Dining Review (I'm serious)

NightFeeding
Confessions of a nocturnal feeder

"I've been feeding you to see what form you'd take ... I just wanted to free your shape." The Tragically UnFit

You've been drinking again. You're surrounded by micro-beer drinking, date-raping weight lifters with perfect skin. Petite chicks with perpetual pouts push by with hair that bruises. And not an "excuse me" all night. Why are the physically perfect so rude? Because they have to look at the rest of us?

Back to ClubPsuedo. You've been trying to keep your hands to yourself but each wine cooler takes you closer to the edge of Spankville. But drinking as an alternative to sex is like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. Desire bludgeons your blazing loins as Madonna's "Borderline" plays. Why, why is there always Madonna?

You have two choices, humiliate yourself into some sex or just walk the hell away. The lowest road outta there is what the Secret Order of the Chronically Single recommend: NightFeeding. Eating as an alternative to sex is like putting out a fire with milk.

But please, please keep these late-night feederies to yourselves. If word of this PostGrunge ritual gets out, everyone's gonna want to gain 50 pounds in search of the perfect midnight smack. I mean snack.

10-ish. You're driving through the filthy drizzle of an October night in Pittsburgh. You can't remember when you've ever been so hungry but the feeling seems familiar.

Your eyes scurry up and down Liberty Avenue in the heart of Bloomfield. Your mind seizes amid the confusing choice of eateries. Perogies at the BBT or pasta at the Pleasure Bar? You keep driving. You're craving protein.

You spot a soft pink glow buzzing just ahead. The awning of a new place? Couldn't be more than a few months old. It's name? MOJO BAY — written right above a little sun. Tears fill your eyes. You'll never be alone again.

Everyone at the bar seems to know each other but there are too many people for that to be possible. Friendly bartenders can do that to a place. You order a Jack Daniels and Coke without thinking. Oops. Well, you won't order an appetizer.

That thought disappears once you look at the menu. Two striking choices: smoked salmon chowder served in a sourdough Tuscan loaf and the oysters baked with a garlic almond butter, served on a bed of sea salt.

Your waitress comes. You ask her what's available at such a late hour. She tells you they'll prepare anything, even full dinners until 2 a.m. You think you're hallucinating until the food arrives. Then you're sure of it.

Man, the colors in the Cobb Salad — perfectly placed rows of chicken, bleu cheese, minced bacon, diced tomatoes and egg are lovingly laid on a bed of mixed greens you can't even see. And on the side, a lite raspberry vinaigrette.

You're munching and crunching innocently when the waitress brings another plate. You see it staring up at you, spread wide open. It's the famed Muffaletta sandwich — layers of baked ham, Genoa salami, prosciutto, provolone and mozzarella overwhelm a bun the size of a bus.

You bite into the bitch. Again and again. Soon your head feels heavy, your neck, weak. The room's spinning. You're not the NightFeeder you thought you were, eh? Loosen that belt. Stop your whining and order desert damn it. How about some white chocolate cheese cake with a raspberry swirl? Or a Peanut Butter Dream — chocolate brownie crust topped with a peanut butter melt-a-way, smothered in a peanut butter mousse, finished with whipped topping and drizzled with chocolate sauce? Oh, the verbs.

You know you're not worth it. You eat it anyway. All of it. Your personality disorder kicks in. You know what you have to do, where you're headed next. MAD MEX. You want food that's gonna bite back. And with their late-night, half-price special, it won't take a bite out of your wallet.

11-ish. You think you're a cliché factory but that's just what happens driving out McKnight Road. You keep your eyes peeled for the striking green light of the psychedelic-southwestern sign. Your innerfeeder taunts you, "Are we there yet, huh, huh?"

The Rolling Stones' "Let It Bleed" plays as you walk in the door, "I'm a seething, feeding monkey, all my friends are hunkies." And on an excellent stereo, no less. The place is dark but not depressing: seductive. The sharp edges of steel sculptures capture your eyes. Bare bulbs trapped in green jars hang from ropes above the bar. You sit in a corner and need a cigarette just to touch the branded leather menu cover.

You sink into an adult-sized Kiwi Margarita made from fresh fruit. Their bartenders have to come into work an hour early just to squeeze lemons and limes. After only one, you want to eat with your hands. You want to lick your fingers. You want to burn your mouth, your lips, your tongue. A fine sweat overcomes your brow as you read descriptions of food even healthy people would love.

You order wings. They come in three flavors: mild, wild and insane. The San Franciscans are covered with honey mustard, garlic and a red pepper flake sauce. You bite into a wild one. The sauce tingles your lips. You want to touch yourself. Yes...it's time for squid. The calamari is excellent, kinda like oceanic onion rings. You dip them, one after another after another, into thick white sauce that slides down your throat like a million secret wishes.
When you think you can't take it anymore, the waitress brings your Nachos Grande. Red, white, blue and yellow corn chips are piled helplessly on a plate, no, on a platter and are smothered with Monterey Jack, salsa, jalapeños, black beans, sour cream and the only guacamole you've ever actually liked, made fresh everyday.
You're biting your fingers in the frenzy of a feedfest. You're drawing blood. And stares. Time to go. Doesn't matter. You got what you came for. You leave a big, juicy tip for the waitress.

12-ish. You're sitting in your car with no particular place to go. The windshield wipers slap slap slap slap. The Meat Puppets play on the radio, "Where do fat folks go when they die? They don't go to heaven cause they're too fat to fly." Why, why does there have to be fat? You think you hear someone laugh at you. You check the floors of your car. And what do you find but a so-happy cigarette.

La la-la. Silky smoke softens the edges of everything. The Innocence Mission plays, "I've come to the end of me again." You're suddenly William Blake in a station wagon returning from the road of excess. You head downtown to the CLUB JOY, a new dance club and late-night restaurant next to the Chinatown Inn.

Up to the second floor. Chinese videos play while people sing karaoke. No one's speaking English. The waitress comes, dressed in a white satin gown. She serves tea in cute little cups. You add four packs of sugar and get your second wind. You order wanton noodle soup. You chew languidly on shrimp-filled wantons, slurp slowly the wonderful noodles and savor the pungent broth.

The soothing pink and delicate blue decor dissolves your dysfunctional defenses. The truth behind your need to feed ripples through your thighs. You're in love with Adam Duritz, the lead singer of the Eating Crow. Quit calling him a whiner and admit it. And there's only one thing that will ease that ache, Mr. Jones — a trip to PEPPI'S in the Strip District. You're headed back into the underbelly of your obsession.

1-ish. Bright lights, big hoagie. You drink a Stewart's orange cream soda that's a liquid dream while you read the menu. Maybe you'll have a vegetarian sub called the Shady Side. You'd rather eat boiled Birkenstocks. You decide on the Big Wheeler. It's served on a roll from Mancini's bakery that's stuffed with a steak and sausage mix, grilled onions and melted provolone.

You begin with a huge plate of Cajun fries and some slushy lemonade that puckers your lips. You pinch yourself. You dip crispy fries in the Marzetti ranch dressing served with it. Your eyes roll back in your head when you realize how perfectly they blend together.

Your sandwich arrives. With the first bite, you realize that you’ve never had a real steak sub until now. And no wonder. At Peppi’s, they shave their own steaks daily. The difference is incredible. Time stands still while you chew. You have to remind yourself to breathe. Then, like waking to a nightmare, you look down and find an empty plate. You don't know how long you stare, wondering where it all went. Life is like that. Time to move on.

2-ish. They say you always return the scene of your first feed. You're parked across the street from TOM'S DINER in Dormont. Their large gyros and fried mushrooms spoiled you for all others. Your mouth waters as memories flood your mind.

You don't want to deal with the crowd waiting to get in but know you have to. You're about to get out of your car when you see a young couple in line sucking face. How quickly you'd forgotten that food isn't really what you want.
But a little breakfast seems pretty harmless.

3-ish. MIKE’S LUNCH on Brownsville Road, next to the St. Vincent De Paul Store in Mt. Oliver, has been in business for over 70 years. The decor is circa ‘69 — burnt orange vinyl stools, striped wallpaper to match. An old Dolly Madison sign hangs in the back.

John the cook is cute, tattooed and hilarious. His mother’s working the late shift with him. His grandmother’s been employed there for 25 years. The dishwasher, for three hours. They’re open from 6 a.m. ‘till 4 a.m.

Yinzers abound, but you didn’t go there to stare at them like insensitive pseudo-hipsters might. If you’re throwing the right vibe, if you have nothing to prove, you’re in for a real treat. These strangers love to talk.

You order coffee. Smoke a cigarette, watch John cook your breakfast with an amusing precision. He's not a cook, he's a performer. A friend of his stumbles in mumbling, "My wife is going to kill me." Classic.

At least he has someone. What you wouldn't give to be taking someone home tonight. What you wouldn't give — exactly.

Sure, NightFeeding's not as fun as having sex but when you wake up tomorrow, you'll only owe yourself an apology. Which is more to be proud of than you know.

Published by a paper that fired me and went out of business