There was me -- that is, the Kraut -- and my zheena, and we sat in the Milkbar making up our rassoodocks about what pischcha to nibble on for the evening. This devotchka, all dressed in a malenky white vinyl skirt with these flip horrorshow go-go boots high up her nogas, offered to take our order. This not being a milk plus mesto, we settled on some wine, a Firesteed pinot noir, that didn't have the choodessny kick of a fine moloko, but was a good peet anyway.
With the devotchka gone to fetch our food, we set about to viddy the space. The banquettes are long plushy with the backs covered in blue shag. Chairs are white vinyl things with backs high. Walls flash the same moloko white and nooks are dressed in gossamer curtains. Above the door is a half circle of monitors, flashing flip computer images and suchlike.
Then on the rooftop is this horrorshow fountain with water pouring and flame spouting, and all sorts of cozy seats and wood plank floors and pots with plants. But the food, O my brothers, was not much to get your mozg juiced about, but some could be smartish. Vegetable sushi rolls ($8) were hard and dry, but there was this flip tangle of tasty fried noodles that made good on the old yabzick. But the pickled ginger had a strack taste, like it was soaked in something used to clean the vaysay.
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Prosciutto and fresh basil ($6) was a bit of ultra-violence dancing on a slice of pineapple, the good kind tasting not bad for a milkbar. Meat wrapping the green leaf and a ricotta cheese blob were stabbed with long toothpicks arranged willy-nilly on that pineapple like a skolliwoll of fish.
But to get a couple of razzes on your full innocent stomach, my brothers, nibble on the tapas plate ($6). Vegetables -- cukes, tomatoes, olives, a little onion -- is freshly good and all in sammy portions. Plus, the hummus, babaganoush, and tabbouleh are smooth and fresh and not at all baddiwad. Chicken quesadillas ($6) were a real horrorshow, chewy and tasty and moist, making a nice warm vibraty feeling grumbling all through your guttiwuts.
Flock to milkbar, droogs, and viddy all the sharps and sharies and groodies and malchicks in high fashion as they filly in all of their horrorshow glory. You can do this, O my brothers, while feeding your rot and your Gulliver with jeezny. And for not a lot of pretty polly, you'll get cured all right.
(Editor's note: In case you didn't get it, Korova Milkbar was a night spot serving narcotic laced milk in the Anthony Burgess novel -- and 1971 Stanley Kubrick film -- A Clockwork Orange. If you couldn't decipher the Burgess-inspired slang, then go to Milkbar, blow your rassoodocks, and read it again.)