New York minutes/Early February 2008
The pretty good: Lunetta, where my consort and I stopped on a Saturday when we needed sustenance after the Greenmarket and I had limited options two days after surrendering two wisdom teeth. The hostess was great, some woman working the floor kept the water flowing and the waitress was trying hard, but it still took forever to get our food, to the point that I was panicking we would still be there at dinnertime. I also almost took a nasty dive on hitting a grease patch on the floor on my way to the bathroom. But all was forgiven once the respectable bucatini carbonara and superb chicken under a brick arrived. The first was rich and heavy on meat, with no fewer than two bay leaves and three sprigs of thyme to boot; the latter was gorgeously charred but still juicy. And we were home in plenty of time for an interview I’d scheduled. WIGB? Undoubtedly — there are far less attractive places to be stuck waiting for gummable lunch. 920 Broadway, 212 533 3663.
The pretty unsettling: Spain on 13th Street, where a friend arranged to meet me and another birthday girl who was craving old-style Spanish with sangria and paella and where she got half her wish anyway. They were already at the bar and well into the tiny glasses of red wine when I showed up, so at the bartender’s suggestion we all moved to three stools together and he brought the tapas with them (shrimp, limp patatas bravas and Eraserhead-worthy meatballs). I asked what kind of white wine he had and got: “White wine. Spanish.” No arguing with that, even when it was poured from a jug. As we ordered more rounds, he brought out respectable chorizo, then chicken wings awash in garlic sauce and finally three honkin’ slabs of tortilla. Just as the Chimp started blathering on the teevee, the place cleared out, he presented the check ($46 for 10 or 12 glasses, but who was counting?) and we realized paella was not an option. After seeing how gray the bones were on those wings, I wasn’t really disappointed.