Fine, the gallery at Foreign Cinema isn't precisely a bar, despite the suspiciously bar-like counter in the corner. Laszlo, the official watering-hole, boasts weird art as well - a skull swinging morbidly from the ceiling, skateboards pasted to the wall, et cetera.

But while a dangling skull conjures up warm and fuzzy images of Yorick or the Grateful Dead, it doesn't have the same Dali-smooshed-with-Picasso-on-the-cover-of-The-New-Yorker aesthetic that marks Alex Nichols' canvas-on-wood concoctions.

Planted on the long white wall of Foreign Cinema's gallery, the charcoal drawings are prone to gazing down on you as you eat your curry fried chicken. Judging your entree selection? Wishing for a bite? Thinking you shouldn't wear green with your skin tone? Hard to say. But who doesn't like being watched by silent pictorial presences as they eat? These guys are much better company than the dour Danish ancestors lining the dining room of my childhood home, let me tell you.