We've been hearing little whispers, and then bigger ones, about secret (but not really secret) hotspot restaurant Freeman's—and when we realized we (and you) could actually afford to go there, we thought we'd check it out. Yes, not only did we break our starve-until-we're-skinny-and-perfect diet for the sake of service journalism, but we also stayed reasonably sober enough to scope the place out and stare inappropriately long at patrons. Okay, maybe the sober part is a little white lie, but the rest is totally true.

Located in Freeman's Alley (off of Rivington, East of Bowery), the creatively-named Freeman's is a taxidermist's wet dream: a gargantuan moose head sits over the bar, and similarly-dead animals adorn the walls. Thankfully, the unusually bright lighting ensures that you can adequately admire (or scowl, if you're all PETA-y) at these specimens. Other specimens worth ogling: the patrons, which run the gamut from stodgy professor types in nasty sportcoats to willowy LES under-30s wearing sneakers and designer sweaters. We spot some cowboy boots and skirts.

At 7:30, we're given a 45-minute wait estimate. 3 glasses of Chinon and 75 minutes later, we're still waiting at the bar. There are painful quantities of British accents from both the clientele and the staff. We adopt a faux accent (which, at best, is a blend of all that is Eurotrash) to check on our table, but to no avail. A trio of older diners amble up next to us and the woman, whose face is pinched in that way that only an Upper East Side surgeon knows how to perfect, is told by the bartender that all their drinks will be on the house. They are seated immediately. Who are they? Old people. The Shins are playing underneath the cacophonous din and we wonder if these retirees are fans.

We're finally seated by 9 and promptly order a shitload of food from our attitude-free, scruffy waiter. We are sudden, inexplicable fans of prunes and bacon. It's so loud we can barely hear ourselves talk, so we focus on inhaling our artichoke dip. We choke on a bone from the stuffed trout, but we don't care because we're getting a little tipsy. The restaurant is getting more crowded, more sweltering, and there's only 1 bathroom for all 500 of us. It doesn't matter, though: the food and elaborate cocktails are actually better than the scene. Go figure.

The bill for two, excluding the lengthy time spent at the bar, comes to $100, including tip. Rather acceptable for 2.5 hours of New York entertainment.