D’Angelo’s

The first thing that struck me about D’Angelo’s was the smell, and I mean LITERALLY. It was like a 2X4 made out of compacted decomposing fetus goo wielded by a muscular mongoloid caught me across the cheek. My god. And the staff… old hippies and burnouts dragging a leg towards you across a floor littered with compost (probably the remains of patrons who succumbed to the smell). The owner is a dick, plain and simple. If you go in expecting even the most basic level of customer service, you’ll probably wind up gouging your eyes out with one of the blood encrusted syringes found in abundance around the bathroom. Need another reason to avoid D’Angelo’s? An acquaintance of mine once headed there for a Thursday night «happy hour.» He fled out one of the rear windows to avoid high speed flying goo… the byproduct of a raucous «jump-​hump-​fuckidy-​fuck» (Mr. D’Angelo’s term) between the proprietor and an unnamed, and possibly unwilling Asian ladyboy.