New York minutes/Late July 2008
The if-it-were-a-candidate-it-would-be-presumptuous: Bar Milano, where a friend lured another friend and me to take “advantage” of Restaurant Week and where we all staggered out two hours later senza $46 apiece and underwhelmed to boot. Value-wise, I guess I can’t complain; they threw in an extra course for the $24.08. But the kitchen must have been on muscle relaxants — the gap between each of those four courses was long enough to write a cookbook. The weirdness that is RW also tainted the experience; waiters don’t want to be accused of pushing, so they don’t do what they might any other week and offer refills on wine etc. From the two to three choices for each course, we chose mostly the same things: ribbons of Tuscan kale drenched in creamy dressing with wonderful mini-croutons; rabbit terrine (I passed); “conseci” stuffed with chard and ricotta (gummy) and tagliatelle with ragu (salty); trout on “montecato” (bland), and “frittelle” with alleged rhubarb. I liked the last taste best, mostly because it was more vegetal than fruity. Bread plates sat empty the entire meal while I saw other tables dunking into olive oil, and the flatware fought the plates and bowls for balance and largely lost. Even half-full, the place was noisy (and we got a great table for three near the front). I can’t imagine setting foot inside at dinner. In any other city, this would be the swankiest joint in town. They spent the bucks, on the bathrooms, the liquor carts, the design in general. But soundproofing? Not so much. WIGB? Not likely. 323 Third Avenue at 24th Street, 212 683 3035.
The redeemed: Crema, where a friend and I retreated after getting our minds set on Mexican after Aimee Mann at Barnes & Noble, only to be told Rosa Mexicano had more than an hour’s wait. I had sworn I would never go back, but the host this night was so welcoming and gave us the quietest table in the front so quickly that it was hard to hold that grudge. Even for $18 quesadillas. We split the guacamole, which was light on jalapeno, cilantro, onion and tomato, but the chips were good. Kevin was a bit flummoxed by the weirdness of his top-shelf margarita, but I realized it was the mescal giving it the woodshed aspect. And my second choice of wine, after the Veramonte was gone, was decent enough. WIGB? Maybe. 111 West 17th Street, 212 691 4477.
The time-warpy: Pete’s Tavern, where I met my friend for a drink for proximity-to-Barnes-&-Noble’s sake and where the wine choices and prices ($6 for sauvignon blanc) were right, plus the happy hour feast was movable: a little guy came around repeatedly with a tray of fried things and teeny triangles of gummable “pizza.” The place reeks history (O. Henry), and it is undeniably cool that it exists in a city hellbent on destroying anything that might be able to support a 30-story high-rise. On the debit side, the bartenders do seem to respond only to their hung patrons. WIGB? Maybe. Nostalgia can be a very good appetite. 129 East 18th Street at Irving Place, 212 473 7676.