Fat Buddha

At Fat Buddha, an East Village Asian-fusion ultra-dive, the eponymous Buddha (corpulent, imperious, swathed in mini disco balls, and encased in a glass box stuffed with cash) looks like a reincarnated bouncer who opted for an off-book route to enlightenment: namely, booze, hip-hop, and a jovial no-holds-barred policy on happy-hour pork buns. Nestled comfortably at the back of his cavernous temple, next to the d.j. deck, he has a birds-eye view of the bar, with its toddler-sized soju bottles and posters touting €œWu Wednesdays.€ The Buddha asks, via a framed bulletin, that visitors abide by a few select precepts: Dont be a Dick; Dont be Creepy; Please Tip. His disciples, of course, are many and diverse. On a recent evening, they ranged from an elderly Asian pair gnawing on some golden-brown honey-ginger wings to a lesbian couple with pastel ombre hair and two newcomers, one of whom complained impoliticly that there was a troubling lack of €œmanly liquor.€ His friend happily ordered, from a colorful chalkboard menu entitled €œDrunk Tank,€ the Mango Blast (a revised margarita that tasted suspiciously similar to Crystal Light) and, shortly thereafter, the Fluzzy (strawberry puree, rose champagne). Near the end of the night, a Kimchee Back (whiskey shot, kimchi-juice chaser), while not quite the €œdeadly venom€ the menu had cautioned, inspired some genuine soul-searching about the nature of Nirvana. Is it a state? Could it be a place? Two friends debated the subject over a steaming bowl of vegetarian bibimbap, but it wasnt until a round of lychee Martinis that they attained anything close to enlightenment.