As a kid you always dreamed of traveling to Oz to frolic amongst its adorable munchkins, flying monkeys, and whatnot, but whenever you got a fever, got caught in a cyclone, and clicked your heels together, you'd just vomit. Fret not, as everywhere can soon be Oz, with Oz
Too tiny for a proper address, Oz is a breezy streetside
stoner's smoker's commissary-cum-lounge run by a couple of affable Russians whose glass cases are filled with a host of steel jay rollers n' herb grinders, plus an array of thick glass spoon pipes, and intricately twisted bubblers; sprinkled in are more business-like turbo lighters, embossed flasks, and several types of super-accurate scales for "what is the word...jewelry!". While you shop, they'll hook up the hookah (w/ one of 10 flavors from white peach to French vanilla) to prime you for perusing all manner of sweet tobacchi miscellany, or just sitting there admiring the nooks and crannies of your hand. Beveragewise, there is tea and coffee, either regular or sweetly strong, prepared Turkish style on a small heated bed of sand, which sounds romantic but always leads to chaffing
If you require mo' comestibles, they're serving up free grub all day one day a month from a definitive selection of "Mediterranean or Middle Eastern or, you know, whatever we feel like" -- successfully colliding your munchkin-filled dreams with your mouth full of munchkins.