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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]
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