The 'final frontier' pizza shack down in the Lower East Side, peopled predominantly by crazies and drunks.
A nifty spot for inebriated/shitfaced folk in passionate pursuit of pizza grease to alleviate toxic gastric goings-on. However, the same cannot be said in favor of a parallel palliative property for vesical toxicity, owing to the conspicuous absence of lavatory facilities at the aforementioned location - to wit (and with yet more labored eloquence) 'the lack of assuagement for urinary distress, for the lack of a sewage meant for sanitary egress.'
In an
alternative appraisal, Rocket Joe's serves as a perfect locus for chance encounters such as may occur between a charming young man (one quarter Japanese, Polish and German) and a mildly
intoxicated girl whose ethnicity poses an analogous dilemma.
The famed pizzeria also offers a curiously ideal ambience for the far-from-awkward
exchange of mobile numbers resulting in a beautiful reunion between strangers in the night.
Chef’s
recommendation: Seagram’s Sparkling Seltzer Water
C: So wasted, so hungry...
let's get pizza..
R: (much
slurring) Oh look, Rocket Joe's... you
get the pizza...(long pause) I'll go chat up the mancandy..
