Uncle. We give up already. This is indeed a lousy town for late-night dining--and we're going to call late night that which happens after 2:00 a.m., just to knock out the lame-o's of the world who sack out at 11:00. Eleven o'clock is not late night; it's just a poorly organized evening. Three o'clock a.m.--that's late. While we're at it, why don't we just call a spade a spade? The reason there's no late-night dining around here is the same reason the bars close at 1:00 a.m.: We live in a house farm, people, a house farm where the major harvest is children, children planted alongside dogs and fertilized by jobs. As we all know, farming is difficult and requires an early-to-bed rigor. And you? You're usually asleep by midnight, aren't you? Come on, admit it. You dine out after 3:00 a.m. once every four years, and when it happens you're usually too drunk to remember much about it, except that if it had happened in Paris or New York it would have been better. Of course it would have. Because there are no children in Paris or New York. Children may be our future, but they are also a major buzz-kill and make lying in bed in the dark all day with a hangover less attractive. The only place in this town you're going to get food at 4:00 a.m. that's real, reliable, and not prepared by and for the seriously addled is at a place that doesn't cater to the seriously addled, that in fact caters to people who are up and getting stuff done at 4:00 a.m. People who--and again let's call a spade a spade here--have to be at work at 4:30. In the morning. Tough to contemplate, but true. And that's where Mickey's comes in. Real eggs, real fries, real bacon, real cheap. Real food for real people. What, you wanted confit and trout cakes with your sunrise? Get over yourself.