New York minutes/Mid-April 2008
The good: Square Meal, where we finally lucked in on a Saturday night and only realized why when we saw so much Passover food on the menu. On the plus side, the place never filled up, so the din a friend had warned me of never had a chance to build to bedlam level. On the minus side, chicken liver pate with matzoh is not my idea of bread and butter. But my consort loved his roast “organic/kosher” chicken with potato latkes. I was happy with airy/crispy fried “Thai” calamari on an Asian pear and Meyer lemon slaw, and we both were impressed by the “Boston ’n buttermilk” salad, with its delicate balance of leaves and dressing with tiny croutons and bacon bits. We almost never order dessert, but Bob got kid’s eyes over the ones being served all around us, so we succumbed to a pretty decent coconut cream pie. It’s BYO, and I had a great red left from a magazine story, so we got out for $55 before tip. Bonus points for the look of the place, which is sleek but homey, and for the staff, all total pros and a real team. As the neighbor who tipped me off to the Yura enterprise put it, “It’s special.” And considering where it’s located, it really is. WIGB? Hope so. 30 East 92d Street, 212 860 9872.
The not bad: Pasita, a Venezuelan wine bar where we wound up after the devastating “Body of War” at IFC. The long, narrow room was nearly empty on a Monday night, and the server spent most of the evening reading at the bar, but the food came fast and the wine pours were more than generous for $9. A pizza would have been the way to go, judging by the brick oven, but we just split a “cremosa” salad with iceberg lettuce, avocado, red onion and tomato with a creamy pepper dressing, and, at the child-for-a-night’s insistence, “tequenos,” described as cheese puffs dusted with cumin but actually more like mozzarella sticks with a great green salsa. My Los Andes Torrontes was outstanding, which I guess shouldn’t be surprising in a place whose slogan translates as “happiness in a bottle.” WIGB? Absolutely. 47 Eighth Avenue near West Fourth Street, 212 255 3900.
The not awful: Ostia in the West Village, where I stupidly suggested we repair when the one table open at Centro Vinoteca after an early book party seemed to be in an especially deafening level of aural hell. Of course as soon as we sat down and ordered wine I realized we were trapped next to something worse: a big table of braying Euro-holes. But the poor waitress was so mumbly-shy we stuck it out to share some decent grilled shiitakes and an obviously made-to-order tortilla (never a good thing). That and three glasses of wine cost fifty bucks. WIGB? Not likely.