Slices a New Yorker can love have arrived in the East Village at last. The lack of decent pizza slices in my hood has been a long-standing gripe of mine, so I’ve been eyeing Artichoke Basille, and the line snaking out its door, since it opened about a month ago. Although I usually avoid excruciating hype-fueled waits, I figured I’d should finally bite the bullet and get in the queue.

Twenty-six minutes, three rounds of phone tetris, and two passers-by wanting to know what the fuss was about later, I emerged bearing two slices. Since all that was left were a couple lonely squares of Sicilian when I got to the front of the line, that’s what I must base my review on. The short version: they were awesome.

I consider the make-or-break ingredient for stand-out pizza to be the sauce, and here it is tangy, sweet but not too sweet, and liberally glopped on. Topping the sauce is a mix of fresh mozzarella and grated Parmesean, with processed mozzarella pulling it all together and adding a firming crust, reminiscent of now-closed DeMarco’s pizza squares. The crust is just thick enough to hold up while maintaining its crunch, with a pleasant char around the edges, and a pan-grease veneer on the bottom that drives the indulgence all the way home to your belly. Pizza nerds will quibble about how Artichoke stacks up to Brooklyn institution DiFara; but this is hands-down the best $2.50 takeout slice in the hood.

I wish I could’ve sampled more from the kitchen but they seemed to be stretched a bit thin, swiftly churning out pies to serve the deepening crowd (and I was informed by a guy in line that his full pie required an hour and a half wait–AFTER he got to the front). According to nymag, Artichoke’s menu includes Neapolitan pizza, heros, cauliflower fritters, and a Keith Richards-approved artichoke-and-spinach pizza. I don’t foresee the wait shortening, but I imagine I’ll do a little more research on this place. In the words of the immortal Faith No More, it’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it.

Artichoke Basille 328 14th st. between First and Second Avenue
noonish til sometime after midnight - no seating, about a half hour wait for slices; no delivery yet (the counterperson says they’ll start delivering in a couple weeks), but try calling ahead if you’re ordering a full pie - 212-228-2004.

The warm, nutty aroma wafting down Orchard Street literally stopped me in my tracks. It was like standing downwind from a roasted peanut cart on a cool fall day. I drink so many varieties of bad coffee during the work week (charred Starbucks, bitter Flavia, watery deli) that I’d forgotten this is how fresh-brewed coffee is supposed to smell.

Inside, my inner nerd feels right at home. Roasting Plant is pleasingly sleek and techy, like the Apple store for coffee. Choose one of seven varieties of beans stored in upright cylanders, and an attendant punches your order onto a touchscreen. Instantly, a cup-sized portion of beans rattles upward along the ceiling through a pneumatic tube into the “javabot“–which roasts, grinds, and brews, spitting out a perfectly-portioned cup of coffee topped with a layer of mocha-colored foam ($2 small, $2.50 large). Then it’s off to the milk counter, where you can choose from four different varieties of sugar, stored in salad-dressing bottles that permit no danger of heaping too much into your drink.

The coffee–at least the Ethiopian Harrar and Yirgacheffe–is smooth and the perfect drinking temperature, but not the boldest, most badass blend I’ve had in town (think Joe the Art of Coffee, or Ninth Street Espresso). The attraction here is having my coffee made by a javabot, which runs the entire length of the store. If you like robots and free wi-fi you’ll probably dig this place; if you prefer having your coffee scooped by humans from a burlap bag on the floor, visit the hippies at Porto Rico (like the one who dissed me for accepting a “petroleum product”–i.e. plastic bag–for my half pound of coffee beans. Dude, my hands were full.)

Roasting Plant, 81 Orchard Street