gastropoda/trails

The seriously good: Shanghai Asian Cuisine in Chinatown, where my consort and his studio manager and I took a lunch break on their run to the storage space down in the old NYPost building near the Seaport that would make a perfect setting for a remake of “The Shining.” I’d picked the tiny place from a Robert Sietsema rave, and the soup dumplings were everything he promised, perfectly made and with great flavor. As were the steamed dumplings filled with greens, very delicate texturally but intense-tasting. We all thought the mock duck was way above average, and the noodles with a kind of meat gravy were fine. But the fried pork dumplings turned out to be what we’ve all most craved ever since — they made me realize how rare those are when done to greaseless perfection. WIGB? Absolutely. Everything was in the $5 to $7 range, and the whole staff actually seemed happy to please us. 14A Elizabeth Street, 212 964 5640.

The not bad: Sezz Medi up near Columbia, where we trotted after a excellent morning seeing the Pete Souza Obama photo show at the Schomburg Center and touring Alexander Hamilton’s Grange before Bob had to be at school to coach aspiring journalists. We wanted fast and good, but sit-down, so we ordered without really thinking. Decent if a bit grease-sodden fried calamari and zucchini arrived in minutes, but my BLT took so long we had plenty of time to argue about why anyone would order such a thing in an Italianesque restaurant. It was okay, and came with fine fries with garlic, and really was a lot of food for $8. But I think six pizzas came out before one sandwich. WIGB? Maybe, if we found ourselves stranded in that neighborhood.

The great again: Hunan House in Flushing, where I met a few members of the best little eating group I’ve ever connected with and where we ate ourselves smart (I think with seven or nine dishes) for all of $20 a head. All I wanted was the smoked duck, but the group went for a different version, with dried turnips and white pepper (aka chilies), and I had no complaints. That kitchen is definitely not afraid of heat. The lazy Susan was spinning, with dan dan noodles and pumpkin cake and pickled Hunan cabbage flying by, but I was most impressed by the (comped) winter melon with black beans and chilies, the braised beef with chilies and black beans and especially with the Hunan mustard greens. A whole fish, though, just tasted muddy to me (you are what you eat, and grain doesn’t cut it). WIGB? Absolutely, but now I want to try its sister restaurant, without the hourlong ride. 718 353 1808.

The mostly good: Tertulia in the West Village, where I connected with friends in from Philadelphia after being warned on the phone that it would be tough to get in because it was Beard Eve but where we were instantly shown to a great table. I was a little worried by the grease/smoke smell hanging over the whole room, but the food was outstanding: eggs stuffed with smoked cod; mushrooms on toast with (allegedly) smoked ricotta and pine nuts; ham croquettes, and grilled asparagus with poached egg. I only tasted a bit of the chocolate-sea salt tart and the crema catalana. Service was a bit distracted, but it was Beard Eve . . . WIGB? Anytime. Despite the tumblers that always make wine taste as if it came from a hose. 359 Sixth Avenue near Waverly Place, 646 559 9909.

The worth-the-journey: Fort Defiance in Red Hook, where we landed with another couple on our little expedition to a different neighborhood that also involved Key lime pie (good but not life-changing), then excellent iced tea at Baked plus samples of just-distilled rum at an open house at Van Brunt Stillhouse. We had our maiden voyage through an Ikea beforehand, after the free Saturday ferry dumped us right there, and must have carried away some of the craziness that comes from too much choice, because we looked at every other eating option before heading back after leaving our names and being told the wait would be 15 minutes. So we walked in and sat right down, in a quiet table in the very back, and soon were being seduced by the cocktail list. My spritz was not bubbly enough but was the right choice to go with a huge fluffy biscuit flooded with sausage gravy alongside poached eggs that just needed Tabasco; the guys succumbed to excellent Ramos gin fizzes that didn’t play so well with either granola or Bob’s kick-ass grillades and (Anson) grits, with what must have been a very large calf’s cheek in lively sauce. Joanne’s omelet looked like an omelet, though. WIGB? If I lived closer, for sure. The room, the service, the mood were all just right. And while eggs out scare me, the menu promised safe sourcing. 365 Van Brunt Street, 347 453 6672.

The oy: Fairway, in what I call the flagship store, where we met friends who now have a 14-month-old for an early dinner on a Friday that I figured would last about an hour. I think we almost closed the place down, with very little of that time spent eating and drinking. Plus the pizza was the worst ever, just slopped out. The parents were smart, though: they brought mooshed-up fish and vegetables for the daughter. And she at least got to get up and walk around while waiting. And waiting.

The not-terrible: Osteria Cotta on the Upper West Side, where Bob and I landed after the very smart “We Have a Pope” and where a sidewalk table, even under scaffolding, made up for mediocre food and ditzy service. Caponata bruschetta suffered from the tasteless main ingredient; pizza verdure was soggy and wan, and the endive and watercress salad may or may not have had actual Gorgonzola in it. The best part was when the waitress brought my second glass of wine and it was half-full. “Oh, I guess I took it from the bartender too fast.” WIGB? Maybe. But not anytime soon.

The regrettable: Calexico’s taco cart, parked across from Madison Square in one of those Bloomberg triangles where I stumbled upon at least a dozen mobile vendors assembled in some sort of promotion through June 1. I’d walked by the cart before, but the line reminded me of our friend Leslie Wong’s memorable line about New Yorkers: “The more they get fucked, the more they like it.” On this Wednesday it was no shorter, but after checking out the other options I decided it was worth the wait even with Roberta’s right next “door.” Now can someone please explain to me why I thought carne asada was the filling to go for with mad cow loose in the land? Or what in hell the rubber chunks billed as skirt steak really were?

The great (expedition): Four Brooklyn destinations my consort and I trekked to after a Tweetresponse by one of my followers to a request for suggestions on where to eat after the Greenmarket at Grand Army Plaza. As we told Ray Bradley, we had to come to him since he has not turned up at our market this year, and Blue Moon was back in biz after the winter off, so it was all vaut le voyage even though we only bought spinach and potatoes and a couple of apples beyond the meat/eggs/fish (oh, and a cider doughnut, too). I jokingly suggested we should eat pizza, then roti, then tacos, then ice cream, and Bob actually took me seriously. So we set off to Barboncino, just down Eastern Parkway from the market, for an outstanding pizza with artichoke hearts and pancetta, plus a glass of rosé on that premature spring day for me and a Crushed Velvet for Bob after he saw a single guy indulging at the bar. The combination of Chambord, prosecco and chocolate stout was about as close as you could get to a fortified beer to go with that great pizza. Add in superb service and an atmospheric room and I’d give an immediate yes to WIGB. From there Bob and his iPhone mapped the other suggestions from our digi-guide, so we set off first to Gueros for a good fried avocado-and-jalapeño taco and an even better house-made chorizo-with-potato taco for all of $8.05 with tip. The former was flawed by the gummy flour tortilla but redeemed by the jalapeño buttermilk transforming the winter tomatoes; the latter had a fascinating cinnamon undertone but otherwise finally converted Bob to the church of fresh corn tortillas. The place is minuscule, and loud, but the people could not be nicer, or the water drinkier if you choose not to indulge in the beer or tequila making the walls reverberate. Afterward we headed to Ample Hills Creamery, a rug-rat-infested shop with the most charming counter staff, one of whom jokingly said he could not sell a child-size portion of the salty crack caramel to us. And that super-caramely, very un-sugary scoop (for $2.30) did turn out to be the better of the two adult flavors, the “nutty nuts” being overwhelmed by chocolate. (My mom always made a “burnt-sugar” cake about once a year that I have never been able to replicate; this came close.) I just wonder what the owner takes to keep from having his cranium blow up with all the kids onboard. Then, finally, we trekked to Brklyn Larder, recommended for sandwiches, even though all we needed at this point was coffee (Bob gave it about a B-). The shop is pretty cool, to the point that it struck me as the model for the new Gastronomie 491 in our neighborhood. But we got away with just Taza chocolate for $4, on sale from $6, and a ginger-molasses cookie for the studio manager left behind while we gorged. Walking back to the 2 train, we talked about what four places of equal quality in our neighborhood we would recommend to a Brooklynite. And I have to say short is what we came up on . . .

The bad: Vai on the Upper West Side, where we headed for an early Monday dinner after passing it and reading the menu, and where we walked out wishing we had gone for the Social Media password at Mermaid Inn yet again. The place looks great, with Recipe aesthetics but a larger room, and the people were hospitable almost to the point of obsequious. But the fud. Jeebus. We walked out feeling we’d dodged a tank on the chef’s regular tasting menu, let alone on the $79 “10 course spontaneous menu.” The hamachi and yellowfin tuna crudo with avocado and preserved ginger went down passively enough. But my “burrata ravioli, truffle cream, ‘parmiggiano’” added up to white slime — superb cheese lost in bland richness. And once Bob sliced into his “roasted double cut pork chop,” there was no talk of the “caramelized onion agre-dolce sauce,” only sadness at how plastic the meat tasted (the $18 price tag on a menu more aligned in the $20s to $30s should been a clue: not heritage). Wine was also overpriced for what it was. WIGB? Not on a bet.

Oh, and this.

The nearly perfect: Momofuku Ssam, where my consort suggested we head for lunch on a good friend’s advice after our neighborhood Greenmarket diverted us to Union Square in search of turkey nether regions and where we could only wish for an uptown branch, ideally slightly north of the Milk Bar. As directed, we ordered at the back counter and chose seats at the elevated communal tables facing the rotisserie; while Bob was washing his hands and I was back ordering a glass of wine, our first three choices landed: sublime pulled-pork buns with smoky mayonnaise; broccoli crunchy with smoked bluefish vinaigrette, and perfectly fried duck dumplings laid over pickled red cabbage teamed with sriracha mayonnaise for dipping. Our duck sandwich (banh mi, the menu did not say) was just as sensational, the filling like sliced duck sausage. Every single staffer was professional but engaged, too. WIGB? Can’t wait — especially after watching a duck spin on a spit and everyone around us tuck into rotisserie duck on rice, with or without chive pancakes. 207 Second Avenue at 13th Street.

The seriously good: Osteria Morini in SoHo, where we were able to meet Jersey friends dying to try it because we reserved (online) on a Monday night. We under-ordered, but I at least felt full after tasting three pastas and a bit of two mains (seafood in brodo, mixed grill). The pastas were Italy-worthy, particularly the garganelle with radicchio, cream, prosciutto and truffle butter and the stracci (“pasta rags”) with mushrooms. One friend also knew to ask for the off-the-menu chocolate dessert, essentially a big bowl of melted chocolate. Service was relaxed but superb, and the noise level was bearable. But the wine list tilted toward downtown; the cheapest still red was $46 (at least it was as singular as promised). WIGB? Definitely, although we may try another White joint first. 218 Lafayette Street near Spring, 212 965 8777.

The pretty good: Sookk on the Upper West Side, where we met up with Dr. Bugs before his appointment with our landline and where the food/space were so much better than you would expect in this glasian wasteland. I realize lunch in is a whole other experience from delivery, but I’d rate it at least a B. The room is tiny but nicely designed, even if the textile rolls on the walls do invoke a fabric store, and the staff is super-accommodating. The deal is $7/8 for sublime soup plus appetizer of choice plus main course (w/ or w/out rice) plus coconut ice cream. No wonder none of us cared that our curry/pad see euw/rama dishes were just adequate — fresh hot sauce helped. The good shiitake spring rolls only needed to be dunked into the fried chicken dumplings’ sauce to sing, and the dessert was as finely wrought as the soup. WIGB? Can’t wait, especially with vegetarian friends who are still wasting time/calories at Aangan close by. 2686 Broadway between 102d and 103d, 212 870 0253.

And the abysmal: Landmarc in the dread TWC, where I am mortified to admit that I led five others after the too-long, too self-congratulatory “Artist” in overpriced-restaurantland  and where everything was one step above a diner. I asked the hostess for a quiet spot, and after letting us the reserved cool our heels in the crowded entrance while walk-ins were seated she led us to a back dining room with interrogation-room lighting where two huge tables were sitting, un-set. And we took it because she promised “privacy.” And it went downhill from there. We split the chewy, gummy fried calamari, and it arrived before our wine. (If the waiter had put in the app order later, he might have sold a second bottle.) The busboy cleared away bread plates sloppily before our “mains” arrived, one of which, the calves liver, looked like a fried-hard abortion. (Sunday special of spaghetti and meatballs looked emptied from a can by that good old chef, Boyardee.) And my Caesar looked as if someone had flicked something from a nostril onto rusty-edged romaine; I sent it back while audibly hoping no one spit on it (the replacement was okay). The waiter went AWOL, the busboy crudely cleared everyone’s plates while one person was still eating and we had to beg for water refills. At least it wasn’t deafening, but by the end we had all noticed the sound went up whenever a song started and then down again. We spent too much time after the table was cleared thinking of where we should have gone (consensus: Loi). Thank allah someone thought to check whether service had been added before we surrendered credit cards: Yes, it was 20 percent on the taxed total. WIGB? That AWOL waiter resurfaced to toss out a jaunty “see you later” as we were leaving, and it was all I could do not to respond: “Not on a fucking bet.” I’m even having severe reservations about ever going to Ditch Plains again. I ruined five people’s evening.

The seriously good: The Dutch, again, in SoHo, where my consort and I were able to walk right in after an early showing of “The Trip” at IFC on a holiday weekend and where the food was even better than we’d remembered. We got a nice corner table where we could sit side by side (inspiring far younger couples) in the happy front room, which is much quieter than the bar, and if the waiter was a bit ditsy and distracted and emptied the rosé bottle too fast, the busboy/runner was a total pro (little things that mean a lot: before clearing the silverware between courses, he discreetly checked the check to see what was arriving next). We’d had popcorn, so I wasn’t going to tackle a main course, which meant Bob got a rare shot at the duck option I always hog. And it was of course perfect, plus the dirty rice with it seemed even dirtier than the first go-round. We split asparagus with pork belly, poached egg and shaved bonito to start, which gets A for effort. Even the whole loaf of warm cornbread that arrives first seemed to have come into its own. But the total winner was my dressed crab, set over avocadoey Green Goddess in a Bloody Mary pool. That is the most amazing combination since the crab-jalapeño crostini at Locanda Verde. WIGB? Every night if I could. The food was even more enjoyable after the fussy stuff in the well-made movie. 131 Sullivan Street at Prince, 212 677 6200.

The seriously lame: The new Zero Otto Nove in the Flatiron, where we made the mistake of heading after the Greenmarket on Fourth of July weekend and where the fact that only three tables were occupied in the huge room should have been a warning that this would not end well. And of course the pizza we remembered as so great on Arthur Avenue, made by the same guy we’d seen tossin’ there, was half-assed, with a doughy crust and sloppily disbursed porcini and grape tomatoes over the mozzarella and Gorgonzola. The eggplant parmesan we shared to start was nearly cold at the center, which made its heaviness fork up even gloppier. The air conditioning was also emitting an annoying high-pitched whine, although the place looks to have cost a bloody fortune to design. But all that would be forgiven if not for the asshole waiter. He was not happy that he kept getting interrupted in his endless specials recitation by busboys trying to shove wads of cardboard to stop the table from rocking, on both sides. Then, when I asked the price of the special pizza, he just said: “How should I know?” Well, if you were going to be the one paying, Bub, you could keep your little secret. (He did admit what I suspected: It would be a lot more than pizzas on the menu.) And when I didn’t finish my half of the eggplant, he asked why. Excuse me? That’s between me and my hips. But his worst offense was lounging near our table so we couldn’t talk. Or dis the joint. WIGB? Not even for free pizza. Afterward we walked through Eataly to see if it was busy on that dead weekend, and we both agreed we’d have been happier eating in the Birreria. . .

The pretty good: Tenpenny in the Gotham Hotel in the Theater District, where we headed after the showing of students’ work at ICP and where the quiet alone would make it vaut le mini-voyage. The over-lit room is strange, and the emptiness didn’t make it any more inviting to us walk-ins, particularly after I’d gotten some bullshit about no tables when I’d called to reserve. But the servers were efficient, and the wine was generously poured. Pork belly tots, an appetizer, tasted underwhelming, neither porky nor totty enough. A starter of mixed spring vegetables was superb, though: roasted, raw, candied & crisped. And the black garlic spaghettini with lump crab, chorizo and charred scallions qualified as brilliant, one of the best pasta dishes ever. WIGB? Absolutely, even just to sit at the bar for a snack. Cuz it’s a wasteland around ICP. 16 East 46th Street, 212 490 8300.

The pretty reliable: Recipe, again, for my welcome back to this time zone after Italy; it’s always best there early at night before everyone gets anxious about turning tables. The cooking was not quite spot-on (pork was done to chew-toy state, and duck was too rare, and not in a good way). But the service was great. 452 Amsterdam Avenue near 81st Street, 212 501 7755. Under the same category, file Luke’s Lobster just down the avenue, where we collected our free roll after having bought 10. And that one was just as good as the first one.

The always good, even better with Twitter discount: Mermaid Inn uptown, where Bob and I loved our two most recent dinners even more for 20 percent off thanks to the secret code of the night. A table on the sidewalk only made things more enjoyable on a hot night. Both times Bob had the mustard-crusted trout with crushed cherry tomatoes and spinach; I had fine roasted cod with truffled mashed potatoes once and just a perfect soft-shell crab appetizer the second outing. (Seared shisito peppers were too bland, though.) A bottle of rosé went fine with each. WIGB? No question. It’s the best place for many blocks. Plus I sent Coloradans there and they were blown away. 568 Amsterdam near 88th Street, 212 799 7400.

The barely bearable: The newish Spice, where we met two friends for an early dinner rather than risk the new Saravanaa and where my promise of relative quiet was a joke. It wasn’t even full and we couldn’t hear each other talk, and we all had travel tales (they were just back from Paris, Bob from Oslo). And the waitress needed remedial English. Plus lessons in how to pour wine. But if was not cheap, the food was better than it had any right to be, especially the duck wrap (although with two few lettuce leaves provided), the papaya salad and the crispy duck main course. Even the Massaman vegetable curry was above average. WIGB? Unfortunately, yes, because of where it is, and what a bargain it is. But Mermaid never looked more enticing when we walked past afterward. 435 Amsterdam Avenue at 81st Street, 212 362 5861.

The port in a literal storm: Market Cafe in Hell’s Kitchen, where a friend in from Veneto and I retreated as the rain was threatening when he had only a quick window of time for catching up before his flight home after going to B&H. I heard no complaints about his steak frites although I should probably not have dissuaded him from ordering the salmon he really wanted after a week of too many sandwiches in the Outer Banks. And I had no complaints about my BLT, which was packed fatter with bacon than any I have ever eaten; there was more than enough to kittybag. Good fries with both were also copious. I don’t recall the service but will add redeeming points for the window table with a fabulous view of those buckets of rain. WIGB? Probably. Because I need to find more places around B&H and the 42d Street movie houses. 496 Ninth Avenue near 38th Street, 212 564 7350.

The pretty good: Columbus Tavern, where we stopped in for something different after the pitch-perfect “Win Win” at Lincoln Plaza and where we would have been mostly happy even if we’d not been comped a rather wan cheesecaky dessert by the owner. The din level was blissfully low, for starters, and the waiter was almost embarrassingly polite and attentive. Plus the food was way better than you’d expect: My consort’s cooked-right hanger steak came with a Snowdon-size heap of creamed spinach plus slightly limp but flavorful onion rings and three sauces on the side, unnecessary but worth the calories. I just ordered the house salad, since we’d shared a vat of popcorn at the movie and Bob had ordered the duck fat cashews as soon as we sat down, knowing my addiction to all things duck (verdict: the fat adds nothing but richness to oily nuts, especially when they’re overspiced). And that salad was completely satisfying as an alternative to a Caesar, with avocado, cucumber, radishes and tons of herbs. The “biscotti” the sweet waiter delivered were actually biscuits, okay on their warm own but even better with lemon-rosemary butter. Too bad the 30-year-old chef’s creativity and attention to detail are getting hammered by the crappy wine selection. I tried two whites, Bob two reds and all four fought the food. WIGB? Absolutely, although we’d been torn between Fairway and something new, and Fairway has nearly comparable food plus much cheaper, better wine if not as nice a setting. 269 Columbus Avenue near 73d Street, 212 873 9400.

The not bad: Osteria Cotta, where a friend and I headed in despair after contemplating the bleak choices in Chelsea after her son’s second showing of his sushi documentary at the Tribeca Film Festival (she wanted Company and I couldn’t find a bank to rob). Our cramped table in the back was at least quiet enough that we could almost hear each other, but otherwise it felt like the last seat in the plane near the bathroom and galley, with a constant stream of servers/runners/busboys slamming past. The grilled (actually skillet-charred) escarole salad with grape tomatoes and pecorino was as good as she and others had promised, and if the margherita pizza was more soupy than crisp, I ate my two slices happily. The tocai was also decent and fairly priced at $8 a glass. WIGB? Sure. Location, location, and Bob has to try it because it’s just a walk away. 513 Columbus Avenue near 85th Street, 212 873 8500.

The not bad: Spice uptown, where I met another friend for an early dinner that stretched for three hours and where the patient staff never hassled us, maybe because we wound up spending nearly twice as much on (crappy) wine as on food (and the food came to all of $11 apiece). Meatless spring rolls were sloppily assembled but cooked right, and if my duck-lettuce wraps did not live up to my first encounter with them they still amounted to a heap of decent filling. I didn’t try Joanne’s vegetable green curry, just listened to her yelp at every bite (from heat, not meanness). WIGB? Sure. The price is right, and the people are so nice. 435 Amsterdam Avenue at 81st Street, 212 362 5861.

Quick hits: I finally succumbed to Cafe Frida uptown for a snack at happy hour, and the quesadillas with chorizo were surprisingly decent although what I washed them down with was total shiver wine, perfect for watching the Good Friday procession pass by with the squad car and so many religious observers texting away. El Paso Taqueria across the park is getting kinda grimy but consistently has the best Mexican deal in town if you’re into cheese enchiladas with tomatillo sauce: $9 for three good ones topped with onions with black beans and rice. But Rickshaw Dumpling, where I stopped off for something quick on the way home from a drink with an editor at the snack-free bar in the “Shining”-evoking Eleven Madison Park, reminded me how low mediocre can go. My first complaint will be my last: Maybe the cooks could take a little more time and get it right? My order of sad duck dumplings was ready before I had even finished paying.

Also, too, I’m too lazy to go into all the details here, but we had great experiences at Cafe 2 at MOMA and at Cafe Sabarsky at Neue Galerie, which is especially transporting after dark.

The good again: Elsewhere in Hell’s Kitchen, where my consort and I reserved for after the Tow reception for the entrepreneurial journalism center at CUNY and where we arrived full from Evans catering but not so stuffed we couldn’t appreciate how great those portobello sliders are. We shared a respectable escarole/bacon/walnut salad to start, then each had one of the three sliders, chunked with spicy remoulade, and took the last home for an outstanding cold lunch next day for me. The place was pretty empty on this latest go, so the waiter had plenty of energy to oversell the gruner. WIGB? Anytime. Everything about it is way better than the neighborhood usually inflicts. 403 West 43d Street, 212 315 2121.

The half-bad: The Breslin in that weird zone of cheesy wholesale fashion, where we met three friends for a 9 o’clock Sunday breakfast and where the seating and setting made up for the lame food. The place is overdesigned to the max, right down to nonfunctioning water fountains in the basement, so we were happy with our booth with adjustable lighting, plug-ins for phones etc. and retractable curtain and buzz light to summon servers. They seemed disturbingly on, hyper and super-chatty at that empty/early hour. But the food. (And the coffee! My cappuccino tasted bitter and scorched, no matter how gorgeous the foam pattern was.) Our orders took forever, after we took forever ordering, and my grilled cheese with house-cured ham was totally flavor-free, even when slathered with coarse-grain mustard. Bob’s special bubble & squeak was more like bland & grease. One friend shared a good chunk of his skirt steak, which tasted livery to us. And I did not taste another’s Greek yogurt although Bob declared it a rival to sour cream. But Friend No. 3 was not a bit happy with her grapefruit, sliced on the bottom to sit flat but “whacked back and forth” without separating the segments, and encrusted with a clumped “ginger sugar mint” topping. WIGB? Only with friends from out of town on expense account. A for ambiance. D for cooking. 16 West 29th Street in the Ace Hotel, 212 679 1939.

The worth-the-line: Doughnut Plant on the Lower East Side, where I lured my consort before our awesome class at Pizza a Casa a coupla doors away. We hit it just right, with only two people waiting on the sidewalk as we walked up, so 15 minutes didn’t matter. Bob was happy with his tres leches cake doughnut, and we were both awed by the raspberry jam-filled square yeast doughnut I chose. So much so that we wrapped half up and schlepped it home to let The Cat taste before fighting over it. WIGB, though? Only if the line was nonexistent, or if an out-of-continenter was really hellbent on trying it. 379 Grand Street near Norfolk, doughnutplant.com

The half-great: Ma Peche, where my consort and I met up with friends who wanted to try it after their first choice of Osteria Morini was fully committed and where we were all worried about the tab given the bizarre absence of prices on both Menupages and the website (why should the paying customer be the last to know?) So I’ll get the bad part out of the way first: We waited 45 minutes for the reserved table, after getting shunted to the hotel lobby and then to the bar, where we all awkwardly held our unchecked coats and drinks while surrounded by a . . . shall we say . . . low-rent crowd and inhaling the grease fumes from the kitchen downstairs. (Always fun to consider how close “hospitality” and “hostility” are.) Also, once we were finally seated the wine took its “savory” time arriving, and the service would best be described as desultory. But the table turned out to be one surrounded by bigger tables of guys going all Tom Jones on beef and bones, so it was like being on an island of quiet. And the food was exceptional, starting with the perfectly made spring rolls. We just stuck everything in the center and shared, and not one dish disappointed. The duck, a tender breast plus sausage plus hoisin spaetzl, was the best I’ve tasted in years. Cod came in second, in a lively shellfish broth with ginger and coconut. The broccoli appetizer has me attempting to replicate it at home, with miso and sesame seeds. And while I’m not much on pork (flesh, not fat), the Bev Eggleston chop was blowaway, even at $68 for two. That, unfortunately, is the one price I can quote, because Bob and George split the bill and we came home with no printout. WIGB? Absolutely. Cooking like this reinforces why this trained cook goes to restaurants. 15 West 56th Street.

The promising: The new Ditch Plains on the UWS, where Bob and I wandered in after the Sunday Greenmarket and spotted strollers, the surest sign someone was serving. Turned out it was a soft opening, with 15 percent off the check. We found out the second half of that sentence only when the check arrived, but we were mellow knowing it wasn’t “live” yet. So it didn’t really matter that the fried pickles as an appetizer were inexpertly fried, although it did make me worry after having ordered fish and chips despite the waitress having told us she had not seen that yet, let alone tried it. Cod instead of the usual muddy tilapia sold me, though, and the excellent fries and perfect frying compensated for the lack of crust on the nearly naked fillets. And the dipping sauce, the same as for the pickle fries, elevated everything. Bob ordered the quite good spicy shrimp salad without specifying the appetizer size, so the $7 off the tab helped. We were among the few not ordering alcohol, but both the bloody Marys and the wine list looked enticing (no glasses, only bottles and half-bottles, at very good prices). The space seems much more inviting in its latest reincarnation, and the manager was extremely gregarious. WIGB? Absolutely, despite all those strollers — G.M. said the kitchen will stay open till 2 a.m., which is a huge boon on the early-to-bed UWS. 100 West 82d Street, 212 362 4815.

The “WTF was I thinking?”: New Chiu Chow in Chinatown, where we wound up after I plucked the name out of the Village Voice listings in desperation as we were rushing to schlep down to Bob’s storage room in the old NYPost building — the name had me at Chiu Chow, which really is “Cantonese with flavor,” as they said in Hong Kong, and the tout mentioned that most irresistible of foods: duck. But as soon as we walked into the dingy room and had to wait a few minutes for a table away from the door I knew we were in the wrong place. But the menu did promise duck, and it was not bad, if nowhere close to what we first had in Hong Kong or now make at home. Good thing we ordered a half, not a quarter, because the “spicy spare ribs” on rice with black bean sauce proved to be chewy nuggets of creepy industrial pork. And the Chinese vegetables in oyster sauce seemed very rudimentary for the price, again something we could have thrown together at home. Only as I was sitting dejectedly did we notice every other table was eating the same thing, the soup. Which is, of course, exactly why most onliners recommend it. Oh, well. The leftover duck was rescusitable in dumplings using wrappers from Hong Kong Supermarket, after a respectable egg custard from the bakery across the street. WIGB? From now on, we are never eating Chinese in Chinatown. We’re either trekking happily to Flushing or opting for anything else. Even “Italian.”

The OMFG: El Paso Taqueria in East Harlem, where my consort and I wound up on New Year’s Day when I was too flu-ish to risk infecting friends in Connecticut but still wanted to get out and about to start off my year of the rabbit with something new. I suggested walking up to Harlem and back and somehow agreed to Target and back, and it was one gorgeous expedition, through the snowy park and up avenues we usually see only from the back seat of a cab on the way to an airport. We stopped in beforehand on 116th and a surly guy was swabbing tables and said it didn’t open till 1, so we took our time a couple of blocks away in the miles of deceptively priced aisles before heading back and were so hellbent on eating there we didn’t notice not a single table had any more food than guacamole. And the place was not empty. So we succumbed to the guacamole hard-sell and were beyond forgiving when it finally crawled from the kitchen, oversalted and with all the jalapeños clumped on one side of the molcajete. But then we sat. And sat. And sat, while the couple at the closest table kept asking where his pancakes might be, and ordering more sangria (they went through two pitchers). And as we watched bag after bag of delivery orders fly through the little dining room. Which would have been forgivable if our food had not finally arrived at Greenland temperatures. The tortilla soup that was going to restore me to life was just a bowl of clotted chicken fat, with cold diced cheese sunk to the bottom and hard tortilla strips throughout. Bob thought I was exaggerating till we swapped orders and I tasted his stone-cold enchiladas on “hot plate” with cold rice and beans on a separate plate. My notion of taking the shitty soup home to reheat didn’t fly, so he flagged down the surly guy to ask to have it reheated. Which, as I anticipated, took just short of a millennium and only made the bland mess too hot to eat. The waitress did apologize for the temperature, but she can fry in hell for never coming back with the leftover enchiladas we wanted to take home to try to resuscitate. The red sauce was actually pretty decent. WIGB? Only with an Uzi to my head.

Also, too: We finally stopped at Eataly on our way to the C train, after a stand-up Sunday brunch at friends’ in the East 30s, because there was no line outside when Bob wanted a coffee. He immediately balked on seeing the human congestion at the Lavazza stand just inside, but we persevered and he soon had a macchiato in hand, rather quickly by NY standards — although if there is a word for molasses in Italian, real baristas would be tossing it around. Jeebus, Americans move slow. The proportion of milk to espresso was off, but it was good enough to encourage us to delve deeper. And to find Caffe Vergnano also has a stand. We bought bread (“rustic with olives”), and an oily/airy slice of focaccia, and some red-leaf lettuce and Cara Cara oranges because the produce section is (I hate to say it) better set up to service customers than Fairway is. We left wanting to come back to eat. . .

The half-good: Kefi, where my consort and I landed after he landed early on Sunday morning after 10 days in Namibia on a shoot and where our route was nearly as circuitous as his getting home. We had run down to the Greenmarket on Columbus Avenue only to find a crap show going on, so it took longer than usual to navigate the displaced stalls in the flea market in the schoolyard on 77th Street. It was 11:30 when he said he was starving and I suggested the closest tempting thing: dumplings. On walking into Canteen 82, though, I remembered exactly how we’d felt walking out. The place cooks for kids, who make up most of the clientele (and they’re the kind of kids who do not go to Greenmarkets with their dad and want clams for dinner, as we’d just seen at the seafood stall). Once again, the service was so unservice-y and we had so long to wait before ordering that we got the “bail, bail!” message simultaneously. So we wound up walking a couple of blocks north.

I was worried walking in because it was so deserted shortly before noon, and the beehived waitress and the hostess were kinda disinterested, but we soon had a table and menus and water and an order in for the Greek spreads. They took an absurdly long (or hungover-kitchen-long) time to arrive, but they were nearly as fabulous as always, with just grilled pita. We could enjoy them at leisure, too, before the superb crispy calamari and the Kefi salad arrived (updated Greek, with shaved fennel tossed with lettuce, onions, grape tomatoes, cucumbers, feta, olives, caperberry, roasted red pepper and pickled pepper). It took some work, but we flagged down the negligent waiter to get the check before the mega-table next to us filled up for a birthday party. As is so often the case, the service picked up as the place got busier. WIGB? Of course. Food’s great and priced right, and it’s close by. Plus we were spared bland dumplings and an even longer wait. 505 Columbus Avenue near 84th Street, 212 873 0200.

The regrettable: Balkanika in Hell’s Kitchen, where a friend and I wound up after the ICP Cuba/Mexican Suitcase opening after getting turned away at Chez Napoleon (fully committed after curtain time, WTF?) and then getting driven out of Wondee Siam by the din. Those were her first two choices before I remembered something similar to Kashkaval having opened, so we headed there (me with visions of Istanbul in my silly head). It was not loud, and it had tables, so we settled in without checking out the food in its case at the front. By this point we weren’t even hungry and decided to split four mezes for $10: artichoke hearts with lemon and herbs, leek-carrot-honey-lemon spread, beet-pignolia spread and a paprika-walnut spread. First sign of disaster: the little basket of tired, crusty, commercial pita wedges. Really? That’s the best you can do when you have two cases of mezes to sell? At least the walnut spread was not too, too distant a cousin of one I ate in Beyoglu. And the beet was inoffensive, as much as beets can ever be. But the other two tasted mostly of musty herbs — the seasonings must have been brought in by clipper ship. Worse was the service, easily the most dismissive-to-contemptuous I’ve encountered in a while. The waitress never even came back to see if we might want anything else even after we’d said we were just starting with the mezes; we wound up leaving cash because my card would have made us wait even longer. I had a $6 glass of sauvignon blanc, Mary had tea, and we tipped more than I wanted. WIGB? Not even if the entire Theater District’s restaurants went dark.