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Those who lament that the underground, multi-ethnic bacchanalia left Manhattan when the old Bulgarian Bar closed will get a reality check in the bowels of Karavas; on Friday nights the gyro joint opens up its trippy basement for a party that sucks in a healthy cross-section of the West Fourth Street freak scene; gay; straight; ballers, dorks; whatever. The D.J. spinning hip-hop and reggae from behind bars encourages exhibitionists to shake it while others grind their partners in hilariously oversized armchairs or snuggle in high-backed antique couches along the walls. The bar at the center of the low-ceilinged room is rectangular, allowing those seated to sneak not-so-discrete peeks at each other while the bartender hustles to pull pints and pour tequila shots. Once the booze motivates one’s date, the Pink Pussycat is just up the stairs and across the street. — Daniel Maurer