The New Yorker

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 bird’s-eye view of the bar, with its toddler-sized soju bottles and posters touting “Wu Wednesdays.” The Buddha asks, via a framed bulletin, that visitors abide by a few select precepts: Don’t be a Dick; Don’t 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 “manly liquor.” His friend happily ordered, from a colorful chalkboard menu entitled “Drunk Tank,” the Mango Blast (a revised margarita that tasted suspiciously similar to Crystal Light) and, shortly thereafter, the Fluzzy (strawberry purée, rosé champagne). Near the end of the night, a Kimchee Back (whiskey shot, kimchi-juice chaser), while not quite the “deadly 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 wasn’t until a round of lychee Martinis that they attained anything close to enlightenment.

– Jiayang Fan