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
