I was ready to revel in meatlessness, to romp through a menu stocked with bread and vegetables, to fill my belly with fibrous things. In short, I’d become a struggling Vegetarian in a carnivore’s world and I was so excited to try Madras Café I was hopping up and down on the sidewalk.

There’s a dark, unfathomable gap between behavior and inner reality. In fact, a near-constant tummyache recently sent me to the doctor, who was reliably unimpressed. Her pricey professional advice was: change your diet. Go meatless. “Try it as an experiment.”

Doomed to gastric distress or life without sliders, pork buns, and fattened duck livers, I sought comfort at Madras Café. While just around the corner from Indian Row’s hecklers and chintzy glitz, Madras is in a different league—quiet and welcoming with warm rust-colored walls, and a veggie-vegan-kosher-friendly menu that clearly marks dairy content and spice level. You might see one of the rare lone diner species, or even actual Indian people, eating here.

Highlights are the dosas: thin, non-greasy rice crepes wrapped around savory fillings like potato masala, peas and onions, and served with a side of spicy tomato sambar, and a grits-like, tongue-scorching chutney. At $9, it’s pricier than a visit to the Dosa Man but for a nice sit-down place, what do you expect? The samosas ($5) are two crisp vegetable turnovers filled with potato, nuts and spices, perfect for sharing. For a main dish, the Kofta Curry ($10–pictured) arrives as three falafel-like veggie meatballs covered in a buttery tomato sauce. I can’t resist a decent mango lassi, a silky-sweet yogurt drink that doubles as dessert, although I prefer the tartness of Lassi’s. Beware of the lentil donuts, which were leathery and weirdly resisted soaking up their bath of creamy curry sauce.

Will I stay a vegetarian? I doubt it. But I do like experimenting.

Madras Café, 79 Second Avenue Mon-Sat noon-11pm, Sun noon-10pm

I completed my first long-overdue WordPress upgrade. Now on Version 2.3.3, I was able to install this cool GeoMashup plugin, found on Cyberhobo, which plots my snacking adventures on a Google Map from WordPress, and places a link on the post that takes you to that location on the map. It’s not perfect yet–I kind of wish it displayed business names and addresses–and I don’t know what kind of freaky mess you’re seeing in IE6. Sorry. Click here to experience the wonder of the Snack map.

Now I’m thinking a redesign is in order, so I’m taking in the full You Suck At Photoshop series. There’s just something about emotionally-devastated design tutorials that makes learning so much fun. Don’t miss episode 4 and episode 7.

Today I was walking through the park on my way to get a snack when I passed by a bench with one of those punk-rock relics on it. He’d somehow scraped his thinning hair into a semblance of a mohawk and was bellowing toothlessly about how much he’d had to drink to his buddies. Metal studs gleamed through the grime on his denim jacket. You see depressing sights like this around the park sometimes, at ten in the morning on a weekday.

Just as I walk by he hollers, loud enough to be heard clear across the park, “HEEY nerdy sexy girl you got a cigarette?”

Startled, I look over and he yells, “Oh I thought she was sexy, but she’s UGLY!”

Wow. I hadn’t encountered this game in about seventeen years. It’s kind of a take on “High Five… OH too slow,” but meaner. Some guy tries to engage you with an approximately friendly salvo, then announces to the school bus, or hallway, that you’re ugly, and his friends crack up. Of course, ugly was the worst thing a girl could possibly be back then. I remembered this kind of thing was one of the early sources of my misanthropy. I’d almost forgotten that there even were sources for it.

At least my sense of irony has evolved. “Look who’s talking,” I mutter under my breath. Bad idea.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY! WHAT DID THAT UGLY BITCH SAY!” the guy screams, and I can’t tell if he’s feigning anger or really getting up to come after me. His buddies have locked interest on me too. They’re tippling and wavering and staring in a tight huddle as if they’re plotting. I hear the words “ugly bitch” again, but clearly, if I’m not cowed by my ugliness they’ll frighten me with their superior strength.

And I am kind of afraid. But what an absolutely killer epitaph I’ve managed. Chased down by punks in Tompkins Square Park. The pigeons will peck at my flesh. The police will crack down until there’s only dog-walkers and baby-strollers left. They’ll place a small memorial at the base of an ancient elm tree, unpolished marble, something tasteful. Slowly, my name will be washed away by acid rain. I pretend to check my phone.

After a few moments I hear no pounding feet. The punks have lost interest. I suppose they have a long day ahead, with other sexier, uglier, bitches to meet.

Tompkins Square Park, East Village

The pizza at Alligator Lounge might just be a miracle of modern budget boozery, because no one can quite figure out how it’s free. Well, it’s not exactly free—you must purchase one drink, at about $5 a pop, to get a free pizza ticket. Once you’ve completed this task, you simply march up to the brick oven, and present your ticket. If you want toppings, it’ll be $2 for the first and $1 for each additional. But assuming you don’t, in about ten minutes you’ll have a piping-hot 12-inch pie to accompany your beer at a cost of ZERO DOLLARS (but if you’re classy you’ll leave $1 for your pizza guy).

How? How is it possible? Because the pizza actually isn’t half bad. True, it tastes better when it has some liquor to soak up in your belly. And you might want to blot the grease with several napkins and go heavy on the crushed red pepper and oregano to give it some extra taste. Better yet, you might want to carry along your own personal pizza spice-rack, with plenty of fresh basil, for just these kinds of situations. But if you spice it up just right and be sure to eat it fast before the cheese congeals—this is the miracle of which I speak.

The ambience is, I think, cheesy-tropical: potted palms and bamboo shades, flamingos and rainbow lights, with a decent digital jukebox and a pool table. In other words, it’s a perfect late-night hunger fix (until 3:30 am), or a place to get the party started before moving on to some serious drinking at Spuyten Duyvil.

If you don’t feel like hopping the L, there’s even an East Village outpost. And while I don’t advise this, if you can handle two pizzas, you get another free one with your second drink. Of course, this place does draw a crowd. I’m even a little reluctant to spread the word. Beware the crapshoot that is comedy Tuesdays.

Free Pizza!

Brooklyn: Alligator Lounge, 600 Metropolitan Ave. at Lorimer St. Open Daily 3pm-4am

East Village: Crocodile Lounge 325 E 14th St. at First Avenue Open Daily 12pm-4am

One of the major problems I have with the countryside is that while trees and fresh air and miles of breathing space are nice, there’s not enough new stuff to be impressed by. Because people are making these impressing things, and people drift toward where the money’s good. That’s what makes going for a solid month in New York City without being impressed all the more depressing. If I can’t find something here to excite me, where can I?

And then I bit into a cinnamon sugar donut from Balthazar Bakery. If there were to be snack equivalent of crack, this would be it. THIS is what I have wanted donuts to be, since back in the day when good donuts meant a cardboard box of chocolate-glazed munchkins. The cinnamon sugar donut ($1.25) is small, less than palm-sized. When biting into it you break throught an apply crisp, brown-sugary outer layer, into an extremely light doughy middle with plenty of air pockets. This donut ranks beyond Krispey Creme and Donut Plant due to the slightly fritter-like crunch of that outer layer. My god. This is why I moved here.

Balthazar Bakery, 80 Spring St.