The Rat Pack. Alice in Wonderland. What do the two possibly have in common? They have an equal hand in the carnival that is 13 Coins. Like Alice, white knee socks flashing in the reflection of perpetually rained-on concrete, you run through the no-man’s-land of South Lake Union, following an equally inebriated muse to the only 24-hour restaurant that isn’t a complete dump.

Once inside, you’re swallowed by an outsized dark-leather padded booth for the Mad Hatter’s Sadomasochistic Tea Party. Characters come and go: society ladies with opera afterglow, bros and brosefs, prematurely aged doyennes who will tell you how great Belltown was when it was “all artists,” and South Seattle thugs. The bartenders trade barbs with the kitchen staff in seemingly authentic New York patois. Sinatra croons, you pick up a fork sturdy enough to kill a crocodile, and slip deliriously into the next allegory.

And that’s when extortion of mafia-like proportions begins. 13 Coins charges black-market prices for everything, even veal piccata that’s a rubbery medallion cloaked in thick breading and drizzled in a gloopy sour lemon and caper sauce, or a “Philadelphia steak sandwich” that would hopefully be rewarded with a punch in the throat in the real Philly (red wine? mozzarella?). Ah, fuggedaboutit.