I could see how having this joint right next to the subway exit could get dangerous. You’ve had another late-ish night at your job in Manhattan, and you step off the train ravenous and lookin’ to score. And what do you see? An oasis! Yes, such an apropos name, don’t you think? And, yes, we generally think of an oasis being a lone watering hole in a desert with a single palm tree gently bending over its reflective surface, but this, a rough and tumble, mainly take-out counter, will hardly net you anything as singularly peaceful and solitary as this, but I suppose being hustled along by a gruff Middle Eastern dude while trying to decipher an amazingly complex menu is kind of the same thing. Honestly, it would almost be disappointing to be treated any other way at a falafel hut. But after grabbing a Coke and sitting at one of the cramped tables under the fluorescent lights and hoping the guy who just went in the bathroom isn’t showering in there, I dug into my five-dollar shish taouk (grilled chicken) pita and instantly knew why all these people have moved to Williamsburg over the past ten years. The oasis. [MF]

161 N 7th St., Brooklyn