't too salty, and the sauce complimented the other ingredients without being overpowering. The chips even stayed crispy despite being slathered in green tomato-y goodness. This dish was accompanied by a choice of beans or home fries topped in a rich red sauce. I opted for the potatoes, and they came out steaming hot. I'd never had home fries like this, but I loved them. This all went perfectly alongside my typical morning coffee, and, is that a margarita? Why yes, yes it is.

Hannah opted for the veggie omelet ($10) which was full of spinach, mushrooms, onions, tomatoes and cilantro. VENZINS LOVE CILANTRO. I tasted this and was amazed by the punch of flavor it packed. This was a hella good omelet, and not greasy at all. She went for rice and beans as her side which added a starchy balance to the veggies and eggs. Hannah opted for a mimosa to keep her coffee company.

Also - mad props to our waiter, who later allowed us to get champagne only for the price of a mimosa. There is nothing that pisses me off more than an over-juiced breakfast cocktail. I CAME FOR THE BUBBLES, SON. He knew how to hook it up. We then had a conversation where we all told each other that we looked familiar and that we must have met down the road at some point. I don't know if this is true, or if it was the booze talking. He was a doll anyhow, and I would gladly swing by to share a champagne in his presence again.

We stumbled over to Chicago and both agreed it was A REVELATION, despite it being "like, soooo mainstream". But hell, it was Broadway, and what show on Broadway isn't mainstream? We also spent $50 on four classes of wine in commemorative glasses, so that happened (PS - THAT WAS ONLY FOUR GLASSES. WTF?!)

THE DAMAGE: $48.99 + tax and tip for brunch (NOT BAD!)

OTHER DAMAGE:

Chicago Matinee Tickets - $99.00
Crappy Theatre Wine - $46.00 + tip (JESUS CHRIST)
Hungover by 6 PM
Wet feet as a result of walking around in the snow without proper boots

Chinese Hot Pot Party!

I went to a Hot Pot Party on Friday. And no, it's not like it sounds. I don't think Snoop Lion (so ridiculous that he's going by Snoop Lion now, BTW) has ever been to one of these things. That said, he would definitely enjoy one after engaging in his own version of the celebration. A Hot Pot party is a Chinese feast like I've never experienced before. It's almost like fondue. You have a ton of raw ingredients which you then cook in a simmering pot of spicy broth, before nom-noming vigorously. WARNING: CHOP STICKS ARE REQUIRED, SO IF YOU SUCK ON CHOPSTICKS YOU WILL BE RIDICULED.

This is another awesome cultural experience that can be attributed to my dear friend Fang Du. This guy hooks it up if you're looking for a unique chance to step into another world for a few hours. Fang had been wanting to host a Hot Pot party for some time, and I was one of the lucky few who snagged an invite to this special event. When I walked in, he was hard at work cutting up pieces of seafood, tofu and vegetables. Bottles of exotic sesame pastes, chili and ash oils, leek flower purees and tons of other sh*t that I didn't recognize, lined the mantle overlooking his kitchen. I noticed a pot with a divider simmering patiently on the stove. Raw cuts of thinly sliced meets like beef and lamb looked up at me so eagerly almost faning the words, "PUT MEH IN YO MAUF!"

 Fang "instructed" us on how to make our sauces. He handed us each a small soup bowl. "I like mine with a little bit of everything," Fang explained. Considering I knew what maybe 25% of the jars contained, I just went to town and decided to go heavy on the chili oil, because 1.) I at least recognized that ingredient, and 2.) I like my my mouth to tingle like scorpions are playing twister on my tongue. I topped my saucey concoction with a generous sprinkling of diced scallions and cilantro. I dipped one chopstick in the sauce, and SUCCESS. THIS SH*T IS HELLA GOOD.

When it was finally time to sit down, we ignited a freestanding burner and filled that bad boy up with butane. The lovely broth that had been simmering on the stove was transported to the center of the table like a tantalizing centerpiece full of magic and opportunity. And then it was time to go cray.

Apparently this tradition originated in Mongolia before meandering its way through Southern China, and then finally permeated the whole country with yummy, soupy goodness. Fang explained that Hot Pots has been around for centuries and the traditional fare to cook in the hot pot was mainly lamb. These used to sit upon charcoal pits. They were huge cauldrons used to cook the days' kill.

 Nowaday's people simmer just about anything they damn well please in those pots. Cuttlefish and Shrimp Balls swam happily across the top of the pot. Little did they know they were about to be consumed with great fervor. Fang explained the etiquette - "You can throw stuff in there, but don't steal other peoples' hot pot ingredients." That's right he was watching us. If he threw three shrimp in there, you better leave Fang's three shrimp the eff alone. It was every man for himself at first. And on more than one occasion a piece of flounder escaped from the grips of the chopstick and took an attempt at deep sea diving, while we all eagerly tried to fish it out, to no avail. Overcooked flounder = sad face. But there were few casualties, considering.

After a bit, Fang decided we were pros and it was a full on Hot Pot free for all. Chopsticks crossed paths like they were at an E Harmony mixer event and we ate until our hearts content and then some. I loved the way the hinoki mushrooms cooked in a flash and had that almost seaweed like consistency that I love so well. The lamb was succulent and went from raw to medium in eight seconds flat after taking a dip in the broth pool. The spicy peanut sauce complemented every ingredient without overpowering the essence of the food. Every meat, veggie and soy bi-product on the table had it's time to shine. The tofu, oh god the tofu. The way it absorbed the spicy stock and held up its firmness in the midst of treacherous, boiling waters. Watercress, Bok Choy, Napa Cabbage, holy hell all of this was delicious and as each ingredient entered the pot, the broth only becomes more complex and succulent. BOOM. What a meal, dude. But seriously the rice vermicelli can go screw itself, it soaked up all of my sauce.

WARNING: There are no plates so you will have no way to gauge the amount of food you have consumed so you will gorge yourself like a fatass. Also, Sake is a hell of a drink.

It was unanimous; we all agreed this was a baller idea. I would legit, pay good money to do this again. I hear there are fantastic hot pot restaurants out in Flushing, but now that I've had the experience in a good friend's home, I ask myself, "Does it get much better than this?" He says he's having a dumpling making party next. What did I do to deserve a friend like this?

(First spread and friend photo compliments of Kate Costanzo i.e. Mass Text Hater Extraordinaire)

Guys, I'm Figuring It Out

 My mom died two weeks ago.

I'm not going to try to make it flowery, or create some kind of soft-blowing euphemism - that's just the truth. And it pretty much sucks. I'm not saying it was anything I wasn't expecting, and I know that nearly everyone in the world experiences loss at a similar level at some point in their lives, but it doesn't make the event of death any less weird. And that's what it is: effin' strange, yo.

My mom had been in and out of the hospital pretty consistently for the last three years. On Superbowl Sunday in 2010, I got what I thought then was THE call, but now I guess it was just A call: "Megan, you need to come home." That was the beginning of a batsh*t crazy spell for me. I quit my job, I jumped hardcore into my improv/writing and I got into a long distance relationship.

I remember coming home from that trip and being so dumbfounded by the events that it was as though I was mourning my mother while she was still here. At the time, I was working on my two-woman show, A Night of Well-Adjusted Ladies, and I didn't even know if it would have its debut because the doctors told us my mom had three months to live. Well that crazy B pulled through. And things were pretty good actually. For a little bit anyway.

My mom struggled with alcoholism the entire time I knew her. When I was little, it was less apparent. I just assumed that all children had to deal with belligerently drunk parents, and that it was no big deal when my dad would instruct me over the phone how to make eggs in the microwave so my brother, sister and I had dinner to eat. I was only 4 years old. If I saw the wine bottle on the table I knew to dump it down the drain. I didn't know what alcohol was, I just knew that it made mommy sleep too much and we couldn't get to school. But it wasn't a big deal then. That was just life. It was all I knew. (And Alex seemed to think we were doing okay.)

When I got older and began attending sleepovers, I started to realize that this was not the case, in fact I was the WEIRD one. Gasp. My friends had parents that DIDN'T DRINK? Well that to me, just seemed bonkers. But it also seemed really awesome, and eff yeah, I was jealous of you guys, in case you ever wondered. On a "positive" note, my mom was usually too tipsy to notice when we were smashed so I gained some level of popularity from having a party safe-house in high school. But, meh, was it worth it?

I left for college, and shit got super weird. I was spared most of this, but I did get to have one interesting conversation with my mother where she told me she had been doing crack. "It's a lot of fun!" according to her. At least in her head, she was always having a good time. This was the beginning of the end. She slowly started losing her grip on reality. Couldn't keep a job, isolated herself. She really built the walls of her own prison and inhabited that space for the last years of her life. Apparently Judge Judy and NCIS are always on in prison (she loved that sh*t).

This was followed by several years of resentment, hundreds of passive aggressive phone calls, a lot of tears, and then finally the inevitable shitload of sorrow that eventually comes as a result of dealing with a loved one with an addiction. And, What do I take from this death? Well for 1.)- it's made me a lot more conscious of the fact that we only have one body and we should take care of it. Go to the gym and eat some spinach, people. 2.) Life goes fast and YOLO, so make the most of the time you have here and try to weigh out the things that value most i.e. Your daughter's beauty pageant > Bottle of Gordon's vodka. 3.) No one is perfect. We are all human, and despite the fact that my mom had a lot of problems, she still had the capacity to be loving and proud. 4.) Set goals for yourself. The minute you stop trying is the minute you start dying. 5.) Love the path you carve. Shit happens. Make the most of it. 6.) You're not a drunk if it's only wine and beer . . .  But I could go on forever . . .

I like to think that she did find some joy in these last years, because to be completely honest, sh*t got dark. But maybe there was some light for her? And I certainly think that although it blows donkey d*cks, she's in a much better place now. And now that it's over, I can appreciate her for who she once was and not what she became toward the end.

Maybe I'm writing this too early, because I feel like there is still some anger sprinkled amidst these words. Even so, I'm never going to be able to perfectly articulate the way I've felt for these last two weeks (See also: Effin' Weirdest I've Ever Felt in my Whole Damn Life.) But with this tragedy also comes a sense of relief, a sense of understanding. It's the end of a struggle, the end of an era. And despite all of the sh*t, and putting all of the pain aside, I don't know that I would change much of my story, because it makes me who I am today. Okay, so maybe I would like to be less afraid of how to act around people's normal families, or maybe I wish I didn't deprecate myself and my situation in a way that makes other people uncomfortable, but eff it, that's my world. If you don't like it, you can take a hike, and all that jazz. And crazy old Lisa would tell you to eff off too, because I get that from her.

Oh and if you've seen my show, A Night of Well Adjusted Ladies, you know Lisa liked to buy a lot of weird shit off of the TV (sometimes I think she just wanted someone to talk to because we sure as hell stopped answering the phone). Approximately 5 days before she landed herself in the hospital for the last time she made this purchase, which is the greatest gift she could have given her family in a time of grieving:

This woman was legit decrepit at the end. She had a broken neck, people. AND SHE BOUGHT HIP HOP ABS! Even better still, the first disc is missing. WE CAN'T FIND IT ANYWHERE! Do you think she is doing Hip Hop Abs with Jesus right now? Well no, she isn't, because God is a hoax, but if that weren't the case, oh man they would be so sexy.

Mom - looking forward to having a glass of Pinot Noir with you in another life. And in this world you can drink all the wine in the world, and you never get sloppy, and you never get fat, and you can always hit the high notes in Cold as Ice by Foreigner when you're doing Karaoke. Mom, I love you and I'll miss you.

Cheap Eats - Crif Dogs

Guys, this is a very special day because I get to share with you once of my favorite "Cheap Eats" I've found in the city. If I ever have a reason to be in the East Village and on St. Mark's Place for an extended period of time, you better believe that I am hitting up Crif Dogs for a bacon-wrapped, deep-fried piece of heaven. Yeah, you read that correctly, BACON-WRAPPED AND DEEP FRIED. Holy heart attack Batman!

Crif Dogs is located under a 3-D sign, a hanging hot dog adorned with the polite phrase, "Eat Me". When you walk down the stairs and into the entrance, your immediate thought is probably something like, "Just another dive joint." But no, you're wrong. It's so much more. This place is tiny, cramped, and always packed with hungry folks (particularly with hungry drunk folks if you visit in the wee hours of the night) looking to plow through some fat laden munchies and sip on cheap cans of PBR ($2.50). The waffle fries and tater tots ($2.50 small/$3.50 large) here are A MUST! WARNING: the pictures below are sexier than Jessica Chastain wearing a whipped cream bikini:

The drill is simple, and the setup is no frills. Walk up to the counter and name your edible poison. They'll take your name and ring a bell for you when your order is up. I often go with the Garden State Dog - it's a beef frank, wrapped in Taylor Ham (one of the few good things to come out of Jersey) then deep fried, and accompanied with a slice of American cheese, chopped pepperoncinis and slathered in spicy brown mustard ($4.75). EFF MY A! This thing is to die for. The frying process gives the dog great texture and you get a gnarly crunch on the outside. The peppers add a spicy kick, and the mustard here is just the bomb. Lars always goes for the BLT, a beef dog that's bacon wrapped, deep fried and slathered with lettuce, tomato and mayo (and at only $4.50, you better go ahead and insert a Homer Simpson drooling noise here). Aren't they cute together?

On this visit, our friend Carrie was with us. She's of the vegetarian persuasion. She went for the Veggie Special - a meatless dog topped with chopped onions, tomato, cucumber and jalapenos. The employee working the register informed us that you can sub any special dog with a meatless frank if your heart so desires. You can see that dog to the left below, and yes THAT IS A VINTAGE ARCADE GAME TABLE! At last year's Bonnaroo, Crif Dogs even had their own booth to feed hungry hippies. God I love this place . . .

I should probably go ahead and mention that Crif Dogs is also home to the infamous phonebooth entrance of the speakeasy, Please Don't Tell. You may be confused by the line of bougie folks lined up out the door. Although a few of them may in fact be grabbing a dog downstairs, chances are they are trying to gain entrance to the exclusive club located through the secret entrance. If you have scored a password to get in, please direct me to the person whose d*ck you sucked to obtain that. They only take reservations day of starting at 3 PM, and from what I've heard, they fill up almost immediately. That said, the cocktails and specialty dogs there are supposedly to die for (the Wylie Dog in honor of Wylie Dufresne's molecular cooking tactics, the David Chang dog slathered in spicy kimchee as an homage to the founder of Momofoku, you get the idea). One day, they'll let me go through the phone booth to this foodie wonderland.

But now for the important stuff:

THE DAMAGE: $22.00 for me and Lars (including tax and tip! Holy crap and that's with two PBRs! Woo hoooooo, this place is awesome.)

Cheap Eats - Veselka

I just love the East Village. It's one of those neighborhoods that has gems on every block, and so many delicious, cultural discoveries to behold (if you can put up with the dated punk trash that still tries to co-exist on St. Mark's Place in a modern 2013). Yesterday, I helped my friends from Animal Engine by teching their circus/zombie themed show, The Vindlevoss Family Circus Spectacular. Afterward we decided to get a quick bite in the neighborhood. A friend of their's who has lived in New York for more than 30 years quickly responded, "We can always go to Veselka".

I remember my first (and only previous) trip to Veselka back in 2005 when I came to visit NYC, long before I was a resident myself. It was late, and I remember stuffing my face with fried potato pancakes and sour cream until I had eaten to my heart's content. This East Village staple is always bustling. The 1st Ave and 9th St location opened up back in 1954 and has remained an iconic restaurant to date. It's a 24-hour Ukrainian joint with a classic diner feel. The food is decent (and cheap for the epic proportions) and the wait staff is authentic. I can see why it's a favorite of so many people who need to load up on cured meats after a night of boozin' it up on the LES.

We were seated immediately, and were served by a sweet, older Eastern European waitress. She was attentive and the service was friendly and fast. To start, she brought out a heaping plate of thick challah bread with butter. It was a nice start to a super filling meal.

I knew I was hungry, but I didn't know if I wanted to commit to eating several pounds of meat (as is the custom in the old country). I decided to go with the DELUXE Vegetarian combo plate ($14.25), because, yeah I was hungry, but alas, I am also a girl. All of the special plates start with soup and salad. I ordered a cup of the vegetarian borscht and they brought me a basic green salad with a creamy dill dressing.

I was in love with this borscht. I could taken a long, hot bath in this steamy beet soup. It was complex with tones sweet and sour in quality. The beets themselves had a good bite to them and the soup had the right hit of acid without being too salty. I REALLY loved this soup. The salad was fine, and the dressing was yummy, albeit a little heavy, but hey, "When in Ukraine", right? And besides, that was nothing compared to what I was about to conquer.

That's my girly vegetarian plate that you see above. Holy sh*t that's a lot of effin' food. That big mound of awesomeness on the left hand side of the plate is a meatless stuffed cabbage. It was a large green cabbage leaf rolled and stuffed with a hearty filling of wild rice, mushrooms and Ukrainian spices, then topped with a thick mushroom gravy and garnished with parsley. The the right, those lovely little dumplings are pierogies with a variety of yummy fillings: cheese, potato, sauerkraut . . . wait a minute, WHERE THE EFF IS MY MUSHROOM PIEROGI? Oh well, they must have forgot, but I think I had enough to plow through already, so I refrained from being a fatass, and just consumed the monstrous mountain of food that was already on my plate. The ramekins you see are full of sour cream and sauerkraut, standard condiments that come with most Eastern European dishes. And up top, that's a big ass helping of buckwheat.

The food was solid. I really loved the filling in the stuffed cabbage, but it was a little messy to eat. There wasn't a good way to cut into the cabbage roll without completely tearing the thing apart. The boiled pierogies were decent, but definitely not the best I've ever had. I think I liked the sauerkraut one the best. The potato was yummy, but the cheese one was a little sweet for my taste. I CAN'T COMMENT ON THE MUSHROOM ONE. I actually really enjoyed the buckwheat too. It was so fragrant and had a great, almost nutty texture. One complaint: I wish the food had come out a bit more hot. It was warm, and totally edible. Some may even prefer that heat, but I like my food scorching, so I guess I could have sent it back, but I didn't have the balls last night.

I was glad to revisit this popular East Village establishment, and I'm sure I'll be back after a late night of beers at Grassroots, or after hitting the stage at Under St. Mark's. It's not the best Eastern European cuisine I've had in the city, but the history/prices/location/hours of operation make it a place worth putting on your list of late night restaurants to check out. My friend Dave says there is a superior Ukrainian place right up the street from here. More deets on that when I have them!

THE DAMAGE: $20 (including tax and tip!)