gastropoda/trails

The pretty good: Mermaid Inn in our neighborhood, where I met my consort after his Columbia lecture gig on one of those miserable nights Al Gore warned us were coming, when we had to flee our sweltering kitchen yet again. After hearing the din inside, I chose an outside table, and the breeze made it bearable. As did an excellent waiter. And a glass of rosé right away. My soft-shell crab sandwich with avocado and bacon and a scattering of fries was more than decent, and Bob’s trout was cooked right and came with excellent potatoes. As a friend had reminded us, though, the place makes its profits on the wine — it’s marked up way more than the food. WIGB? Anytime. 568  Amsterdam Avenue near 88th Street, 212 799 4300.

The not bad: Land Thai, where we hooked up with friends on another night when our kitchens were furnaces and where we cooked up a plan as we waited on the sidewalk for a table — retreat to their place for more wine once we were ejected, as we inevitably would be. So we clipped through our meal, sharing a bottle of typically syrupy Torrontes plus excellent pea shoots with garlic and an entree of wok-charred squid with a superb spicy sauce (wisely racheted back to medium) plus a great rendition of pad see yew with beef, perfectly cooked duck and, unfortunately, pretty grim fried rice with salmon (it was like what you might whip up from a kitty bag with a bit of leftover fish). WIGB? Undoubtedly. It’s great value and a nice venue with a cheery staff and lively cooking. You just need a living room close by to retreat to for conversation. 450 Amsterdam near 82d Street, 212 501 8121.

The adequate: Papatzul in SoHo, where we stopped in while furniture shopping on a Sunday because we both remembered the price and a torta and were willing to forget Bob’s disappointing chilaquiles last time we were there. And that sandwich was pretty damn good once again, even though the cheese seemed more Oaxacan than Manchego; the balance of chorizo, avocado, beans and chipotle mayonnaise in crisp roll was nearly perfect. Bob, once again, got the corta end of the stick; his tacos with carnitas needed more something — salsa, vegetables? — to bring the huge mound of juicy (dare I say succulent?) meat into proportion with the four tortillas. We only drank water and signed up for the Tasting Mexico Passport on his iPhone to get 10 percent off the tab (plus a chance to win a trip to the land of the decapitated), so we walked out for less than $20 before tip. WIGB? Sure; the music was fabulous and the waiter was energetic and the price was right. 55 Grand Street near West Broadway, 212 274 8225.

The convenient: Canteen 82, where we headed for a quick lunch while rug mats were being cut at a store on Amsterdam. Although the place was nearly empty, cobwebs seemed to be forming on a couple with a baby in a stroller at another table, but our food came relatively fast, starting with a scallion pancake that was less incinerated than the one a friend and I shared last time. It didn’t taste much of scallion and the sauce didn’t taste like much of anything, but the latter did have a few shreds of ginger that we used to enliven the sesame noodles. Bob loves fried dumplings, so we had those instead of the soup kind, and I could only eat one; the filling was too porky for me. The salad, once again, saved the lunch, with mango, avocado, jicama and tiny tomatoes atop the greens. Even the dressing on that, like everything else, was surprisingly bland, and as yet another couple came in with a young kid, we realized why: It’s a cage for baby pork (as some restaurant in Spy once referred to holding pens for stroller rats). WIGB? I’d like to say no, but the room is much more appealing than any Chinese restaurant for miles. 467 Columbus Avenue near 82d Street, 212 595 4300.

The abysmal: Le Monde, where we met friends in from Chicago to drop off his baby at Columbia, where Bob was speaking late. The location and the idea of a sidewalk cafe had seemed ideal, but I guess our memories of the place were a little too misty-colored. We wound up sitting inside because it was so miserable outside, and our table was awkward, our waitress even more so (and neglectful to boot). Even worse, the food made me embarrassed for New York. I didn’t taste our friends’ entrees, but we all shared a salad made with anemic tomatoes (in August!) When was the last time you got butter pats in wrappers, all melted and chilled back together? My duck sausage was not cooked so much as fried into a chew toy (The Cat liked it fine next day), and the potatoes with it were an inch deep in salt (and I can eat salt straight). Bob’s steak was not-great chewy meat with oversalted sides, too. All of which would have been tolerable if we had maybe had a waitress whenever more wine was needed. WIGB? Bob will be up there constantly, but it’s dead to me. Surely there has to be somewhere decent to reconnoiter?

The pretty good: Landmarc in Tribeca, where we wound up after the W debacle and after passing by and up Plein Sud because the menu posted outside looked (to Bob) too familiar and (to me) as if you could already see the cheap paper it was cheaply printed on crumbling after the place went under. (I hope I’m wrong; someone big liked it fine.) We got a window table downstairs and soon had an outstanding fontina and mushroom flatbread topped with arugula and crispy prosciutto in front of us, then half-bottles of white and red ($20 and $18 together seem like a deal compared with either a bottle or by the glass most places). My chopped salad was enhanced by hearts of palm, and his skirt steak with chimichurri sauce was flavorful if fibrous and came with decent fries. Service was great, view was good. And the four salty caramels with the check didn’t hurt. WIGB? Absolutely. 179 West Broadway near Franklin, 212 343 3883.

The pretty bad: RedBowl in Williamsburg, which we staggered into after a superb party nearby in a loft apartment with a backstage view of the Nas/Damian Marley concert against the Manhattan skyline and after our rube-like reconnaissance of the blocks around it. The basil pancake was surprisingly satisfying, but we made the mistake of listening to the distracted waiter about which of the duck main courses was best. The Cr should have been followed by ’appy rather than ’ispy; the $16 half-bird was really desiccated, even before it was blanketed in flour-tortilla-like pancakes with tired scallion shreds and sweet sauce. Usually one duck item on the menu is a warning. Now I know six are an Orange Level alert. Wine was $6 a glass, though, and the clean bathroom was very welcome before the ride home.

The bad except for the food: Toloache off Times Square, where we reflexively headed for a snack and glass of wine after the surprisingly good “Kids Are All Right” on 42d Street and where our punishment was dismissive service and delayed food. It wasn’t even full when we said we were two, but the hostess shunted us to the bar, which would have been fine if the bartender had not been in major hose-down mode, busier cleaning than tending to our order. While I sat watching the oven and what went into and came out of it. Only when Bob asked for a second glass did he check, and when the waiter sheepishly brought out the two plates, we both asked: How long was it sitting in the kitchen? He didn’t answer, and it was still warm enough not to send back, but still. The huitlacoche was as good as it always is, and the “costilla” with steak and chipotle BBQ sauce even better. But it was not a $60-plus-tip experience. WIGB? J’doubt it. Lots of new places are opening around there.

The we-put-the-din-in-dinner: Motorino in the East Village, where, luckily again, someone else was paying and where I left wondering how the waiters retain their sanity, let alone their hearing. We split the excellent “fire-roasted” mortadella with cherry tomatoes, basil, olives and pecorino, and it was about six universes away from the fried bologna I was envisioning (although the only way to eat bologna is fried, and fried crisp), then a pizza margherita and a special pizza with prosciutto and, if I remember right, burrata. I will never warm to wine in tumblers. Although now I wonder if those aren’t meant to be emptied and used as ear trumpets.

The half-good: The New French, again, where the service, again, seriously lagged the food. Two friends and I held down a table for more than an hour and a half (not by choice) and got water and wine exactly once. And the place was not slammed, although the sidewalk tables are clearly stressing the front of the house if not the kitchen. Luckily, the special of polenta-crusted softshell crabs with favas was outstanding, with a sauce that had the best kind of flavors: cascading. The two salads (salmon, house) across from me were happily eaten down to the last bite, too. WIGB? Undoubtedly, once I get a craving for a perfect cheeseburger or some inventive fish dish. But it will be at an off-hour for sure.

The lamer than I had even imagined: The Monkey Bar, where a travel writer friend in from Santa Barbara and staying at the hotel gulled me into wasting good money on lunch. If I had checked the menu in advance, I would have refused, because it was chicken, chicken, and more chicken (even in the club sandwich, and even in the special), and I don’t eat that dirty bird.  The food costs must be 8 percent, max. I didn’t want beef but suspect the burger was the way to go. Instead I succumbed to the $26 “bacon lobster roll,” which should be cited for menu mislabeling — it had maybe four bits of the former ingredient scattered over the top. Compared with Pearl’s, the filling/bun were cafeteria quality, too. Coleslaw with it tasted decent, although potato chips seemed a definite letdown after Rebecca Charles’s fries. Leslie was quite happy with her Cobb, but I think of that assemblage as being all about the protein — an Everest of julienned lettuce with sprinklings of avocado, egg, blue cheese and, yes, fucking chicken doesn’t do it for me. A $12 glass of riesling was as unchallenging as the cooking. WIGB? Not even with Sy Newhouse.

The reassuringly decent: Qi downtown, where we took refuge after the zooish market at Union Square when my consort wanted Asian. The hoisin duck banh mi was as satisfying as always, so the just-adequate mushroom spring rolls didn’t matter (and I’d pay $8 for the sandwich alone). Bob was happy with his spicy basil chicken thing, and the sauce on his fried chicken-shrimp dumplings had more zest than the syrupy one with my appetizer. We were in and out for $20 with tip. WIGB? Sure. Location’s great, and the place looks phenomenal — just not sure I’d brave it for dinner. 31 West 14th Street, 212 929 9917.

The surprisingly bad: The Red Cat in Chelsea, which Bob picked for lunch with our Italian friend in from TPW for the New York Photo Fest in Dumbo who had an appointment close by. Now I worry Carlo will think I know nothing about restaurants. I don’t know about his “fettucini,” but my cod sandwich was a mess — the fish was okay, and fried right, but so much wet slaw had been loaded onto the lame sliced(!) bread that it fell apart on the first bite. I almost didn’t order it because of that apple slaw, too. Decent greens came with it, and they were a relief after all the glop. Bob was even more bummed by the carnitas salad, which was like the driest ropa vieja laid dispiritedly over greens and beans, with a little crema and crisp tortilla strips on top. Even the usually fabulous tempura green beans were slopped out, greasy. As for the service, the inattentive waiter seemed intimidated by our friend, which felt odd in a neighborhood that should be so cosmopolitan. My cappuccino was one of the worst I’ve had in New York, and Bob later said the espresso was not even hot. WIGB? J’doubt it. Two days later we were still talking about how off it all was. Maybe the lesson is: Never expect much from a restaurant where the chef is hanging out on the sidewalk at the start of service. . .

The surprisingly good, given the reviews: Tipsy Parson in Chelsea, where we meandered after Doug Menuez’s opening and after finding Red Cat booked solid as usual on open-gallery night. We had to wait a few minutes at the bar but got a relatively quiet table in the back corner for an outstanding if dainty little plate of spreads: deviled tasso, pimento cheese and blackeye peas, with less-than-outstanding crackers. We also split a country ham and frisee salad that would have been great if the dressing had not been too tart because the egg on top was not oozy but poached rubber hard. Macaroni and cheese was above average, though. Gruner at $10 a good-sized glass also left us feeling good about the place. WIGB? Absolutely. 156th Ninth Avenue near 20th Street, 212 620 4545.

The when-the-fuck-will-I-ever-learn?: Les Halles, where once again, too late, we remembered only the affordable steak frites with salad, not the dispirited feel of the place and the absurdly disorganized service. As soon as I saw the leatherette on the banquette was split open, I knew the slide had gone a little farther. Bread, butter and fries were still great, but the steak was oddly un-beefy. And I made the mistake of ordering only the frisee salad with lardons and blue cheese, only to learn after one bite that stone-cold lardons are chilling  — the greens tasted only nasty porky-greasy. As I was goating through it, Bob ordered coffee, but it only came after the check (waiter never noticed he had billed for something not on the table), so we went next door to Fika for a seriously bracing Swedish espresso for $1 less and instant service. WIGB? Someone shoot me before I forget again.

The good: Nam in TriBeCa, where four of us headed after the amazing “That Night’s Wife” with original score at the World Financial Center and where I could only wonder why we had never tried it before. The elegant room looks like $30 entrees, but I don’t think anything was over $18; Oyster Bay SV was only $30 when wine stores are gouging at $13 or $14. We split outstanding beef rolls and seared tuna rolls plus exceptional grilled eggplant; only the bland green papaya salad with shrimp and scabs (a k a dried beef) was a letdown among appetizers. Roast duck might not have been the freshest bird ever, but it was perfectly cooked, and a noodle dish with pork-and-shrimp meatballs and grilled pork rivaled it. WIGB? Absolutely. Len was longing for the Vietnamese coffee we saw at the next table, and it would only be safe at lunchtime. Plus the staff was so chipper. 110 Duane Street near West Broadway, 212 267 1777.

The sad: Quinto Quarto in the West Village, where we stumbled in for late lunch after finding Market Table closed for a wedding reception and where we soon learned $14.95 is no deal for two courses, wine and coffee. Bob described the food as profoundly mediocre, but I think he was too kind: My “orzo” salad of barley, radicchio and tomatoes with a dusting of grated pecorino bordered on flavor-free, as did his “ribollita,” a mess of mixed vegetables in bland broth. Worse was the baked lamb, allegedly with rosemary; it tasted as if it had been sitting on a steam table long enough to turn to mutton. Only my “bombolotti alla gricia” was half-worth eating, although it arrived cold, a mortal sin in Italy; the sautéed onions, guanciale and pecorino hung together despite the absence of the promised “hot chilly pepper.” Trebbiano and Montepulciano were big pours but also wan. Espresso and macchiato, though, tasted almost Trieste-worthy. And the waitress who made them was incredible: super-friendly, efficient, upbeat. Too bad she wasn’t doing the cooking. WIGB? If a real chef were around. The room is quite nice.

The believe-the-hype: Momofuku Noodle Bar in the East Village, where a friend and I landed after Sigiri was closed despite the open-hours sign on the door on a less-snow-than-expected afternoon; we were able to walk right in and get seats at a relatively quiet table in the back and were soon sharing a superb pork-kimchi tamal, fabulous steamed buns with shiitakes (more like soft tacos) and spicy noodles with Sichuan sausage, spinach and cashews. I never like wine in teeny tumblers; it never feels worth $9. But that’s a tiny complaint when the staff was so hospitable, the ingredients so clean and the experience so uplifting. WIGB? Can’t wait. I’m even half-tempted to buy the cookbook. 171 First Avenue near 11th Street.

The decent: Turkuaz on the Upper West Side, where we hooked up with three friends after another great “Selected Shorts” at Symphony Space on a snowy night and where the staff let us linger well past midnight in an empty back room. Raku to start was not the smartest idea, but it kept us to one bottle of Turkish white for $32. I’m not sure the “platter” of spreads was worth $19.95; it was more the size of a dinner plate, and we got two baba ghanoush because they were out of a fifth spread. Everything tasted fine, with excellent bread, though. I didn’t try the two meat shish kebabs or $26 lamb chops, but the decent vegetable casserole was overpriced at $14.95. The bathroom was a trip, too, back to the 1950s or a backward country, with old armchairs and that disinfectant reek. WIGB? Maybe. It was certainly comfortable, with more than accommodating service. 2637 Broadway at 100th Street, 212 665 9541.

The design/food fail: Community Food & Juice across from Columbia, where Bob and I settled after a preview program on the enticing “Latin Music USA” series on PBS at the  J-School and where we might have been happier if we had taken seats on the banquette rather than evading two self-absorbed crazy women at the door. Instead we were crammed into a ridiculously tight table in an alcove where the waiter and runner could only get to the next table by slamming into Bob and where the jerk at the next table was bellowing about tits. It all made me think a new rule should be that any restaurant designer should have to suffer a meal at every table greedily wedged in. But all that might have been forgiven if the zucchini-scallion pancakes had not been both desiccated and tasteless and the shrimp dumplings had not been so sad. Only the spicy green beans with peanuts redeemed the meal. Does no one monitor what leaves the kitchen? WIGB? Not on a bet.

The good: Barrio Chino on the Lower East Side, where my consort took me for a birthday lunch on the advice of someone he had lunched with the day before at El Paso Taqueria. I was expecting a long wait and attitude, but we got a window table just after walking in and the staff could not have been more mellow, which only made the preening patrons in the minority look sillier. My sinchronizada was outstanding, with melted Oaxacan cheese and just-greasy-enough chorizo sandwiched in good flour tortillas and topped with avocado slices and green salsa on the side; Bob was thrilled with his tacos al pastor despite the ridiculously undersized corn tortillas. We split a jalapeño margarita and were very glad we had not ordered two; it was scary-good — the heat made you want to take another sip instantly. WIGB? Absolutely, but only at an off-hour. 253 Broome Street near Orchard, 212 228 6710.

The not bad: Le Monde, where we landed after finding Community closing right next door after Bob’s former employer’s team picked up at DuPont award at Columbia’s J-school. I wanted to try the panisse with smoked trout, but they were out and so I settled for a better-than-average Caesar; Bob had a goat cheese-and-potato salad, and we drank too much wine to make up for getting cut off at the pre-ceremony reception across the street. WIGB? Probably. You can eat far worse around there. 2885 Broadway near 112th Street, 212 531 3939.

The mellow: Market Table in the West Village, where a friend confidently led three of us after the slow but good “Police, Adjective” at IFC while insisting he knew nothing about the neighborhood. We walked in, got a nice table, the waitress was fine with us just sharing two appetizers and a bottle of zinfandel, and they let us sit so long we ordered more wine by the glass. I can’t remember the last time a restaurant emptied out while the kitchen cleaned up and shut down and the staff stayed so hospitable. Fried calamari with guacamole and chile crema was quite good, as was the beet salad with horseradish, goat cheese and fried shallots. WIGB? Definitely, even though I was put off by the attitude at lunch when it first opened. 54 Carmine Street at Bedford, 212 255 2100.

The gruesome: Butter, where it’s a long story told in Bites but where the main courses really were on the level of what we found in our summer exploring the Hudson Valley for Geographic Traveler 20-some years ago. Our shared salad of baby arugula with pickled and sautéed mushrooms was rather lively and very promising, but then, after six more birthdays dragged past, the main courses landed. Bob’s arctic char was poached in olive oil, which seemed to have leached out all good fish flavor while imparting only richness to overwhelm the beurre blanc-y sauce. My duck breast was the scariest thing I have seen not scurrying in a dim restaurant — a brown mess mounded with green-brown strands of braised radicchio. As it does so often, the meat tasted slightly geriatric. And why would the waitress bother to make such a big deal of asking about doneness with either item if the kitchen just sent it out cooked to hell? Cheese biscuits to start, however, were nearly raw in the center. The waitress apparently fancied herself a patron, and the host, too, was more absorbed with phone and screen than with live bodies in front of him. The most pleasant person in the place was the coat check girl. WIGB? Not even for the equivalent of a blow job by a top model from another table.

The port in a storm: At65 at Lincoln Center, where my friend treating me to “Carmen” and I wound up after getting shut out of Bar Boulud, Ed’s Chowder House, P.J. Clarke’s and Rosa Mexicano and after fleeing Oneals on realizing not a single overpriced thing on the pre-theater menu appealed to either one of us (in fairness, I would have settled for crab cakes if I had not had them for both lunch that day and dinner the night before). I think we both decided to imagine we were in Europe rather than acknowledge it was just a lobby cafeteria with table service, but the smart hostess and sharp waiter helped with the illusion. So did the $10 flatbread with sausage and broccoli rabe, and Donna’s Italian wedding soup (for $4.75). I don’t know what I was thinking ordering the house salad, so I deserved a couple of bits of artichoke and a lot of mesclun. Pinot blanc at $10 a glass was a better deal than the $11 sauvignon blanc at Oneals, too. WIGB? Absolutely. That waiter was outstanding. Points off, though, for not printing a phone number on the receipt when salient details are so hard to come by online.

The reliable: Land Thai Kitchen on the Upper West Side, where my consort and I went to lay down some wine absorption before our second birthday party in two days and where we got just what we expected. I had suggested Recipe, but the menu was only eggs and sandwiches at Saturday lunchtime, and we could have had those at home, so it was funny that the couple at the next table struck up a conversation about their love of both restaurants (same owner). My vegetable spring rolls were better than Bob’s outsized vegetable dumplings, but he won with chicken curry over my beef thing (for once I decided not to think about sourcing, only about laying down some wine absorption). For $8 a lunch, it’s hard to complain. WIGB? After Bob tries Recipe, but absolutely. 450 Amsterdam Avenue near 82d Street, 212 501 8121.

The overhyped: Kesté Pizza & Vino in the West Village, where four of us met up after another friend’s opening at Leica Gallery and where the pizza was just as Italian as promised — doughy and soggy — while the vino was priced as New York gouge-y as it could be ($25 for a half-carafe that would go for 3 euros in Rome). We didn’t have to wait too long outside for a table, as the deceptively charming host promised, but the one we snared happened to be right under a speaker blasting Gloria Gaynor-era noise and right next to the bus pan where plates were steadily tossed in crashing piles. Right next to it was a table of chunky guys polishing off the first round of a pizza apiece who said it was so much like Naples you should watch your wallet. The special, loaded down with burrata and clumps of fresh basil, was satisfying because of all that cheese if not all those clumps. But the $16 capricciosa was the same as it always is anywhere in Italy: too much topping (mushrooms, artichokes, ham, cheese) on sodden “crust.” We also split the house salad, with mozzarella and grape tomatoes, and the Toscana, with a few slices of pear and sloshed-on balsamic vinegar. Too late, we realized we should have ordered a bottle of white for $38 plus a half-carafe rather than three stingy pours at $25 a pop. WIGB? I hope not. But stranger things have happened in that neighborhood. 271 Bleecker Street, 212 243 1500.

The lame: Dos Toros Taqueria off Union Square, where I waited in a ridiculously long line after buying my $8.40 eggs at the Greenmarket (subway fare included) and after deciding Chipotle’s portions are just too huge. I give the counter crew credit: Special orders did not upset them. They just kept doing their leisurely thing even with people out the door. By the time I got to the front I only wanted a quesadilla, and it was the oddest  I’ve ever had: two slices of cheese on a fast-steamed tortilla half-melted on a griddle, then topped with pico de gallo, hot sauce and guacamole (for an extra 92 cents) and folded up like a letter, or a flat burrito. The tortilla was especially strange, almost more fat than flour (one day I will find something that approximates what my neighbors in Arizona used to make every day). The guacamole was respectable, but the ratio to tasteless cheese was way off. I guess it’s just what I deserved, though, for thinking hipster Mexican was worth a wait.

The pretty good: Great N.Y. Noodletown in Chinatown, where my consort insisted we head after hearing from a chef at an amazing party that the God of Momofuku had been inspired by a dish there. We hadn’t been in years, but aside from the price of the roast duck to go, nothing seemed to have changed much, although the staff was mellower and the proportion of Caucasians was higher. We waited briefly for wedged-in-tight seats at a communal table and had steaming-hot tea instantly. Ordering duck rolls from that kitchen was not the smartest move, but the two of them benefited from great ingredients if not skillful frying. Bob got advice from both a tablemate and the waiter on the quest dish, and it was both surprisingly simple and lively. I’m a duck junkie and almost overdosed on roast duck on rice. We walked out stuffed for $14.25 including tax and tip. WIGB? Absolutely. 28 1/2 Bowery at Bayard, 212 349 0923.

The pretty bad: The Edison Hotel’s cafe off Times Square, where I met a friend in from the mashed potato mines in Boston who needed to eat close to Penn Station and which I will not dignify by calling the Polish Tea Room. Despite two sentences in Times Square, I’d never been, and now I see why. The room has its weird charm, but time apparently stopped in the kitchen about the time grape jelly in individual packets was invented. The toast was industrial, the fatty bacon (which I’d ordered crispy) was stringy-scary, the scrambled eggs had something crunchy in them I hope was shells; only the home fries were respectable if not great. My friend succumbed to stewed prunes and an order of blintzes with sour cream; the latter choice, she said, would have been better with something acidic. The damn things were huge, though. She had coffee, I was too timid and settled for club soda, which was served in a plastic Coke cup. The ancient waiter was shuffling evidence that decades of experience don’t always pay off. WIGB? Not on a bet. Good thing I’d noticed online that the tip is included or we would have felt even more ripped off.

The decent: Dhaba in Curry Hill, where Bob and I wound up for a fast lunch after the Wednesday Greenmarket when I needed to do a curry-leaf-and-Kalustyan’s run and his choice, Tiffin Wallah, had too long a line for its $6.95 smorgasbord. I guess we got our extra $3 worth: A table opened up fast, and the app and bread were waiting on it by the time we got through the mobbed buffet line. As always, I had only veg (saag paneer, aloo matar, kadhai bhindi, dal, plus curds and chutneys) and was fine with it all; Bob indulged in lamb and various chicken curries, too, then we split the carrot dessert. Can you say filling? Dinner was a mesclun salad followed by popcorn. . . WIGB? Maybe. The  place looks great, and the staff has almost gotten its act together. 108 Lexington Avenue near 28th Street, 212 679 1284.

The pretty good: Safran, where my consort and I headed after the rather deserted Greenmarket on the Saturday after Thanksgiving when I remembered reading about it in the Wednesday Chef’s “goodbye to all that” roundup. We weren’t slaves to her pho advice, though. Overwhelmed by all the special choices, I ordered the Peking duck summer roll off the regular menu ($10 appetizer, and worth it, with just-right dipping sauces), while Bob finally decided on the $8.95 lunch box with surprisingly tender lemonglass-glazed pork chop, noodles with peanuts, rice, vegetable summer roll and mixed green salad with excellent creamy dressing. The place is rather elegant for that strip of Seventh Avenue (although the upholstery is getting grubby), and the European waitress could not have been more welcoming or attentive. WIGB? Definitely. For a real lunch. 88 Seventh Avenue near 15th Street, 212 929 1778.

The really bad: Palacio Azteca, which I passed on leaving the Hospital for Special Surgery in my usual state of elation (one-year followup visit on a “home run” thanks to Dr. Douglas Padgett) with a hankering for something Mexican and self-indulgent. I should have known York Avenue would be all white bread (even Bloomberg won’t eat around there), but I was still amazed at how lame this little dive was. The watery salsa tasted like dish soap, and not from cilantro. The $8.95 nachos were mostly bland beans and chunks of burned chorizo (allegedly; it had no discernible flavor). And the waitress was equal parts surly and inefficient (I had to ask for both flatware and a napkin after waiting forever for even a menu in a nearly empty little room). I guess I deserved everything I got for not being smart enough to flee immediately, though. I still can’t run, but I could have walked out.

The reliable: Fairway’s cafe, where four of us retreated after “Broken Embraces” when the “hostess” at Ed’s Chowder House across from the theater was so fuck-youish on learning we did not have a reservation and wanted to try the bar menu. Cheap wine is always the tipping point, and so we shared a bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc for virtually nothing. All their food was fine: Bob’s leg of lamb, the two huge crab cakes and the short ribs. But my Caesar (of course) was the best I’ve had there. The service was a little distracted, and beer-clueless, but WIGB? Absolutely. It’s even quiet enough to talk about what a provocative movie you’ve just seen. 2127 Broadway near 74th Street, 212 595 1888.