gastropoda/trails

The pleasant: Trestle on Tenth in Chelsea, where I wound up with a friend up from Bethesda after waiting too long to reserve on a Saturday night and getting shut out of my first through tenth choices. We were warned a big wedding party was in the garden but took a table there and soon surmised they must have been Swiss, because they never got rowdy, so we could talk easily. And it really was a great setting, so I’m not going to feel too bad about my $22 dish, which smelled a little high — monkfish with calamari, tired clams and Swiss chard in smoked lobster broth. Gary was happier with his halibut with asparagus, mushrooms and ramps, very simply done, and with his pork shoulder crepinette as an appetizer. I did like the bread. And the ethereal waiter. And the way the busboy handled dropping a butter knife into my quarter-full wineglass: Not only did he not shatter it, he immediately offered to bring a fresh one, so after we finished the bottle the waiter split a glass for us. WIGB? Probably, mostly for the atmosphere — the food is beyond reasonable, but the wine list is kinda crazy; our $43 gruner might have been the cheapest bottle. 242 Tenth Avenue at 24th Street, 212 645 5659.

The really good: The New French, yet again, where we met newly engaged friends in from Connecticut on Saturday night in the gods-must-be-infuriated rainstorm and where the right table and the right waitress combined with the food to make another exceptional evening. We were late thanks to the fucked-up trains, so we were able to sit right down at the table our friends scored and join in the red wine and, shortly, another go at the pizza bianca with kale, Fontina, apple and Parmesan. We also all shared a New French salad and the beet appetizer, both great, before my consort tucked into a special of peppery seared tuna with long beans and, I think, bok choy; Kevin into the roast chicken, and Dan into the pulled pork with (they’re back) great fries. I confused the smart waitress with my order for the steak salad, but she and the kitchen sorted it out immediately. A shared slice of cheesecake almost revived my interest in that normally leaden dessert — it was fluffy but still intense. WIGB? Early and often, again. 522 Hudson Street at 10th, 212 807 7357.

The pretty bad: Sido on Amsterdam Avenue, where I stopped for a quick falafel sandwich on a crazed day and where I was almost saddened to see the former stationary food cart has taken over the relatively swanky La Grolla space while ambitious La Grolla has become a pizza-by-the-slice sliver in the old Sido space. Chilewich placemats and flatware wrapped in paper napkins on each table were nice touches, but the poor cooks were running hard and running behind. My sandwich seemed about average until I got home and, an hour or so later, felt like a float in the Macy’s parade. Not sure what the secret ingredient is, but I suspect baking soda. WIGB? Not unless proximity overrules good sense.

The impressive: The Malaysia Kitchen for the World promotion at the FCI. Normally I wouldn’t write directly about a press event, but this was so smart and well-run every promoter could learn. It had the right mix of chefs to illustrate the disparate influences that shaped Malaysian cuisine and how it both differs from and echoes Chinese, Thai and Indian. Each of them demonstrated a definitive dish (roti canai, curry laksa, chicken satay, beef rendang), which was then served to us at our seats in the lecture hall. It all made me want to head straight out for Malaysian with new understanding of what to order and why, or at least to Chinatown to buy ingredients for the recipes provided in a sharp little booklet featuring those chefs. And the year-long promotion for restaurants all along the East Coast will make putting my education to work even easier. So many of these events are just gang-bangs where everyone gorges and runs, leaving no one more informed than on walking in. Figures that so few old-media types were in the audience. . .

The good: La Mangeoire in Midtown, where my consort and I headed after a bizarre opening at ICP (if I’d known it was a costume party, I would have ordered an Aretha hat) on a brutally cold night and where the place and food were just evocative enough of Provence. I’d come across another mention that Christian Delouvrier was cooking there, so we thought we’d see what the king of $38 cauliflower soup was up to, the chef who once sent Ruth home feeling as if she was Cinderella in a gilded carriage. We’d been there a couple of years ago at least and knew at least we could get downsized portions of entrees, a menu trick that is not to be underestimated. But the whole experience was satisfying if not carriage-worthy. They seated us at a corner table in a small room where even a bunch of old people celebrating a birthday were bearable (another relatively young couple busted into the singing to say, “You can do better than that,” but if it was loud it was mercifully short). The good bread was presented with little ramekins of excellent anchoiade, olive oil and little olives. The Provencal white was unobjectionable at I think $34 a bottle. The waiter was both engaging and attentive. On his advice on what the chef had changed, we split the petatou, a little cast-iron pot filled with potatoes, airy goat cheese and meaty lardons in perfect balance. Bob had the petite coq a vin, really rich and almost sticky sweet; my similarly sized duck confit on lentils with raw escarole was faultless for $19. As we left, there was the onetime king, sharing viand frites near the front door. WIGB? Probably. Besides the food, the noise level is commendable. 1008 Second Avenue near 53d Street, 212 759 7086.

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 fine: Cafe Luxembourg, where I met two great friends who treated me and their brilliant colleague to lunch and where it was hard to find much fault as a result. We got a nice quiet table near the window, seemingly sunny in the rain, and the waiter was efficient enough while on the run. Bread, butter, Gruner were all outstanding. And if the $18 cheeseburger was a letdown, I knew a certain cat would be very happy with the leftovers. Tucking into it made me realize, despite all my scorn for the trend, how far burgers have come in this city. Even two years ago CL’s would have induced bliss. Now it’s just average beef on a typical bun, nothing like the magic The New French and even Fairway manage. The fries were decent, though. And Wyl-E was beyond happy. WIGB? Of course, even if I’m paying — the room and energy are real New York. Although I have to say it was a surreal setting to be talking about the sun doing down on the USA — our credit cards are obsolete overseas, China and India are going to own us, this is the easiest country in the world right now to lay off workers etc. I obviously need to update my cellphone. 200 West 70th Street, 212 763 7411.

The better-than-it-has-any-right-to-be: Gus & Gabriel Gastropub, where my consort insisted we head with two friends after the excellent “Informant” (Meryl Streep could use a few lessons from Matt Damon on how to disappear into a role). Bob assumes Psilakis can do no wrong; the rest of us who keep up with reviews had our doubts. And the decor is truly a disaster, and the retro music sucks, especially when it’s so loud in a nearly empty room. But the waiter was superb, turning down the speaker nearest us, bringing tastes of beer as well as comping us a platter of the nose-to-tail menu items, of which the two chicken liver patés dazzled even this chicken spurner. (I can’t get my mind past sweetbreads or tongue, but the two guys raved about those.) We also split an order of good tater tots that were elevated by the spicy barbecue sauce with them, less so by the Cheddar fondue for dipping. And of course I had a Caesar, a rich and over-the-top Caesar, and snared a couple of bites of my consort’s burger with mozzarella, smoked tomato and garlic confit with good fries and top-shelf coleslaw. Len and Diane seemed happy with their burgers, too. I think my Torrontes was $5 or $6 a glass. WIGB? Probably. We got away for $50 a couple (cash only), and more adventurous ordering would probably pay off. 222 West 79th Street, 212 362 7470.

The I-have-only-myself-to-blame: H B Burger off Times Square, where I steered a friend after the ICP fashion opening down the block because the food is cheap and where we literally paid for my not remembering the wine is no bargain. We split a $33 bottle of mediocre Mirassou chardonnay, and even the good $5.50 small Caesar was not compensation. She had the Southwestern salad, which I didn’t try; we divvied up tater tots to indulge in “something disgusting” but had to beg for chipotle mayonnaise to dunk them in — otherwise they were tasteless. The waitress was pleasant but distracted-to-ditzy.  And it was loud when we really wanted to talk. Especially about the woman we had just seen carrying what appeared to be a taxidermed Scottish terrier as a purse . . . WIGB? Unfortunately, yes. Location, location. What else is decent and affordable around there?   127 West 43d Street, 212 575 5848.

The good: Joseph Leonard in the West Village, where my consort and I headed after the seriously hilarious but profoundly sad “In the Loop” at IFC and where the experience was nearly as good as the movie, odd as that sounds. We got a table in the window on walking in when it was half-empty, and if the width of the table coupled with the brayers next to us made talking a bit of a strain, that was a small complaint in a place so small and so new. They got about everything else right, right down to the Molton Brown in the rustic bathroom with the typo-ridden ode to writing over the toilet. Veltliner and Rioja were $7 a glass, with a taste pour to start. Bread was a choice of onion brioche and sourdough. Waitress was excellent, and her constant smile did not look forced. We split the $8 peach salad (with arugula, Cheddar, croutons and sunflower seeds), which we both liked but wondered if riper fruit would have balanced the acidic dressing better. Bob had very tender lamb T-bones with cauliflower gratin (for $20); that meat turns my stomach but this was worth braving a taste. But I really scored with the $11 duck rillettes, easily the best I’ve had in this country, not least because they were served at the right temperature (not fat-cold) with three huge slices of toasted bread (why does everyone else skimp?) and pungent Dijon mustard. And they packed up the half I left over to take home for a sublime breakfast next morning. WIGB? If we can get in. (No reservations.) 170 Waverly Place at Grove Street, 646 429 8383.

The sad: Resto in Murray Hill, where I stupidly suggested we head after the Greenmarket when the humidity was so thick it was like swimming up Park Avenue while dodging all the goddamn kamikaze bikes that have so quickly overrun the car-free lanes. Fat guy at the front jumped up to seat us from whatever he was doing at a table with another couple, but I wish the waiter heading our way had arrived first, because the couple just behind us got a four-top away from the hyenas in the back corner while we were wedged at a deuce in the din, with no AC aiming my dripping way. Which would have been okay, but the waitress was dumber than a post. I sickened myself by uttering the words “egg sammy,” but it turned out to be pretty good, once I got past the fact that the “souffléed eggs” bore a striking resemblance to the firm square an Au Bon Pain guy once waggled in my face at LaGuardia when I ordered a breakfast sandwich. How can you go wrong with hollandaise, guanciale, Gruyere and a superb English muffin, for $8? Poor Bob was not so lucky, even though I gave him my half-dressed greens. Shrimp and grits was a lot of fuss and very little food for $15: four shrimp, maybe half a cup of Anson Mills with a poolette of sauce and two slices of fried green tomatoes that could have been fried green anything. An hour later he was hitting the peanut butter. WIGB? Unlikely. He had to wave his card wildly for the check, twice. And neither the fat guy nor anyone else said a word as we walked dejectedly out.

The oy: La Carbonara on the Chelsea-Village border, where I will have to take the shit hit for suggesting 10 of us meet for a very young friend’s birthday. Insisting on a table in the back room where my consort had had a great experience with a similar-sized crowd was one mistake after not updating a reservation made for 8, which meant we were crammed in with another big and rowdy table. Which would have been tolerable if the waitstaff had not been justifiably pissed. The food was decent, although none of it lived up to the promise of the seasoned ricotta served with the good bread. My carbonara was spaghetti in a blizzard of cheese and eggs when a dusting would have sufficed, and the “pancetta” looked much scarier next day when I served it to The Cat WCTLWAFW, who of course scarfed it right down. I didn’t try Bob’s chicken cacciatore, but his mozzarella appetizer was quite good. Tiramisu did not exactly vanquish my hospital memories of “tiralisu” in Turin, no matter how happy everyone else was. I also didn’t keep a good eye on the wine ordered or would have been more adamant we stick to the low end, particularly with the Italian whites. As it was, jaws dropped when the check came out to $47 a head. In a joint chosen for $9.95 pasta. WIGB? I hope not.

The adequate: Pacifico in Brooklyn, where we settled with a mini Winston Churchill in tow on a brutally hot night and where the faintly Key Westian ambiance compensated for pretty lame food. The hostess let us sit outside with the verboten stroller, which was above and beyond and halfway compensated for one among us getting her hands besmirched trying to stabilize the picnic table. I had the most expensive thing on the menu, “crabcakes with chile relleño,” and all you need to know about the quality of the star in that sad show is that the whole thing cost $14 (with [allegedly green chile] rice, green beans and pico de gallo). Rosé was $6 a glass, which seemed great till we got home and remembered a whole bottle of the same Spanish wine is $6.99 from PJ’s. Bob’s margarita was pretty good, though, and we did get to sit outside. Overall, we were much happier to be there than at the “pop-up” restaurant we passed coming and going where a bunch of people who had schlepped from “as far away as the Upper West Side” were paying big bucks to eat froufrou food inside, away from the starlit sky.

The good: Dim Sum Go Go in Chinatown, where a friend and I sat for 2 1/2 hours over exactly $27 worth of food, tax and tip while the waiters just kept refilling the teapot and water glasses. At a nice window table we split steamed dumplings (including duck, Chinese parsley, seafood), fried turnip cakes and shiu mai, all faultless. So what if half the other patrons came in clutching guidebooks and the only Asians in the joint were staff? It’s clean and bright and hospitable, not to mention very easy to talk there. WIGB? Anytime. 3 East Broadway off Chatham Square, 212 732 0797.

The seriously good: Bar Boulud, where a friend and I wound up with a great sidewalk table after an odd little evening of Will “Tear Down This Myth” Bunch and “Laughing Liberally” in the Theater District; we just wanted salad and a glass of wine, but $12 for either seemed a little steep at the first places we considered, and PJ Clarke’s looked and sounded like a 20-something WASP convention in Bedlam. So we took our $24 across the street. Of course once we sat down salads seemed absurd when there was all that charcuterie to be had, so she ordered Grand-pere and I chose the excellent $15 tourte de canard, with foie gras layered throughout. My white was all of $9, but her red took forever to arrive, as did her knife. Bread, though, was excellent. The waiter seemed disappointed by our dainty order, although he warmed right up when I asked for a kitty bag for my half-eaten paté. WIGB? Such a deal! And Wyl-E was so happy. 1900 Broadway near 63d Street, 212 595 0303.

The “terrific:” Kefi, yet again, where my friend in from a dining wasteland was quite pleased and not just because we were comped really good orzo with shrimp, feta, spinach and tomatoes. The waiter listened when he wanted something more austere than the glass of white I ordered while waiting for him, and the bottle whose name I didn’t note was a step up and poured at just the right pace as we split the always-great spreads and then swordfish and striped bass (the latter made a superb lunch next day to share with The Cat WCTLWAFW). Gary paid, which should have made me feel terrible, but the place is such a bargain. WIGB? Very soon, I’m sure. 505 Columbus Avenue near 84th Street, 212 873 0200.

The oddly off: The New French, where it was damn lucky the food was as spectacular as always and the design holds up because the service and noise level were mortifying. I didn’t realize what a bad choice it would be for the combination of a soft-spoken scholarly writer and someone who, in the immortal phrase of a friend in Treviso, “chews words.” I couldn’t hear her, and she had it even worse — at one point she thought I was talking about Craig Claiborne rather than John Hess and reacted as if I had said Paula Deen was the new Julia Child. The waitress was an absolute ditz in a half-full room: took forever to come over, had to be hailed for a second glass of rosé, forgot my friend’s second beer, never refilled the water glasses, had to be hailed for the check, had to be hailed again to be told she overcharged me by $4 (sparkling/Spanish/what’s the diff?). And if I had to hear the same track of the Mamas and Papas blasting over all the braying one more time. . . . Still, WIGB? Absolutely. That Cheddarburger with heap o’ fries is just the best. Friend was happy with fresh tuna sandwich, too. And they let us sit far, far longer than Pearl would. 522 Hudson Street at 10th, 212 807 7357.

The good: Boqueria in SoHo, where we headed with a Philadelphia friend in town for the book expo who expressed a preference for either Caribbean or Mediterranean, anything “light and sunny.” Sort of Spanish sort of fit the bill, although I admit I paused at the blackboard brunch sign out front when I realized how likely eggs were to dominate and how close we were to the Saturday fallback, Aquagrill, with its sidewalk terrace. But it was early, and we got a nice table overlooking the plancha, and the waiter was attentive and the food and wine were excellent even if the music deserved deportation and the bathroom looked worthy of a train, and not in tidy Spain. We just shared a few pricey but excellent tapas: tender octopus on skewers and toast with tomatoes and sugar snap peas in green olive vinaigrette; diver scallops with English peas etc. in bacon vinaigrette; three croquetas — suckling pig, mushroom and salt cod — with sauces, and padron peppers, which were good but not up to Lanzarote level because only one I got had any heat. Rosé and sangria were $9 and $8 a glass; with two each it came out to $38 a person with tax and tip. Not bad, but not the proven deal down the block. WIGB? Maybe. Just not on Egg Day. 17 Spring Street between Thompson and West Broadway, 212 343 4255.

The better than we had any right to hope: Le Petit Marché in Brooklyn Heights, where I met locals and my consort after his workday and with very low expectations, given the neighborhood and the Alouette evocation when I walked in the door on a drizzly gray night. But our food was pretty satisfying, much more so than the sullen-at-best service. I had eaten earlier so only ordered my idea of nibbles — an appetizer of crab-chickpea fritters with chipotle-smoked paprika aioli plus a side of truffle-Parmigiano fries — and was happy with both. My consort made me taste his very chewy but flavorful duck with date gastrique and sweet potato puree, and our friends seemed happy with a special pasta with sausage and summer squash and crab-corn chowder (on this gray evening) plus an off-the-menu pork chop with corn risotto. We split two bottles of red and I think got out for under $100 a couple. WIGB? Absolutely, were I to find myself in that neck of the far woods ever again. 46 Henry Street, 718 858 9605.

P.J. Clarke’s at Lincoln Center, where nine of us landed after the disappointing “Departures” at the little theater around the corner and where we had no reason to complain given the location, location, location coupled with the reasonable prices, decent cooking and showoff service. Our small mob was seated almost instantly at a few tables jammed together in a back corner where we could mostly hear ourselves talk, and the waiter was patient and mellow when some of us just ordered salads or side dishes and others ordered no booze. My Caesar was the same as it ever was, and my consort looked to have more goat cheese than he needed on his spinach salad. Friend to my left was blissful with her sliders if not the bizarre “bubble and squeak” that came with; friend to my right ate the latter with as few complaints as he had for his French onion soup once the kitchen omitted the cheese topping. WIGB? Absolutely. Even if we have to again fight our way through a bizarre horde trying to get into the bar at Center Cut next door. 44 West 63d Street, 212 957 9700.

The not bad: Smith’s in the West Village, where four of us settled in hopes of an affordable meal in a quiet setting and where we got half our wishes. I landed there first and could not have been treated more hospitably while waiting at the bar without ordering wine (next to a couple who had met online and who were exchanging TMI for sure); without being asked, the bartender happily brought me ice water and even an extra candle so I could try to decipher the Time magazine keeping me company. We eventually got a good booth that would have been great if it had not had 14 speakers directly overhead. The waiter also stayed extremely patient even as we dithered in ordering. And my food was pretty good: The grilled squid might have languished a bit too long on the grill, but the pepper relish with it overcompensated, while the ramp risotto with mushrooms and Parmesan was better than average despite the unnecessary Meyer lemon. Both our friends seemed happy with their warm artichoke salad and his chicken-and-grits with shrimp-andouille gumbo if not her skimpy salmon with watercress — it was absurdly small considering my half-portion of risotto was enough to doggie-bag and Bob’s John Dory with shellfish stew and potatoes was a big deal at $23. Elixirs seemed overpriced in comparison to the entrees, too, but then I guess wines are being marked up crazier than fish. WIGB? Hospitality aside, I see no pressing reason why, unfortunately. 79 MacDougal Street above Houston, 212 260 0100.

The pretty good: West Branch, where we met friends in search of an affordable dinner on the one night we were confident you could easily go anywhere on the Upper West Side. Even then, it was swamped and loud, but we survived close to three hours with one bottle and two glasses of pinot blanc. I wanted nothing more than the respectable Caesar salad but took satisfying tastes of my consort’s celeri remoulade with ham and his squash tortelli. The burger across the table also looked worth the $16. WIGB? Why not? 2178 Broadway at 77th Street, 212 777 6764.

The not awful: Comida, where we resorted after finding Cesare’s joint fully committed even at 9:30 on a Monday night and where we at least got a bar table immediately and good-sized glasses of okay red and white wine for $8 each in a far-from-full room. Not sure what came over Bob after popcorn at disappointing “Duplicity,” but he ordered nachos, which were not great but hugely filling. I wanted the house salad with Romaine, olives, roasted chilies and queso fresco and was presented a mound of baby spinach with accouterments instead — a restaurant open mere days had run out of the right lettuce. The least they could have done was knock the $2 surcharge for avocado off the check. WIGB? Probably. We live in a notorious wasteland, and the waiter and half-empty room were nice enough. Plus one thing that has killed everything in that space has been hostility to people who only want a drink and a snack after a movie. 461 Columbus at 82d Street, 212 696 3000.