Conventional wisdom suggests that, when it comes to paint, stomachs and bar food, the more coats, the better. Breading, barbecue sauce, cheese — the number of layers slathered over what's in the basket on your table is inversely proportionate to how much clothing the person you want to take home is wearing. (The acid rule: three Tums for every ounce of food you eat; when you get to nine Tums, halt any activity that involves pelvic motion.) A smart drinker leaves the green tablets at home and goes to Boozefish. Sure, you can still get wings and dips here — and you can get them late at night on weekends. But the affordable menu keeps its culinary ambitions unfussy and its food refreshingly spare at any hour. Sandwiches look and taste like sandwiches, a fork can stand up in the spinach dip, and the bruschetta cracks without disintegrating. Neither the low-impact spa food of certain highfalutin quarters nor the high-torque grease gobbled by hipsters, the cuisine here actually complements the booze.
