After a sunny, glamorous weeklong trip in Ibiza, Spartos decides to cast her lot full-time with the Eurotrash of New York. Why such a change of heart? Could it be the bronzed skin, the gold jewelry, the high heels, and the rather cheesy dance mix tape she has professed such affinity for? “Yes!” gushes Spartos. Her friends check her head for injury; Spartos checks her pocket for a Bungalow 8 key. No dice.

And where do certified Eurotrash love to drink? “Soho, silly!” cries Spartos, donning an off-the-shoulder top and tight miniskirt, and leading—or shall we say teetering—the charge to three-month-old PFIFF (35 Grand Street, 334-6841). Now the old Spartos might have been put off by such digs, but our new heroine takes one look through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, scoffs at the fashionable throng, and then lays claim to one of the small cocktail tables that circle the bar as if it were her birthright, dammit. “What is that I hear? A British accent?” perks up Spartos. “Ah! Yes! German too!” And what do certified Eurotrash love to drink? “Well-mixed house specialties like mojitos, caipirinhas, and sangria ($8), dodo! And from supersweet bartenders with tussled hair who double as Abercrombie & Fitch models! Gawd, don’t you know anything?”

And so our poor, misguided, avowed Europhile—boosted by Pfiff’s rather warm interior, international party mix, and oh-so-affable German owner—takes leave, confident of her place in the world. So it’s with dismay that she arrives at the much-hyped ALEUTIA (220 Park Avenue South, 529-3111). “Boring!” whistles Spartos, staring at all the horse-mouthed women clutching Burberry bags. The rather stuffy $10 cocktails—with names like the Citrus Pucker—only add to her confusion. What’s wrong, Spartos? “I feel like I’m drinking at the Food Emporium!” she complains, covering her ears for fear that Kenny G will enter and never leave. Her only comfort is a tall iced glass of Sierra Nevada ($6) served up by one of the eager-to-please black-clad staff members.

Haunted by the sounds of saxophone noodling, Spartos wanders the streets of the Village unsure of her fate. She heads toward Washington Square Park—back with the bums—but, by chance, stumbles onto a small alley adjacent to one of those nondescript Belgian frite stands and, perhaps forever changing her destiny, into cozy VOLDE NUIT (148 West 4th Street, no phone). Inside, it’s dark and sparsely populated, and having already been burned once, our fragile heroine proceeds with caution upon hearing the French-accented bartender. But two Chimay Rouges ($7) and a plate of garlicky mussels ($12) later, she’s sprawled on one of the beat-up but cushy couches, hiccuping and pledging allegiance to all things French, Belgian, and otherwise. Why is she so happy? “Because I am the most fabulous of them all! What, are you stupid or something?”