The next time you’re pub crawling in the East Village with someone you really want to impress, they say “where to next,” and all you can think of are dank, sticky dives packed with kids trying to be grown-ups and grown-ups trying to be kids, here’s what you do. Head over to Crif Dogs on St. Mark’s Place, a high-traffic dugout peddling gut-bustingly topped franks and fries. On the left-side wall pull back a sliding door to reveal a rather Lynchian booth, glowing red and empty except for a white plastic phone. Lift the phone, press the buzzer and wait. Do this like you know exactly what you’re doing.

Eventually the back wall of the booth will swing open and, assuming the hostess can “fit” you, you’ll be ushered inside PDT, a newly-opened bar with a speakeasy theme, complete with smoking patio and bathrooms entirely tiled with shattered glass mosaics. I ordered a summery aperol and prosecco spritz ($11) and a dainty, 10-oz lager ($4); both tasty, if slightly anemic, choices. But judging by the atmosphere this place is more about the vibe than getting a buzz on. Lest the crowd, a mixed bag of low-talking downtown types, and a bartender who takes his ice-crushing and mint-mashing seriously, lend too sophisticated a vibe, you can order in burgers and fries from Crif Dogs next door. A cool concept, and at least for now, way better than getting wait-listed at speakeasy-of-the-moment, Death & Company.

PDT, enter through Crif Dogs 113 St. Mark’s Pl.

If a snack lists “Pie” as an ingredient, I’m sold. But Cecel Cafe’s apple tartin stands at a particularly delicious intersection between apple pie, French crepe, Beard Papa cream puff, and ice cream cone. This newly-opened shop seats exactly three and serves chilled, custard-infused crepes wrapped around ingredients ranging from chocolate-dipped banana to red bean. The small size
($4.00) delivers exactly eight bites and is meant to be gradually unwrapped while distractedly ambling and dribbling cold caramel sauce. The apple tartin has a yummy pie crust payoff at the bottom, but the caramel pina colada, with pineapple and shaved coconut, might be my new favorite summer treat. If you can handle extra sweetness, another 75 cents will get you ice cream on top.

Cecel Cafe 135 1st Ave. at St. Marks Pl.
11 am-10:30 pm Sun-Thu; 11 am-12 am Fri-Sat

I don’t realize what copious amounts of dairy I consume until I’m out with someone who can’t eat it without getting an upset stomach. I feel a reciprocal pang in my tummy as they scour a menu at some place I’ve raved about, looking for any item not slathered in cream sauce or cemented together by gobs of delicious, gooey cheese. It’s true, I am woefully under-prepared for adult-onset lactose intolerance.

So I was intrigued when I heard about the pizza at Grandaisy Bakery, served up at room temperature in cheeseless squares. The pomodoro especially interested me, as it consists only of sauce and crust; and as I peered at it under glass it looked kinda unfinished and possibly not good. But one taste changed my mind. The crust is crisp and light, and the sauce thick and slightly sweet. It highlighted the two elemental pizza ingredients in a refreshing way, and at $2.75 makes a great snack.

My other favorites include roasted cauliflower with gruyere and a sprinkling of parsley, as well as potato-and-onion seasoned with rosemary; both slightly heavier, more filling options. But the pomodoro really made me think twice about the necessity of cheese on pizza; it’ll keep me coming back.

Grandaisy Bakery, formerly Sullivan Street Bakery, 73 Sullivan Street
Open daily 7am-7pm

While I was tied up with job and out-of-town stuff, my usual East Village neighborhood coffee haunt, ALT.coffee, shuttered forever to re-open at some point as Hopscotch, a “family-friendly” establishment.

I was never quite comfortable hanging out at ALT, and yeah there are the usual reasons–the urine smell emanating from the black bathroom, with its blindly staring stack of busted monitors, the too-loud music, and the decaying furniture. I couldn’t help but cringe inwardly, as I’d descend into a graying assprint on some piece of moldering, crumb-studded upholstery, downwind from a 9-11 conspiracy rant. But really, the place was loaded with one simple, bothersome association. Stepping into this vestige of dirty old East Village reminded me of my high-school self, picturing myself older and cooler in this very spot, sipping coffee and doing whatever artistic people do.

For such a huge nerd, I had a profound lack of goals as a teenager.

I walked by this weekend, and Hopscotch wasn’t open yet. Even though my vague high school dreams of artistic coolness were never fulfilled and my inner yuppie seems to mind dirt and smells, I miss the old ALT. It served as my refuge from roommate weirdness, my back-up when neighbors put the smackdown on my wireless internet pilfering, and a destination for pretty decent cappuccinos to take on my escapes into the park. I’m on the lookout for a new coffee spot, but I know it won’t be quite the same.

I haven’t been getting my snack on for a while, actually. First of all, there was the rising rent on my East Village apartment to deal with, and subsequent Craigslist-inspired expeditions to Brooklyn, and after that, some necessary career moves. Hopefully now this is sorted since it appears I’m staying in the East Village (for at least one more year) and I’ve also landed a new job. I’ll be leaving book marketing to produce web site on the agency side for a while. I’m pretty excited to see how this goes.

So farewell midtown tourist clots, new book smell, champagne toasts, sleek, efficient elevator service, and “it’s all in the read.” Maybe I’ll soon stop analyzing front-of-store placement when I go to bookstores to chill out, though I dunno, the book pimp mentality is mighty hard to shake.