But not this time.

Because taking these snow cones outside would be a misdemeanor.

Introducing Tequila Snow Cones, the most intoxicating iced delight to hit the city since BBQ soft-serve.

To sample this childhood treat hostile takeover, you’ll need to head deep into the underground agave vault of La Biblioteca. At this point, you should probably know that hidden from view in the kitchen is a giant plastic polar bear named Miguel, whose spacious insides are devoted to the crushing of ice into snow form. Said ice is then scooped up by a chef (who also happens to be named Miguel) and turned into the treat in question by the liberal application of tequila and homemade syrups.

You’ll be served a trifecta of flavors and colors, ranging from strawberry to hibiscus to tamarind to whatever else the Miguels have conjured that night. And since this is a tequila bar, you’ll be deciding among 400 bottles to kick up your cone.

Then, as the brain freeze competes with the 80-proof liquor for total mental control, you’ll think back to those carnival snow cones of your childhood.

And wonder if giant bears named Miguel were responsible for those too.

But not this time.

Because taking these snow cones outside would be a misdemeanor.

Introducing Tequila Snow Cones, the most intoxicating iced delight to hit the city since BBQ soft-serve.

To sample this childhood treat hostile takeover, you’ll need to head deep into the underground agave vault of La Biblioteca. At this point, you should probably know that hidden from view in the kitchen is a giant plastic polar bear named Miguel, whose spacious insides are devoted to the crushing of ice into snow form. Said ice is then scooped up by a chef (who also happens to be named Miguel) and turned into the treat in question by the liberal application of tequila and homemade syrups.

You’ll be served a trifecta of flavors and colors, ranging from strawberry to hibiscus to tamarind to whatever else the Miguels have conjured that night. And since this is a tequila bar, you’ll be deciding among 400 bottles to kick up your cone.

Then, as the brain freeze competes with the 80-proof liquor for total mental control, you’ll think back to those carnival snow cones of your childhood.

And wonder if giant bears named Miguel were responsible for those too.

Meet in a crowded public place. Read the paper, pull your fedora down and wait for your contact to arrive. And then—the handoff.

An unmarked brown paper bag, filled with 2¼ ounces of… pure grilled cheese.

Welcome to Bread.Butter.Cheese., a covert grilled cheese dealership operating out of an apartment and making drops in the tiny East Village park on First and First, starting today.

The process is simple. Almost too simple: you’ll text or dial The Man (we’ll call him Ronnie), and leave a message telling him how you like your grilled cheese. Ronnie posts his “inventory” of daily specials here, but he’s a resourceful chap and can do everything from your basic Wonder Bread with Kraft Singles to a buttery Spanish Malvarosa layered with caramelized onions and raw jalapeños (remember, there’s no such thing as purity in grilled cheese).

You’ll get a text back with a delivery time—like any good dealer, he operates around the clock—and then, a normal-looking guy will approach cautiously. You’ll give him the nod and hand over a small quantity of unmarked bills. He will pass you the bag. Then he will disappear.

And should Ronnie take a shine to your grilled cheese order, you may find as a bonus a can of beer or tiny airplane bottle of whiskey in the brown bag along with your sandwich.

Either way, pick up the bag, stand up and walk away very slowly.

A hint. A look forward.

A reminder that the weather is finally breaking, and a few short weeks from now, birds will be chirping, skin will be peeking from behind sundresses and the long, cold, nightmarish hibernation will be over.

At which point, you’ll remember that you like going out. On dates. With people.

And you’ll quietly wonder if there are any sexy new date spots to add to your stable.

To which we’ll respond, “Yes, yes there are.”

Introducing Betel, a sleek little upscale Thai street-food joint, just now opened in time for your spring awakening in the West Village.

Walking into the unmarked door of Betel, you’ll quickly realize the Aussie owners have consulted the courtship oracle—the front room is decked in dark wood, bathed in candlelight and set up with dark corners (not to mention a small back lounge) for canoodling and cocktailing.

You’ll want to opt out of a private table (trust us) and take a seat at the long communal table that runs the length of the main room (built at a narrower 18 inches for closer conversations). Here, you can get lost in the din of the room, dig into some Wagyu Brisket and Crispy Skin Duck and sup a rotating cast of muddled concoctions (try the Blackberry Passionfruit Caipiroska) and citrusy whiskey drinks (like the rye-based Sarang Manhattan).

And when spring finally hits for good, they’ll be unleashing a private back patio and front sidewalk section for your outdoor dining needs.

Which are much more significant than your regular dining needs.