Beautiful People: 3
Wealth: 2 (1 fleeting 5)
Age Range: 18 months to 78.

Think about the New York Mafia sitting down for a fortifying antipasto. Remember the Godfather where Micheal Corleone eats with the Irish chief of police and the words, 'fusilli pesto' roll carefully from the waiter's lips? Similarly, seventeen year old verticized blondes with paunchy mustachioed 40 year old cigars hang hopes on these same lips in Mare's corners. Service comes with strong Italian emphasis - seafood: linguine clams, fettucine w/smoked salmon, black squid ink pasta. Favorites are piped in the background - Sinatra, Sammy, Dino - when the time calls for it, a husky female libretto - Rosemary Clooney. The wine list has a French emphasis: Les Jamelles Merlot, Vin De Pays d'Oc. 1998 seems to be a year of choice - elegance and a long smooth finish that won't send you back to 'Joisey' in a pine box, chum. "Oh yeah", it pays to be judicious with the Maitre-d - better tables can be had.

Italian hardwood, metallic Silician wireframe, white cotton curtains whose nefarious purposes hide a sofa by the bar. Beyond the entrance, dark alcoves, farther in, privacy as if it's imperative.

Mafia-wanna-be's rather than the tea set. Sugar plum fairies, wiseguys and soul brothers. That famous east village purple velvet suit Afro-Italian high-five mix with their scantily clad entourage. Fellini's La Dolce Vita in an East Village jazzy Miles Davis down beat.

Traditional Sicilian tomato mozzarella antipasto and baked stuffed clams come a 1/2 dozen on a shell. Stick with the Sicilian lasagna or the filet of blue fish and you can't go wrong. The stuffed brook trout or grilled tuna steak is edible. Contemplate the bed of tri-colored sweet peppers with your Merlot and thank the waiter that it's "di frutti di mare" and not you that's sleeping with the fishes. The wine and people get better as night lingers.

Nick Tosches, Philip Glass, Eric Bogosian, Mickey (the Greek) Enciarno, Sammy (the Bull) Gravano (when he's not incarcerated or in witness protection).

Various East Village goodfellas, the Rocco and his brothers' Visconti crowd in the early evening. Brick layers who don't want too many questions asked a little later and then those suited guys who have wads of bills instead of credit cards to help the less economically endowed women.

East Sicilian Pinochle Club, Persuasion Meeting Planners, aspiring Italian Crooners Benevolent.

Beautiful People:3, counting the Sophia Loren look-alike
Wealth:3
Age Range: 23-50

Santa Maria lost in Margueritaville? Try the burning vision of Mary Ann's acolytes bringing night to Mexican conclusions. "Aiiee, tie Mamo, that Chile eetz drilling a hole through zis jabanero!" Well, Pilgrim, start sluggin Margueritas. Night isn't getting younger and that Chile isn't gonna cool for a while. Why does it always seems that a fight is about to break out here? The golden-toothed bartender, unsure entertainment, East Village bikers rusted in sections, the fast moving lower quarters of those long-suffering Catholic-born black-haired Spanish beauties offering entrance to a strict Mexican palette. It cannot be denied though, there is a necessity of braving it for the true character burritos here. The smoky whisper of the Maitre-D proclaims better days south of the Rio Grande. Still, if it's early, any Margarita in a storm.

Mexican retirees, those famous office girls of the Midwest, the before theatre crowd with the boys of late night East Village. Beyond the quickly moving busboys, a range of possibility in halted conversation. Think of Clint Eastwood in a waiter's bib, smiling and wondering how he had come upon this crew without a gun.

Traditional Mexican with nachos that come stacked falling off the table. Stick away from the green chile and you can't go wrong. The burritos, fajitas and mole are straight out of under the volcano. "Montezuma's Revenge" implies what you think. The tequila advances one a level towards what Christian Science refers to as 'theta' clear.

Diego Rivera's grandchild, various Zapatistas.

Lawyers, Ballerinas, Flamenco Dancers

Zapatista Reunion. Born to Be Free Road Club. Venezuelan Exiles Anonymous

Beautiful People: 3 (a half dozen East Asian orchids)
Wealth: from 1 to half of Hong Kong, 5
Age Range: eight to seventy-one

Nyonya is exotic, ideogrammatic, Chinatown - the rajah of Malaysia meets Sam Fuller's House of Bamboo. A sloping entrance propels you to the Maitre d' via Cantonese express. Pass several glass enclosed chefs arguing to get orders straight. Slender Malaysian waitresses float between parties judiciously keeping an eye on the ideal happy family. You might want to reconsider if you're apt to linger. A bit confusing it is with the Yuen Tai Pork and Kang Kung Belacan - a frontier for the palate. Shrimps with lady fingers. Buddhists sitting over white rice - Chinese mushroom included. Such is the state of the clientele that bibs are the norm. Save Nyonya for those times you're with a party whom you're not exactly interested in paying top dollar for but have to feed.

Wacky weird house of bamboo-shaded brocade in a deliberate green Malaysian jungle. Blue tanks of fighting fish, assorted crabs and sad lobsters - more likely from the East River than the upper Kwang Zee. In the restaurant's upper deck, Ming furniture with the semblance of handicraft - ask to be seated along the west wall.

Chinatown's wandering wayward masses. Editors, nosy relatives, friends who have arrived unexpectedly. Office workers having to take their secretaries out, businessmen trying to shift the emphasis from business. Subtle jade-like lost China girls.

Traditional Indian pancakes are mixed with cucumber and shrimp. The Nyonya satay chicken is safe. For more exotic tastes, try the kerabu: treated duck web in sweet and spicy Thai sauce. Whatever the heavy sauces, either on spareribs Malaysian style or King Pork buff - the entrees tread water. Think to yourself, it can't be that much worse than that expensive Nobu Home Made Roti Canai and their similar curry chicken dipping sauce. Here though, its strictly not for the faint of palette.

Christopher Walken and De Niro when they're thinking about their glory days in Deer Hunter.

Generic Office professionals, older Village anarchists, China girls up for tea.

Russian Student Workers' Club, East Village Garment Benevolent, Silicon Alley.

Army suit boots, Chairman Mao red scarves, cultural revolution jackets with zipper and elements found only in this section of the globe.

Beautiful People:3
Wealth:3
Age Range:20-45, two 65's for measure.

There is a lingeringly lovely section in E.M. Forester's A Passage to India after Dr. Azziz enters with Miss Moor into Upper India's Marabar Caves. Sadly, this namesake falls short but, if you are up for vegetable Pakora, Poori or fish Massala, the scent of green papaya does linger in this cozy little place. Colonial relations are punctuated by a spicy Tandoori tomato. Less slick than the rest of the Sixth Street Indian restaurants, this homage is more about allusion than insufficiency. Good intentions are a standardly priced Chicken Curry. If quiet river singing of the Ganges is on your mind, go someplace else. Here though, spicy lentils or lamb pasanda and cashewed cream sauce is a surefire bet. Difficult to avoid, this place is where the rest of the Indian restaurants measure themselves. If not that, then at least to talk shrines to Devi.

Morally highbrow windows framed by a dose of no nonsense Indian waitstaff. Less than stringent white table cloths, interior silver candelabra, subdued murals of Indian Mughal caricature which try harder than the rest not to obscure. A true example of a belief in saris and Christian morality. A waiter at the window type of place, not an ideal escape but if you need respite. . .

Passage attracts a diverse mix: those yearning for Indian simplicity, dreamers from earlier days, English dowagers, British exiles, mosque maidens politely interacting with dried bureaucrats. Think of female British aristocrats condemned to a colonial system and having to force themselves to lunch in New York.

The Tandoori Chicken here called Chicken Makanwala is particularly good. There is a clean-line in the menu from appetizers to soups and entrees. The more offbeat fare is included to remind one that this is New York and the Indian chefs are worth their rupees. Stick with the Vindaloo or Kabob - you cannot go wrong. The 'Saag Paneer' seems strangely unavailable; the kitchen isn't prepared to apologize. Side orders are usually made yogurt fresh, if unspectacular; ordering fish causes the waiters to hug each other. The mushrooms with peas in mild curry coconut is delicious. Stay away from the Sarsoon if you're only in New York for a short while.

Saatjit Ray when he's in town, Sufi musician Al-Ikhabr-Ibron, Joe Cocker's wayward son, Sting, his wife and her relatives on their night out.

Illustrators, Indian gentlemen, missionaries, young British women working in fashion.

Chandrapore Bridge Club, New York Philharmonic, East Village retired cyclists, the Scottish Drum Major's Parade.

Young women with exemplary intent and Nikes, indigo minis, lender bands. Pinstripe suits occupied with thought.

Beautiful People:4
Wealth:1
Age Range:15-31.

Soul train, Shugah? Need chicken or ribs now? With familiar blue and red awnings and planted firmly at the head of St. Marks, Dallas BBQ is less village institute than institution. Less slick than its uptown competition and similar to its university place sibling, Heintz ketchup bottles stand on table interiors here and BBQ's inbeat know how to screw off tight wound caps. It's all part of that frenetic New York buzz, barbecue-basted honey-roasted Midnight cowgirls rolling into town and their Margarita's willing entourage. Food here is a hearty meal. Most of the youngish crowd have little complaint. If you're a hands-on hustler, there isn't no lace here, honey, but if chicken and ribs sounds an ideal escape from being and nothingness, BBQ might fit the bill.

Brick oven corner restaurant with black latex top tables and waiters that hustle. Minimalist black metallic design, standard paper menus that are disposed of after you finish.

Latino homeboys, head-turning chiquitas, Wu-tang crue, assorted nail-checkin, compact-winkin', hip-hop rappin village hoochie mamas.

Good-value rack of ribs combo with down-home soul food: cornbread and choice of baked potato or french fries: the locals seem all smiles with the extra long plate. Stick to the slow rotisseried chicken and virgin Pina Colada. The quickly moving kitchen staff - perennially undisappointing.

Brittany Spears, Run DMC, Ricky Martin, the more wholesome of Steven Tyler's daughters, Various Back Street and Beastie Boys and their respective fandom.

Department store clerks, barbers, manicurists, students, administrative assistants, a few very hungry PR agents and lawyers.

Whassup with that?

Hip hop seems to be the operative here, lots of gold chain, backward-ask baseball cap and those women's jeans - forklift installation only.

Beautiful People: 5
Wealth: 5
Age Range: 17 to 60.
Hooking Up: 5 ('charm' is operative)
Male 35%: Female 65%

Think about Camus in Northern Algeria sitting down to review the proofs of L'Etrangere: scent of majoun, white grape wine, a dark-browed Arab waitress tugging at her blouse, sunlight which forms moon and with night's descent, laughter. Hankering for the clean empty feeling of models smoking or poets watching blue ink blot vellum? Cafe Gitane's carafes of good Algerian wine here lease these riches. The list has a distinctive North Moroccan emphasis. Service comes as a young Franco-Arabic waitress and a lad to bring cafe au lait, 's'il vous plait, monsieur?' The orange rind that comes with the coffee takes on semiotic resonance. Men seem older - worldly wise, the women young anchorites. Smoky distinct accents populate the background. Gitane's management - prescient, informed, indiscreet.

Imagine Tangiers before the French were booted out. Clean orange whitewashed mahogany, the Marseilleise, blue cheese and a long loaf of bread cut generously chequered tablecloths, a more civilized way of life. Edith Piaf without a DJ. Ask for the joujouka pipe version of the Beatles "Come Together."

Nigerian models who speak French, melancholy younger German officers, world-wise older large-handed men, Portuguese debutantes, those schooled in how to attend an art opening.

Juliette Binoche, Sean Connery, Catherine Deneuve, Polanski and his wife when they sneak into the U.S., Paul Auster on gloomy days.

Poets, novelists, models, ballet dancers, writers, journalists, expatriates.

Algerian Muslim Shepherd Trust, A Unified Call to Allah, Burroughs Arab Benevolent.

Mohammedan veils worn as props, Algerian wool dark men's suits, Kurdish saris, skirts whose cut belies Zen-like orchestration.

Beautiful People:4, with Lauren Bacall look-alike
Wealth:3
Age Range: 23-50
M 50% F 50%
Hooking Up: 100%

Need a tillery for the heiress or a banker's pursed lips? Abrah-kah-dabrah! There is a magic spell that this little cafe poses and charm here to kindle the most insipid debauchee. For the damned, Reggio is practically a New York station of the cross. Ever heard of a wink beginning a passionate torrid-meant heart-wrenching affair: yep, this is the place. When a woman opens her mouth lightly over a demitasse in Reggio, pay the oracle. This intimate village hangout is synonymous with fusion's variegated form: darkened wall Rembrandts, waiters who know paparazzi, lingering bright yellow taxis, prescient timed cheques. A place to indulge while they wait for your party - meter running: rum soaked blue-flame torts, Italian expresso made correctly, decadent heavy cream aperitifs set for lingering well-timed deserts.

The magnetic push of the wireframe drive couples to lap. Green Sherwood exterior, Old master-lined walls. Stay clear of the couches unless one is trained to bear this type of trouble.

The young in each other's arms, quiet weeping Village girls', men with handkerchiefs, busboys who should be in Roman drama, lips who have yet to form the word 'l'incidiere.'

Nina Cherry, her more subdued Parisian tour, the known spinster sister of Paul Bowles, Marlon Brando in darkness, Nina Simone.

Ballerinas, horse jockeys, old Samovar salesmen, women who've completely fallen from the wagon but are managing in a markable efficacious way.

Italian Admirers of Velasquez and Mussolini, the Pre-Romantics Poets Society, Sociologie et France, NYU Dungeons historians group, Absinthe Anonymous.

Beautiful People: 5
Wealth: 1
Age Range: eight to seventy-one
Hooking Up:5
M 65% F35%

Picture the last glory day of Constantinople before it got sacked. For the wild boys of punk and repentant strumpets who love them, Continental Divide carries this torch. While CB's continues a beaten dinosaur and Coney Island's doors have long ago closed, Continental remains a last burning Nova Express. As the great rock journalist Lester Bangs said about it, "Let it Blurt." And, he was right: the ladies here do not protest. Straight to the back with your Genesee or Rolling Rock? Sex Pistols Tributes Nights and Stitches for the trousers. Hey Teacher, leave them kids alone! Slender colored girls float among shirtless pierced Mutant bands parceling what's left of anarchy near the stage. An older proletarian crowd pile in earlier to remember the good ol' days when New York indeed did have garbage-strewn streets and the words 'score' or 'pusher actually meant something. Such is the clientele now that Ray's Pizza next door does most of the six figure business. Death Metal band with apropos hussies from Newark still a mainstay. Bring ear plugs for the band. The young lost New York Punk girls do their utmost to give judicious if transitory example here.

Black minimalist gutted hole in the wall. A do-not-order-liquor-from-a-glass type of place.

Groupie chicks, lost punks, anachronistic wayward lawyers, the unrepentant and recently bailed, girls looking for wild boys, men who prefer their women tied. Women whose eyes light nostalgically at the word 'probation'.

Lemme from Motorhead, lost Hungarian baby-sitters, Lennie Kravitz at dawn, Motley Crue when their thinking, Women with Internet sites.

Tattoo removers, Record Company Publicists, letting-their-hair-down admin. assistants, factory lost generation diesel generators.

Direct Action Network, Punk Nostalgia Reunion, The Sincerely Politically pissed Seattle-New York Wolf Cubs

Army suit boot, Wire-mesh garter stocking, Mohawk. Nipple, nose and 'other' piercings, wallets with chain, Black leather with various stainless steel customization.

There is a story that Toscanini's granddaughter tells about how the old maestro forgot his baton at this place. Sadly, you'll not find her or it here now, but if you are up for an after concert aperitif, coffee, and glass of Merlot, a quiet classical score does linger in Europa's cozy corner. Located a cat's cradle from Carnegie Hall, Europa's relations are consummated as much by cheesecake and coffee as Horovitz's lingering shadow. With a bit less schmalz than the rest of the Carnegie Hall after-concert-affairs, this homage to Viennese Italy is more about Strauss and Strudel than prewar Italy. Have good intentions of aquainting a paramour with Gould's Brandenburg? Divert them first with Europa's Chicken caesar. Quiet memories of the Staatskapelle Berliner on your mind? This is the place, Herr Professor. Beethoven's bust transforms marblecake; the mushroom cream sauce soup is such that the mushrooms must be cut before swallowing. Difficult to avoid, this place is where the musicians soup and sally before the first.

European marbled, Austro-Italian New York hangout framed by a dose of no nonsense proletarian Roman staff. Abundant familial after-the-affair concert atmosphere: subdued silver candelabra, tinted window caricature, old Europe in New York. A true example of brevity. A bus boy running round type of place, not a deal but if you need a mile. . .

Classically trained musicians, auteurs, tourists, older European actresses, Internet startup office managers, their fiancees: those lost in Satie, earlier day dowagers. Lost Viennese school principals out with their family.

Bertolucci, Dmitri Nabokov, Tina Aumont, Salmon Rushdie, Nikita Krushchev's expatriate granddaughter, her various unsuitable concert dates.

Graduate Students, Literary Editors, Translators, Writers, Professors, Doctors, Lawyers, Architects, Physicists.

Bertellmen, Bear and Sterns, Smith and Barney Investors Fund, Investors Trust, Fidelity Candlestick Readers....

A mix: Men who don't care, women in exemplary black, gauche sweaters, worn gold, Russian decollete.

Beautiful People:3
Wealth:2
Age Range:15-60.
Hooking Up:2, Friday Night: 3
M 15% F 49%

There is a section in Hemingway's "Big Two Hearted River" where the doctor treats Nick - Breakfast. Hemingway writes, "They ate together, looking out across the country, down over beyond the park past 'Dizzy's". Well, yes, this is the place, unexpectedly on the corner between Prospect Park and Methodist Hospital and less full of M.D.'s and their sons than you'd expect. Neither spectacular nor exotic, Dizzy's table tops are always full, the young waitresses quick with tips. It's that American Parkslope buzz, New York style. On Friday night, the dyke couples dance with architects wives out to hear Dizzy's Benny Goodman lost Manhattan jazz. Most of the gurgling babies have little complaint. There ain't no opera here, honey, but if a cheeseburger, apple pie and walk in the park sounds an escape from Manhattan, Dizzy's might melt the first slice.

Friendly fawning F train subway stop corner bright yellow interior diner. Basic black latex top tables, a chef constantly varying the how-does-this-compare-to-average-diner-menu, an undernourished ever-hungry well formed behind the counter staff.

Older park Slope women-who-love-women, married long-haul interracial couples, odd-American families, single female optometrists, males on the cusp of having careers.

FOOD REVIEW

Good-value burger and fries, More adventurous entrees as your eye descends the menu, stick with the various wraps or pastas: the locals seem not to order fish for the under 18 month crowd. The chicken and mashed potatoes compete with the clean white aproned behind the counter girls - perennially changing Continental basket of baked muffins.

Helen Hunt, Rosie O'Donnell, Martha Stewart with her husband, William Hurt when he's working in the city and feels like a bit of horseradish.

Actresses, Money people off Wall Street, older Lebanese mechanics and their families who have been in the Slope.

Methodist-Baptist Alliance Choir, Park Slope Men's Checkers Club, Mad Grrrls on the Internet, The Benny Goodman Friendly Clarinets, Jim Jarmusch Nostalgia.

Hollywood director baseball caps accompanied by a baby stroller, Georgie girl under-alls, Khaki and Gap for the men and younger women-who-love-women. On Sundays, Urban Outfitters.

Hooking Up:03
Beautiful People: 2
Wealth: 1
Ratio: 66%M 36%F
Age: 24-80

From swerve of shore to bend of bay and with a few soul brothers thrown in, Mooney's captures the finer points of a quaint Dublin gutter on Brooklyn's Flatbush Avenue. It's some kind of wonderful Irish nightmare with a bartender that is quick to commend the Apricot brandy for himself early on in the evening. Irish law students, well-played blues back up and men who need Swiss rehydration, choir the background. Conversation comes lowing and there's always a Blarney having too much Isaac and then calling the bar - he got mugged. Too late now because New York Finest's Irish Police are here, rust on the green, three sheets to the wind. The dart board is reserved for their tourney's with the dour German library crew. Jump Up, dart in, before you begin. 'Free Emotion' punctuated by a woman near the jukebox consummating a union with a Mac. Oh, and don't bother asking about her two kids or Steven Tyler fetish, that wine is not worth the trouble. Men sit a la Edward Hopper, girls in nervous luster. Salvation seems to be the operative word here.

The Shamrock on the sign hides nothing - Flatbush Irish Dive: Enter at Own Risk. The long barstool makes for a quick choice between a spotlight precious dartboard and a jukebox which doubles as a lifepreserver.

Lost computer network specialists, effete soul brothers. Old Irish vessels whose marriages have taken a turn. Young female law students who should be approached only by a bomb squad.

Winona Ryder when she wishes no one around. Malachi and Frank McCourt.

IRA-Brooklyn, Sinn Fein Fiddlers, NY Irish Police Athletics, Flatbush Fireman's Ball.

Hooking Up:3
Beautiful People: 4
Wealth: 3
Ratio: 40%M 66%F
Age: 21-31

Wondering where those melancholy women who end up as European starlets hide? Wish to see quiet conversation and vagaries of old Greek poets who have found lost daughters? Such are the serving girls at French Roast. A harsh cerulean entrance props one to the vortex that is this misnamed restaurant. Measure for measure, the strictly unembarrassed bring their dates here - gigolos, bartenders, the weary publishers from Farrar, Strauss and Giroux. Supper comes with a glass of wine if not the beginning of an adventure. All tomorrow's parties and frontier purpose thigh highs. "Let me tell you why women are associated with snakes", the men whisper. In the delicately lit seating section the tenor of the place witnesses lillith-gazes held too low for good taste. Lost Adamites and serving girls move around green and gardenlike. Sins committed in French Roast's corners? Candles prove penance. Without giving too much away, they say Melville translated "Billy Budd into French here. The waitress is fond to admonish, 'Here the damage was begun".

Night rich candlelit Manhattan chiascuoro cafe-restaurant, shadows linger.

Think of a very select African wolf pack. Office girls who should have never descended to office work, floor cleaners who are lying, frightened beautiful girls clutching drinks and thinking on God.

An example of this place's class is evidenced by Domaine Ste Michelle on the wine list. 'Cuvee brut, 1944'. Fresh baked table rolls are stacked falling off the table, the upmarket Northern Italian pasta sends east side women for a second entree. The duck with plum sauce and mozzarella - unassailable. A test to measure an investment bankers mettle with a wallop and golden pop. Your credit card company will thank you for weeks.

Mel Gibson, Yo Yo Ma. Lou Reed, Nico's lost son Ari Bou Boulogne, Alain Delon.

Prostitutes, Factory owners, Publishers, Women who have not realized the new millennium.

West Village Masons, New York TV Gothic.

For the women, velvet, lace and gloves: think of young female jazz singers whose careers have been one of struggle. For the men, pensive corduroy.

Hooking Up:1
Beautiful People: 2
Wealth: 3
Ratio: 60%M 40%F
Age: 18-28

If you are an artist or model trying to make it New York, this fairly new Forte Greene hangout does seem to be the place to be. Laid back and with an emphasis on ambient soundscapes, the Brooklyn Moon is where to go for breakbeat jazzy drum 'n' bass and a laid back hip hop bohemian crowd which gets younger as night descends. Thankfully, the Brooklyn Moon is a place Manhattan's commodified artiste element has not yet copied. The combination of neighborhood authenticity and a relatively new environs - kids in the hood attempt the artist thing. Writers, ballerinas and visual artists hang out and collaborate. Space is plentiful and desert-like. Electronica and syncopated drums form the background.You may be in deep friendly conversation by the time your food arrives -- cared for by a Caribbean pair of homeboys more gabber and hardcore than friends.

Small, bluish-inconscpicous cafe for those who linger. Ambient soundscape atmosphere done in unobtrusive yellow Mai-Lai jungle green. The dash of jump to the pump intelligence include an unknown and disrespected African American writers' crowd, who seem equally cognizant of the fact. Near the wall, waitresses perennially manicure seven inch nails.

Hip hop poet locals, gentrified not quite yuppies, pronouncing drummers, generally well-off West Indian Forte Greene apartment owners.

The portabella is an unexpected revelation, a bursting plate of mushrooms over an exotic West Indian sauce. For something with an equal amount of soul, the Fried Whiting comes with an apple garden salad more interesting for its curry than cabbage. Stay away from the corn on the cob or potato dumplings unless one is from this part of the hood. The secret is to know which days the right cook is on. For the more adventurous, West Jamaican Mac and cheese with roast goat, rice and peas - definitely a menu on which the chef has spent time.

Edwidge Danticott, Toni Morrison, Michelle Wallace, the dancers from Martha Graham with their partners.

Widely varies with the day or night: late night Dj's hang out. Drummers and Funky Club House Manhattan kids on Friday and Saturday, a bevy of new school poet aspirants during banking hours.

Batey Relief Alliance, Virgin Records, Jacob Stairway Optical, Drum and Bass Films

Forte Green jungle, flowing smooth kick drum combat, dub reggae dreads, leotards, artcore Levis, old school genre T-shirts, those cylindrical head wraps that African-American women wear.

Hooking Up:4
Beautiful People: 1-5, wildly vacillates
Wealth: 5
Ratio: 40%M 60%F
Age: 6 months to 75

Welcome Shogun. Centrally located on the slope's Seventh Avenue, Fuji San has proved a favorite for the Beef Teriyaki and Sushi set. Less slick than it's Brooklyn heights counterpart, Fuji San's gyoza dumplings are served bento - special tangy eel sauce over rice on a wooden slab. With the sukiyaki entrees also served in a traditional hot pot and with 'model-slim' portions, order dinners for two, if you've got any appetite. The portions here are tiny and Japanese - to be sampled and tasted rather than eaten. Later in the evening, Japanese artists with no pocket books come to Fuji San for the saki and heavier portioned deserts. Green Tea, Red Bean and Ginger ice cream are served at the bar with sake so you may gawk at the weird floating rice boat interior guests. Despite the Sea bass sushi, the more offbeat customers eat right off the boat - two pieces with quail egg minimum. The Yaki crab leg here begins with a two step live crab and if you're not up to this, there's the Oshinko Maki sweet bean curd. Below the house specials, there are also novel Japano-American dishes such as 'Philadelphia roll'. As the Japanese waitress here puts it 'yamagobo maki' . Stay away from the 'beef' if you're trying to make it an intimate, romantic meal -- the sizzling Teriyaki sauce and necessity of dipping raw meat is as attention gathering as firecrackers in Washington Square Park. An adventurous early evening escape from Manhattan - shiso leaf or samurai not included.

Wooden floating basket sushi delight, with windows so everyone sees you choose between giant clam or yellowtail. Simple sake bar at the back. Slabs of white marble top instead of plates. Chopsticks of light American oak with quirky, line-drawn mural ideogram chef.

Parkslope Investment bankers and their wives, Japanese craftspeople, French Haitian designers, UN delegates. Nigerian and Senegalese launderette owners obsess over this place.

If you're a hands-on geisha used to tuna rolls, you'll be pleasantly surprised by the rice wrapped craftsmanship here. Shrimp tempura and a sashimi defines the limit for assorted raw fish and good-value salmon. The locals seem pleased with the broiled eel and katsu donburi (pork) but the Tofu is variable and strictly not delicate. The su-su-ma combo should be ordered for two if you're hungry and the Japanese Noodle soup is disappointing as is the house special. Stick with the various selections from the Sushi boat bar: the chirosi are usually well made, the baby futomaki delicious, if small. The love boat (for two) is definitely spectacular and as the menu says, 'have you camera really'.

Matt Dillon, Steve McQueen, George Lucas, Janet Jackson, Van Morrison, V.S. Naipahl

Account Executives, Receivable clerks, Marketing graduates and mistresses.

BFI, American Film Institute, Brooklyn Athletics Club, Rosh Pina Benevolent,

Gold lace drawstrings, women's flannel loafers, the odd Japanese girl in a black polyester leotard without socks.

Hooking Up:3
Beautiful People: 3
Wealth: 2
Ratio: 70%M 30%F
Age: 18-47

To realize what a hidden jewel Sam's Falafel is, you have to get on Sam's goodside. He's not forthcoming with the secret of his restaurant's success. And while other village restaurant's come and go, Sam does a six figure business in a location that belies the fact. The combination of a no-nonsense falafel and Sam's proportions means that no one comes to Sam's to be seen but everyone for the falafel. This paradoxical situation along with a menu that has stayed the same over the years, thankfully frees Sams of any Ali Baba and the forty thieves element. Sam's concentrates efforts on a no-nonsense serving staff and quality falafel, hummus and babbaganouj. Arrive anytime and without a reservation and never be at a loss for hot sauce or if you're the eyebrow raising type, ketchup!

No nonsense tiny untraditional-falafel space, carved out of the East village. Regulars form a permanent fixture behind the counter, while friendly diners share tables or in the summer make a picnic in adjoining Washington Square Park.

NYU students, village musicians, those well into the evening and in need of a snack. Excited young girls of the Semitic persuasion.

The falafel here is a tour-de-force, the piece de resistance of Arab falafel's in New York. With the exception of the unique Damascus Falafel on St. Marks and Ali Baba's falafel on McDougal which does beat Sam's with regard to hot sauce, Sam's chickpeas are authentic. Hummus and babbaganouj may be added for a nominal fee and Sam's combo brings these together with grape leaves, olives and tomato vinegraitte in a not unpleasant admixture. For variety, the Kebab or Gyros are standard but the real gems lie in Sam's half chicken platters. There is no equal in New York for quality, portion or price. Still hungry, get an order of Feta and grape leaves. For desert, try the delicate Arab bird's nest or honey-pistachio kif with mint tea.

Johnny Depp, Meg Ryan, Jamie Lee Curtis, Dwight Yoakum, Gillian Anderson.

NYU students, Jazz Musicians, Blue Note, Barbers, Art and Design Club Kids.

East Village Laundry Assoc, Virgin Escort, Times-Ritter, Bleeker Bobs and Radical Records.

Anything goes!

Hooking Up: 3
Beautiful People: 2
Wealth: 1
Ratio: 70%M 30%F
Age: 15-80

"If youse wants to know Blues youse gots to go to Church and if youse can't finds the Church, you goes to Louisiana." Barring that, or the swamps of the Mississippi Delta, try Bleeker Street's Terra Blues. It's a low-key-12-bar-bent-note-blues-club with a big-busted Italian barmaid who's slow to listen to cries of self-victimization except in the key of F. Played, troubled New York velvet throat back up burn with the blues here. "Lie to Me", "Just Won't Burn" and "Couldn't Stand the Weather" are punched out by Chicago Blues men with soul-dejected honey tenors. Yearning to be free of life's inadequate responsibility? Lose yourself in Terra's bourbon and plentiful Hookeresque, "Hoochie koochie babies". Conversation comes with an eight ball beat and men who make it their business to see that it's worthwhile to hear "Dust my broom". Yep, "She's Not so Good Lookin, but She's Got Such Affectionate Ways", directly from south of Saskaloosa's cotton fields. "I Pity the Fool" and "Mama Says It's Biscuit Time" meted out by a blind, seated harmonica player whose spirit reflects the inner soul.

Think of Sonny Boy Williams belting out "I'm Broke and Busted Mama, So I'm Bringing it on Back Home". The long crushed velvet oaken barstool pays homage to Frogman Henry's "Reckless". The intimate tables admonish, "Do Me Right, Sista".

Disk jockeys, Harlem and Detroit Blues men. St. Nicholas's Gospel Choir, nurses. Mississippi drifters, shmata producers.

Ma Rainey, Lemon Jefferson, when he feels the need, Magic Sam, Skip James, Buddy Bolden, after the barbershops closed.

Alligator Shoes, Blind Willie Mctell Fanclub, Born under a Bad Sign.

Overdone tar 'n feathered felt hats, immaculately rouged skirt excursions, hoodoo guru shoes, backbone zoot suits, white faith hankies and snakeskin vests.

Hooking Up: 2
Beautiful People: 2
Wealth: 5
Ratio: 35%M 65%F
Age: 18-69

Called the Carnage Hall of Jazz or Micky of Hip, the Village Vanguard used to be a cool place for hot jazz. Coletrane, Miles, Monk and Mingus would lend themselves to Bohemian quiet conversation and vagaries of those coming from Harlem's Apollo. Now, these are memories and you need worry less about losing a daughter here than taking a mortgage for her cover. A shadow of what it used to be, the Vanguard still plays jazz but as tenor sax player, Johnny Griffin, aptly put it, "The cool people split". Still, if you are out for money and wouldn't mind hearing Coltrane's "A Love Supreme" on a rainy night, a fiscally responsible conversation will prop one into what is left of Manhattan jazz. Measure for measure, the Vanguard does give the Blue Note a run for the money but that's not saying much. Athletic financial planners, saggy-chin cigar-smoking producers and the jailbait which loves them give reason as to why the greats have traded in performing for security guard jobs. You can always discuss the other musicians left for Europe with the remaining members of the Vanguard Jazz Orchestra. Cake-walking mamas at the end of Vanguards halls? For the history books, Baby, highlights strictly from the Decca years.

Night rich candlelit basement red hue Manhattan jazz club - shadows linger. In the dimly lit seating section, lost anachronistic southern belles await the tenor sax rendition of "Bitches' Brew". Satchmo hides his head as serving girls no longer cook but comfort fives and sevens.

Think of investment bankers wanting to please Japanese clients, except that the clients are no longer Japanese. Jazz drummer's groupie girlfriends, health-care industry day-jobs, older fund managers reminiscing with beautifully dressed girls about how they love jazz.

Wynton and Brantford Marsalis, Albert "Tootie" Heath. Harry Belafonte's daughter, Charles Mingus's nephew, David Letterman.

Older Wall Street Investment bankers, Russian money launderers, Venezuelan intermediaries, Aruban non-functionals, aspiring musicians fifty years too late.

Salomon, Smith and Barney, Upper Westchester Gardenia Group, Newport Jazz festival Selection Committee.

Flowery print plunging neckline dresses tied with bows. Investment banker blue or after work Brooks Brothers.

Hooking Up: 3
Beautiful People: 4
Wealth: 2
Ratio: 60%M 40%F
Age: 14-35

Hanging out in the Village and feeling the need for Mexican with stability? A stalwart Village hangout, Burritoville delivers a dinner that will not stay. Laid back and with a plate of tortillas and salsa that customers serve themselves, Burritoville is a place to linger if you're apt to midnight conversations. Students, choreographers from next door St. Marks Dancespace and groupie-chicks needing a bite, hang here. Watching the Mexican vampire flicks projected on the overhead screen, Axel Rose dines. Apparently, this is the place that inspired Guns and Roses 'September Rain'. The Ukrainian National Home from Sydnet Lumet's Making Movies forms a window background. The food arrives pronto -- cared for by a Geena Davis friendly manager. Having started more than a few traffic jams in downtown Guadalajara, the savvy waitresses are concerned with campansino rights and politically stop on a dime - tip generously.

Small, friendly, serve yourself burrito joint. Always interesting musical atmosphere with selections provided by a changing cadre of Village bands. The service includes a healthy respect for empty wallets.

Slumming Semitic girls, avant-garde theatre and film crowd, pronouncing attitidunal drummers, melancholy waif-like African American models.

The Border Burrito is a tour-de-force. For little extra cost, ask for Burritoville's home made Jack or lo-cal tofu sour cream. You don't know how good you've got it until you begin to compare Burritoville with the competition. For something with a little more substance, try the 'Lost in Austin' or 'Bob Marley'. Stay away from the Mexican dairy-based drinks unless one is specifically indulging in the multi-flavored bottled hot sauce. Similarly, the industrial strength green salsa should be used sparingly. The clientele regularly order fajitas. The adventurous stay away from the choriza (Mexican sausage selections).

Dale Oerlandersmith, Axel Rose, Steven Tyler, Nuyorican poets, Richard Foreman.

Single executives, fashion designers, young flower shop owners.

Mexican workers rights.

Anything goes.

Hooking Up: 1
Beautiful People: 5
Wealth: 1
Ratio: 65%M 35%F
Age: 15 to 39

In the musical score for "Breakfast at Tiffany's", Henry Mancini composed the classic "Moon River". In her role as worldwise Holly Golightly, a younger Audrey Hepburn crooned, "Moon River, wider than a mile, I'm crossin' you in style - someday". The picture behind the bartender at the Baggot reminds you that there were indeed dames like that. "Dressmakers, heartbreakers, whereever you're go'in, I'm go'in your way" type of people. And while you won't find Truman Capote or Henry Mancini round these parts, there are more than a few half-hoping Holly Golightly aspirants pursuing dreams by the Baggot. More low key than its neighboring third street haunts, the bartender is quietly stoic about night - early evening jazz, blues, rock, a hip-hop crowd on Saturday. The people are quiet, smile to themselves and a little melancholy, NYU students, girls bunked in threes, mailroom boys on their way up. Later, a slightly older after work loosening the tie crowd file in to hear about 'that same rainbow's end, waitin' round the bend, my Huckleberry friend. . .

Long barstool Moon Rivery bar with a stage at one end. Think of the sun setting and shooting dusky rays into a bar with quietly sitting patrons - something wonderful is about to happen.

Good-hearted drifters, hoping girls to whom the world's nature has been revealed, jazz guitarists, composers, writers.

River Phoenix's ghost, Matt Dillon thinking on better days, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Salinger.

Ballerinas, composers, typists, doormen, retired science and French teachers.

National Science Association, North End Custom Tailors.

There is a certain type of understated elegance in a woman's dress that sweepingly knocks the wind from a man - you find that here.

Hooking Up: 4
Beautiful People: 3
Wealth: 1
Ratio: 50%M 50%F
Age: 15-50

What is incomparable about Cinderella Falafel is the Damascene angle. And you don't have to know St. John of Damascene to appreciate it. While the founder of the Eastern Church would probably get a good chuckle out of his name associated with a type of falafel, Cinderella's close association with Damascus is unquestionable. The combination of Cinderella with Damascus with Falafels, belies the fact that this place does have a health-inducing vegetarian menu. This combination of a friendly serving staff who can quickly point out geographic relationships between Haifa and the Euphrates makes for an interesting and quick dinner. Cinderella concentrates on, as they put it, "the best middle eastern home cooking food in town." And while this may be disputed, their vegetarian sandwiches and falafels rank with the city's best. A magic spell pulls people within a certain distance of each other at this place and if you arrive seconds before midnight, be sure not to turn into a pumpkin.

Small East Village falafel joint with a fascinating centrifugal gravitational effect. Something about the architectural table-stool window Feng Shui thrusts one into throwing range of strangers.

Old writers, NYPD, girls whose occupation seems to be dressing up and walking around the Village.

FOOD REVIEW

The Damascus falafel is the entry of choice and sends more than a few of the diners into conversation about Sufism. The salads are fresh, tahini, edible, if uninteresting. Try the tabouleh with the rich puree of ground chick peas or roasted eggplant. For vegetarian variety, the cracked wheat sandwich with parsley and minced tomato. For dessert, Baklawa. The stringy haressa is a bit better than standard if still over-honeyed and Turkish coffee only drinkable. Stay with the juices and vegetarian fare. More than one overextended Village musician regularly come here for the instant Cinderella effect of a large shot of juice bar wheat grass.

Keith Richards, Johnny Matthis, Ry Cooder, inconspicuously Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Patti Smith, Richard Hell, Henry Rollins, most inconspicuously the guys from the Red Hot Chilli Peppers and REM.

Musicians, Arab Cabbies, Police.

Betty Ford East Village, AA lower Manhattan, Damascus Historians Checkers Fund.

Anything without a turban goes swimmingly!

Hooking Up: 1
Beautiful People: 1
Wealth: 1
Ratio: 80%M 20%F
Age: 15-80

Think of a Mexican female extra from Peckinpah's Wildbunch slapping a burrito between two palms while a bowl of tomatoes sits obligingly by her side. Her embroidered short sleeve blouse pays homage, the open tables admonish, "watch your back." A Mexican four year old named 'Kevin' is given free reign over unacommadating diners.

The chilaquiles regulares with the rojos o verdes (red or green sauce) send the head spinning. 'Con Carne Enchilada or 'Choriza' - is a recipe for disaster. To be generous, the menu is a horror story spit from Popocatapetl. For something authentic to the Mexican laboring class the Tortas Milanesa, as the waitress puts it, is 'a real Mexican sandwich. Unless one is specifically in need of colonial conquest, stay away from the Flautus or those who order them. Similarly, the menus injunction of 'real Mexican cooking' should be regarded as gospel truth. The Brooklyn hombres here stick with the cafe, jugo de naranja (orange juice) and later, when the Cerveza gets rolling, harassing the feisty toltecs for the Corona behind the counter.

Mexican masonry workers, Native Brooklynites, Peruvian nurses. Staten Island card sharks by way of Cuba.

The older part of the teamster crew from Spike Lee's films, Biggie Small's security, Cindy Lauper's aunt. Luis Bunuel's Brooklyn contingent.

Glauba Rocha Film Club, Devil Days of San Yare Parade.

Don't wear a sombrero unless you're purposefully trying to antagonize management.

Hooking Up: 2
Beautiful People: 2
Wealth: 2
Ratio: 55%M 35%F
Age: 18-33

This is the type of place you take your younger sister if you're catching a foreign flick together. Buy your tickets and instead of waiting in the tactless lobby, show your taste by coming to Des Moines. Your won't find famous people or the people who look for them. You will find the friendly mouse clicks of a coffee shop that lets the clientele hang. You don't have to worry about some slime trying to 'hook up' with your best friend - they've gone some place else. The shady characters hate this place and the cool people are not present. If you are out for a cup of coffee with your girlfriend or baby-sitting the young child you've not fathered, try Des Moines. Measure for measure, it's close to its Iowa name. You can always come after the movie too - this place makes for good discussion. Hot young village club kids and the latest techno? Not here, but if you need REM, Neil Young or a place two just sit out a rainy night, Des Moines might cut it.

There's a real comfortable couch in front where you can watch the people go 'buy' at the gourmet shop which looks like a nightclub cross the street. Young men hide in laptops, girls discuss what's gone wrong, the waitress sounds like Mia Farrow.

Students, muggers, waitresses thinking this wouldn't be a bad place.

Julia Roberts sister, Wynona Rider's cousin, Bjork's son and his friends.

Web Designers, cashier clerks, young lawyers, doctors going to the movies.

New York Film Festival Selection Committee, Village Florists, Light the Village Lamps Inc.

Girls who wear pants under print dresses and pull it off.

Hooking Up: 2
Beautiful People: 3
Wealth: 3
Ratio: 35%M 65%F
Age: 15 to 39

In his book on nonviolence Mahatma Ghandi defined Satyagraha as truth-force, Love or Soul-Force. If you are looking for enlightenment the concept, would be one to center on. On the other hand, if its simply basmati rice, tandoori and vegetable curry that's on your mind, try this peacemaker's namesake. How different this Indian restaurant is from Mahatma is evidence by the mascot - a turbaned duck holding a fish in its mouth. What this duck has to do with Gandhi remains elusive. The query will provoke good natured 'tut, tuts' from the management. And while the restaurant is full of "Tandoori Lamb, Beef, and South Indian coconut chutney there is definitely no duck. But there is a fish and like yourself, both are probably from nowhere near India. The bartender is quietly stoic about it all, getting you a beer, appropriately called "Taj Mahal." Take his suggestion and get the large. For India's Masses, Ghandi appeals to the heart. For others, content yourself with mango lassi..

Christmas lighted sixth street Indian restaurant. Early evening attracts a cool village family crowd only found in New York. The fathers are deferential. The Indian daughters waken the possibility that there are many paths to the liberation of self.

Female Indian academics, sari salesmen, sitar players, women who dance Bangra - a bustlingly Bollywood clientele - something about henna tattooed hands and the light of this place makes magic.

The Kashmiri is worth arguing over. Shrimp or Crabmeat with pineapple and nuts in a creamsauce is a treat worth indulging at least once in a lifetime. Similarly, the Tandoori Chicken Musallam served with herbs, cream and almonds is worth the price. Stay away from the shrimp, vegetable curry or lentil crepes which can be readily had at other Indian places. The breads here are standard, the Mulligatawny soup and Saffron rice a bit better.

Mira Nair, Nicholas Negroponte, various Indian starlets who got away from their producers and flew to New York.

Web Designers, Bangra composers, data entry typists, tired agricultural institute types.

Seafood in the Village, Dot Com Manhattan Delivery.

There is a certain understood elegance of a sari worn right.

Intent on getting your Tom Yum Gung ensconced in lemongrass? Formerly part of Manhattan's Alphabet city, the Lemongrass Grill is now part of an immaculately respectable gentrified village and predominantly caters to former east village groupie girls looking for hot curry shrimp and mushroom. Three waiters race you to the tables. The first seats the ladies, the second scoots off for your cocktails, the third emphatically recommends Gai Pat King Prik. And while the sight of pepper steak sets young hearts afluttering, the King Prik breaks all rules. For appetizers, begin with the Po Pia Sod . The waiter will ask if it's the Taud" or "Sod" that you'd like. Try both as they each come with different variations of delicately flavored crepe lips. Then you can take your time before the second round sorting out Gai Pad Khing from Gai ta Krai. Ask for the Siam chicken and they'll be sure to understand. The English translations for the rice choices are brown, jasmine and 'thai sticky' . Sticky would be appropriate.

A bit like a Thai McDonalds with several Manhattan locations, Lemongrass is a Thai chain restaurant. Later on, the speakers make Bowie's "Chinagirl" sound as if sung by Leonard Cohen. The serving staff and bartenders are certified in making Singapore Slings.

Couples who think French occupying forces leaving Indochine was the start of a decline; indelicate Lyon girls, network specialists, a funny bunch of eighties rockers, personal friends of Gary Newmann.

The Lar Nard fired in soya is served with long stem Chinese Broccoli. Seemingly popular in Thailand, the Laksa Beehoon is originally a Malaysian dish. Whatever it is in Malaysia, it is botched here. The Flamed Water Spinach (Seasonal) is perhaps the most interesting vegetable dish - the price is not listed (dependent on the Thai going rate) and only available in Flaming water spinach season. Stick with the above mentioned Prik dishes (i.e., Pad Prik, Prik King). If you aren't the beef or pork type, try Lard Prik - a long red snapper served with chili that takes plenty of mental fortitude.

Huey Luis, Eddie Van Halen without his wife, Iggy when he's in town and thinking about reuniting. Simon Le Bon - anyone care?

Rock musicians, Thai industrialists, rare car dealers, IT HR Consultants

Calvin and Hobbes, Hanna Barbara, Scooby Doo Cartoon Reunion

Combine Harvester ball caps, Willy Nelson skirts, Silver bell buckles for the men with tightly faded jeans - the younger waif girls wear slips.