Eating a piping hot slice of lasagna after downing like seven beers is never a good idea. It can only lead to pain and Italian heartache. Once I hosed down my palate and picked up that flap of skin that only exists when your mouth comes into contact with molten mozzarella, I got a chance to look around the small space. It was rustic in that old Alphabet City or Little Italy kind of way. It’s homey without being dingy, but I was still a little skeptical that my food wouldn’t be without a stray rodent hair or three. The food itself wasn’t particularly remarkable, although between the booze-induced tastebud death, fried piehole and bland bechamel, I could have been eating a corrugated Ikea box wrapped in crepe paper. If it’s any consolation, I did have a good time with my drunken friends, and they didn’t kick us out when we got a little too loud for the space. I know I’m not especially fair to a lot of the joints I review on this site, as I’m often in no condition to judge food, so I’ll make the concession and try to hit this place again–some time before 2016. [MF]
51 Ave. B
212/539-0111