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 “I was warned”: Colonie in Brooklyn Heights, where my consort and I ducked in after Sahadi’s on a Saturday outing to terra incognita and where the underwhelming food seemed less underwhelming because our friend in the neighborhood had flagged it with yellow lights. The space is quite impressive, with front and back bars (the latter overlooking the stoves), and greenery both visible out the back windows and on the wall between front and back rooms. And the staff was almost hyper-hospitable. If only what we faced down on our plates had been at that level. I of course had to order the duck hash, which was more like a warm potato salad sans acid: halved fancy baby potatoes, a few chunks of bland meat, an oozing poached egg that neither added nor subtracted from the final assemblage (not being a runny-yolk fan, I was almost disappointed that this one just lay there like a lox). It was enough to send me home to the dictionary to check if I’d lost my mind, but yes, “hash” should involve browning. Bob’s “shrimp and grits” also missed the concept, with two huge grilled crustaceans laid onto the creamy grits. It was yet another marriage of partners not communicating. WIGB? Not when we passed other tempting places the farther we got on our stroll over to where Atlantic Avenue hits big-box city.

The good: Sezz Medi up near Columbia, where my consort led me after I’d steered him there on good advice a couple of months ago and where the whole experience was like Italy without Alitalia. It was Sunday brunchtime, but the menu had a panoply of egg alternatives, and the server didn’t even flinch when we ordered only small plates. One of which was huge — fried calamari and zucchini, an LP-sized platter of nicely cooked, very tender seafood and pretty crisp yellow and green squash slices, with a tangy parsley tzatziki as dunking sauce. Bob’s tegamino (a k a eggplant Parmigiana) was superb, with the ideal balance of vegetable to cheese and a good, lusty tomato sauce that doubled as a dip for the fritti (turns out the name refers to the skillet in which it’s cooked). We got away for $20 plus tip, about what we would have spent at Chipotle in the same time. WIGB? Absolutely, and often, if it were closer. 1260 Amsterdam Avenue near 122d Street, 212 932 2901.

The pretty good: Kin Shop in the Village, where Bob and I and the filmmaker of “How to Live Forever” repaired after a showing at the Quad and where the food definitely trumped the neglectful service, even after we ordered bottled water that could have been repeatedly up-sold. Duck laab salad was my favorite plate on the table, although it was not as blistering as I’d expected, and sea scallops with pea puree were nearly as good. Softshell crab can be filed under outstanding, pad see ew with ramps well below  underwhelming. The one huge disappointment was the “selection of grilled eggplant.” No there there. . . WIGB? Sure. Brachetto goes surprisingly well with spicy upscale Thai. 469 Sixth Avenue, 212 675 4295.

The not bad, din in dinner notwithstanding: Qi in the Theater District, where Bob and I wound up, against his objections, when Elsewhere had a 15-minute wait for tables after the ICP opening of the entrancing Elliott Erwitt show. He spends so much time on/off Eighth Avenue he was dreading the whole experience but calmed a bit when we agreed the design evokes Pierre Gagnaire’s Sketch in London, where he shot for his last around-the-world Geographic story, on caffeine. Unfortunately, the kitchen and servers could have been jetlagged after flying in from England. It took forever to get attention and then food. By then, the torturous noise level had us fighting, and cold mushroom spring rolls amplified the pain even though they had great taste and texture. An eggplant special appetizer was mostly chicken and shrimp, but decent. Ordering pad see ew was a big mistake after Kin Shop, but the green curry duck was better next day, reheated in the quiet of our own kitchen. WIGB? Not likely, but Bob, amazingly, disagreed — he rated it above most joints near where he spends so much time. 675 Eighth Avenue near 43d Street, 212 247 8991.

The nearly perfect port in a near-storm: The Taproom at Colicchio & Sons in Chelsea, where we wound up after my two days of frantically calling around for a “shit — it’s your birthday”  destination and getting no end of “5:30 or 10” merde de bull. Bob was willing to risk walking in anywhere, as we were able to do at the Dutch, but it was his big night so I wanted a safe haven. Which this totally was. We got a table looking out on the High Line, in a room that was surprisingly cozy despite its airiness, with the ideal noise level (you can easily hear both the mellow music and your companion) and a nice, young crowd (my seat had a view of the entrance, so I know the fancy side was not so lucky). Good Nebbiolo rosé ran $9 a glass, a much better deal than the heavily hyped kegged stuff, which was rather thin. Cured fluke with grapefruit and black olives was nice, but fatty salmon over smoked-egg mayonnaise outdid it (the menu called it vinaigrette, but I’ll call it what it was). Bob seemed happy with braised lamb ribs on pearl barley, and I was impressed by “steak & eggs,” with beef short rib in a crepinette laid alongside oats topped with a poached egg, even though the fancy stone-cut oats were decidedly rancid. And we both were amazed at how lame the rhubarb tart was. I’m all for cerebral desserts, but they need to function on a sensual level as well. This was almost gummi bear fruit on solid cream in a crust notable mostly for its crunch, not flavor. Even the two frozen scoops of whatever alongside could not elevate it. Still, WIGB? Absolutely. The price was right (very imaginative butchering and cooking put prices literally half what I had reeled from on other menus in my frenzy). Plus true luxury is being able to revel in conversation over your food. 85 Tenth Avenue at 15th Street, 212 400 6699.

The “it’s complicated:” Boulud Sud on the Upper West Side, where we steered friends in from Eden on the Willamette who had reserved at Bar Boulud and where we were lucky enough to be showered with freebies but cranky enough to evaluate the cooking like the journalists all of us once were and some still are. The Big Homme himself was there, and I hope the microphone under our table recorded me saying he is the most gracious guy in the business, because he not only came over to chat and engage but also sent us way too much free food. Of what we ordered, the duck kataifi was too much shredded wheat on a bit of poultry; vitello tonnato was fine but not Piemonte level, and the perfectly cooked, very fresh squid was done in by the overkill of fat filling and overwrought tomato sauce. Sicilian sardine escabeche, though, impressed even this sardine shunner. We got talked into unnecessary side dishes, of which the very smoky charred broccoli rabe trumped the bland chickpea panisse and fregola sarda with snap peas. Among main courses, Bob’s “cedar grilled rouget” turned out to be the usual far-from-the-Mediterranean fillet. My pancetta-wrapped quail, though, may have looked straight out of “Eraserhead” but tasted/ate pretty great, no Tuscan kale and rosemary soubise needed. Of our friends’ harissa-grilled lamb with eggplant and “grilled short rib on the bone,” I’d definitely lay the blue ribbon on the beef, cooked to amazing tenderness. Points off for a wine list that turned into a jousting match between reformed wine writer and paid sommelier, but we all liked our Nebbiolo rosé, and the excellent waiter poured it well. Our friends up and fled to Jazz at Lincoln Center, so Bob and I did not have to share two outstanding comped desserts, a chocolate-heavy, almost tiramisu-tasting “cassata” that would vanquish any memories of candied fruit, and a big-time wow of a grapefruit givré. WIGB? Probably, for a snack and glass of $9 picpoul at the bar after a movie, but I appeared to be in the minority. 20 West 64th Street, 212 595 1313.

The halt on the border of lame: La Superior in Williamsburg, where we happily headed with friends after an expedition in hopes of seeing the Rapture take Manhattan but where we left holding our ears because the music was not just painfully loud but horribly stupid. The birthday girl among us chose it, so I’ll be gentle, especially because it was decidedly cheap for too much food ($90 for four of us, with tip, including seven margaritas). And I can’t fairly judge because the dishes just came flying in after we ordered; there was no app-to-entrée progression. The best thing I tasted was the gordita filled with chorizo and potato; if it was not quite El Paso-(Texas)-level it was at least seriously satisfying. A rajas taco was also good if overfilled, as were the other tacos, some of which I tasted although I quailed at the lengua. Guacamole seemed  surprisingly undistinguished, and the queso fundido would have been so much better with serious mushrooms. (At least they kept the tortillas coming.) And I wanted to like the ezquites, despite the pallid main ingredient, but the presentation sucked — a plastic cup to be dumped into a bowl to be shared among four with two plastic forks? Those ditz waitresses were damned lucky we were in birthday mode.

Lagniappe: Our expedition to exotic Williamsburg paid off in many ways. We had the most amazing iced coffee — New Orleans style, with a bit of chicory, plus sugar and milk — at Blue Bottle. The corn cookie and blackberry-lime ice from Momofuku Milk Bar at Smorgasburg were killer. Whimsy & Spice’s peanut butter sandwich flavored with massaman curry was right behind. And the Bedford Cheese Shop could have been airdropped in from the Seventh Arrondissement.

The straight-ahead good: The Dutch in the old Cub Room in SoHo, where we ventured after being told reservations were only available at 5:30 or after 10:15 on a Monday night and where we were able to walk right in, sit right down and revel in too much food, all as satisfying as it’s been buzzed about online. The oyster “sliders” are just called “little sandwiches” on the menu, and ours was outstanding, with distinctive oyster flavor despite heavy saucing partly thanks to perfect frying (crisp exterior, interior with almost a poached consistency). “White boy Asian ribs,” with sweet-spicy sauce and tender meat, seemed A-level to me, but my consort compared them with the ones he’d had at Oklahoma Joe’s in KCMO recently and rated them a rung down the BBQ ladder. But the eggplant dip with crisp chips proved to be the knockout bar snack, like a beautifully balanced smoky-creamy baba ghanoush. I took half my rib home for The Cat and tried to resist too much dip, but I still could only make it halfway through a superb duck breast, crusted with pecans, laid over dirty rice with gizzards and andouille and topped with the vegetable I loathe most, which turned out to be a brilliant finishing touch  — sliced lengthwise almost paper-thin, so there were no nasty strings, only fresh green flavor. Bob’s super-succulent lamb neck came in the best mole I have ever tasted, with no weird fruity flavor, just chile-nut intensity; red rice and chayote cut the heat and richness. We left with enough of both entrees for lunch the next day. The waitress was also amazing, efficient, attentive and patient enough to answer endless questions. And we snared one of the cheapest bottles on the list, a fine Italian white for $30, poured with no condescension (old rule ratified yet again: the cheapest bottle on a smart list will always be a find). WIGB? Absolutely — beyond the food, the setting and buzz make it worth a trip. And before the tip, the tab was only $113. Extra points for real matches, too. 131 Sullivan Street at Prince, 212 677 6200.

The good with an asterisk: Vinegar Hill House after the lame NY Photo Fest in Dumbo, where at least some of us in a party of five felt a little ridiculous to be waiting in line for a table 20 minutes before the place opened but where the cooking was rivaled only by the service and the place itself, like a discovery in some other city far, far away. Luckily, we were the third group in the door and got a nice table tucked in an alcove where we could actually hear ourselves talk (if also overhear the sad couple at the next table, an old bitch and her resigned husband with pathetic dyed hair). We should have ordered two of the clam pie to share, because it turned out to be not an easily divvied flatbread but a real little pie with an almost liquid center. One bite apiece was a mouthful, though: serious clams with lardons and potatoes in a perfect crust, with a parsley-red onion salad to cut the richness. One order of the charred pork belly on masa flatbread with watercress, sour cream and pumpkinseeds was also enough because of the big flavors, and because the main courses were so substantial, at least in the meat division: huge Red Wattle pork chop with Cheddar grits; braised lamb neck with freekeh and pomegranate yogurt; tilefish with green garbanzos, spring onions, black olives and marjoram, and a special of boned whole trout crusted in cumin and walnuts with baby spinach on the side. Everything was beautifully cooked, especially the tilefish; the trout, unfortunately, could not surmount the fact that it was what it ate — it tasted bland and mealy to me. Everyone was wowed by the salted caramel pudding (butterscotch is a turnoff; caramel a seduction), to the point that the chocolate Guinness cake seemed most impressive as a visual pun, with the white frosting looking like the head on a glass of dark stout. Four of split a bottle of arneis for $38, two of us a little tumbler of Quincy and one indulged in a big glass of Rioja and we got away for $55 a head. WIGB? Probably not, and not because of the silly line to get in. *Just when I was near the end of my tilefish in its wonderful sauce, my fork snared a hair and I gagged. Then I had to wait for the bathroom with a view of the kitchen and saw a smiling chef with a long beard and nearly puked. Bugs don’t gross me out that badly. Everyone else, however, voted yes on a return visit even after I confessed on the train home. 72 Hudson Avenue, Brooklyn, 718 522 1018.

The surprisingly good: The Astor Room in the landmark Kaufman Astoria Studios, where four of us were lucky enough to land after a great couple of hours at the Museum of the Moving Image across the street when Pachanga Patterson did not appear to be open and M. Wells was too far and too overcommitted with a 40-minute wait. I had low hopes, seeing the half-empty if hugely atmospheric room (the old actors’ commissary), but it was the first day of Saturday brunch, and the promise of free Bloody Marys (or mimosas) certainly sounded seductive. And these would have been spectacular at any price, thick with horseradish and each tall glass topped with both a lemon wedge and a caperberry. We passed plates, so I can vouch for my consort’s jerk chicken and waffles (juicy, perfectly fried breast and leg); Diane’s spinach and goat cheese omelet with, as billed, “robust flavors” plus accompaniments of both roasted potatoes and salad; my own lump crab melt with avocado and tomato under a blanket of melted Fontina, and Len’s “Astor Disaster,” a crazy-sounding but very harmonious layering of French toast, barbecued short rib, bacon, poached egg, Cheddar and onion rings. Who cared that the fries with his and my order were just industrial? The bill, with one coffee and a Lavazzo espresso, was all of $55 before the tip. Lagniappe: The chef, a David Burke protégé, came out to chat. WIGB? Absolutely. What better double bill for the Alain Resnais program at the museum? And the fried oyster and egg sandwich looked pretty enticing. 34-12 36th Street, Astoria, 718 255 1947.

The good again: Elsewhere in Hell’s Kitchen, where we stupidly assumed we’d have the room to ourselves after 8 after a work drink for a story and where the half-hour wait was well worth it. This time we were seated in the “garden” room, which was also a plus. We split popcorn with “bacon butter” to start, so I could finish only part of my portobello sliders, awesome as they were: mushrooms grilled like beef, topped with Fontina, layered in brioche with lettuce and “green” tomato that looked more yellow, and teamed with spicy remoulade. I could swear Bob made me taste tender lamb on polenta or grits, but it doesn’t appear to be on the menu now. WIGB? For sure. This is the new Theater District, with serious cooking in the hours when restaurants are usually dark. 403 West 43d Street, 212 315 2121.

The not bad: Piadina in the West Village, where friends lured us back for the “cheap and awesome food” despite our recollection of the namesake dish tasting like quesadillas in an Irish Catholic orphanage (hint: like communion hosts stuffed with scraps). And they were quite right. The room was charming, the salad was satisfying and my $14.50 garganelli in cream with peas and a plethora of prosciutto proved to be outstanding. I didn’t taste our friends’ food, but they seemed happy, so I’ll assume Bob’s watery orecchiette with sausage and broccoli rabe had to be an aberration. Points off, too, for the dismissive service. I will never understand why, if times are so tough, so many waiters just clear wineglasses and plates without asking: Hey, suckahs — want anything more? WIGB? Maybe. It was pretty cheap. (More points off, though, for cash-only.) 57 West 10th Street, 212 460 8017.

The apparently forgettable: Superfine in DUMBO, where the Bugses and we headed after hearing Gabrielle Hamilton talk about her memoir at Powerhouse Arena and where we were able to walk right in and sit right down and hear each other, which was key with Dr. B p*ant-gearing up to appear on the Colbert Report next night. I was a little unnerved on passing the pool table on the way in, but it’s a pretty nice space. And the reds we ordered were pretty good and affordable. Otherwise, I know there were steak frites and grilled mahi passed around, and I had decent pasta with goat cheese, broccoli and pancetta; the fourth dish has escaped my cranial sieve. WIGB? Possibly if we wound up in that neighborhood on a cold night again. Otherwise, Hecho en Dumbo on the Bowery is calling. . . 126 Front Street at Pearl, 718 243 9005.

Quick takes: Luke’s Lobster on Amsterdam came through yet again with meaty, overstuffed, thoroughly satisfying lobster rolls for all of $15 apiece. Fedora in the West Village came through with a totally transporting bar, the best argument for preservation (I could almost see Dawn Powell knocking back a few stiff ones there). And Terrizzi in Astoria delivered as a total trip, the one bakery we dared walk into after passing so many that looked so industrial. Sfogliatelle seemed Naples-worthy, with flaky dough and a sweet ricotta filling, and it came with character from the elderly woman in charge. She said we could find something like it in “The City.” Maybe. But not with her salesmanship.

A whole week went by without one meal eaten away from our kitchen, but we did make it out to Greenpoint to the just-opened Eastern District cheese-and-beer shop, where we came away with good sandwiches on Tom Cat focaccia with Fra Mani turkey plus good cheese for all of $7. The proprietor also carries seriously local honey and other Brooklyn pantry staples like pickles and jams. And that stop was after our first pilgrimage to the Acme Smoked Fish factory for retail@wholesale Friday — we got two kinds of salmon, two whole smoked trout and a big container of smoked whitefish salad for $27. Or, I think, about the price of a pound of smoked salmon in one of the Manhattan stores the place supplies. Eastern District, 1053 Manhattan Avenue, 718 349 1432; Acme, 30 Gem Street, 718 383 8585

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 good, yet again: Fairway upstairs, yet again, where we trotted after the underwhelming “Up in the Air” and where we were rewarded yet again with good food, cheap wine and WTH service. We shivered in just minutes before the kitchen closed, which made it all the more amazing that my (yes) Caesar was super-garlicky perfection and Bob’s chicken thighs with roasted butternut squash were juicy-exceptional. And consider the wine: NZ sauvignon blanc was a buck less than lame popcorn at the theater. 2127 Broadway near 74th Street, 212 595 1888.

The not bad: Qi after the Wednesday Greenmarket, where I stopped for a quick hoisin duck banh mi preceded by chive dumplings. The waiter remembered me, which was nice, although not enough to compensate for my sandwich, which was light on filling and heavy on bread. The dumplings were no better than last time either. WIGB? Sure — location, location, location. Plus the tab with tax and tip was only a little over $10, and now they have wine. 31 West 14th Street, 212 929 9917.

The adequate: Santa Clara Taqueria Mexicana in Inwood, where we settled after an expedition to buy Russian chocolate in graphically great packaging at Moscow on the Hudson on 181st Street. I discovered aerated chocolate last year and figured it would be a good gift for my in-law equivalent, and this shop had many more options than the one where I shopped for my consort. Thirty-four dollars and a heavy bag later, we set out to find the vintage Grunebaum’s bakery I had read about on a neighborhood blog, only to find its longtime space up for rent, and were ready for anything for lunch. The loud place is minuscule, with half the space taken up with beer promos (wonder what the vendors think about waitresses whose hats boast one brand and aprons another). And the prices are insane — we could have been eating in mellow luxury closer to home at El Paso Taqueria. But Bob was thrilled with his beef tongue and chorizo tacos, $2 apiece with superb green salsa. I was put off by $9.95 enchiladas on a street where gloves are $2, so I settled for a $5.50 torta, soft bread skimpily filled with decent chorizo, avocado, jalapeños and lettuce. With a Jarritos grapefruit soda, the damage was all of $11.50. WIGB? Nah. We passed no end of tantalizing alternatives on our walk to the subway at 145th and Broadway.

The almost: O’Neals near Lincoln Center, where we headed with another couple after the bad-acoustics Steve Earle concert down the block and where the hosts were smart enough to offer us a table just for drinks but the waiter was dumb enough to hustle us out. I had expected we would have to squeeze into the bar and yell, but once we were seated with linen and flatware and menus, salad and crab cakes and guacamole were being ordered to go with the $11-a-glass sauvignon blanc. I only tasted the guacamole, which was better than it had any right to be despite supermarket-level chips, but our friends seemed happy with their real food. And the roll I tasted outperformed, too. It was late, but it was Friday, so I was rather surprised no one seemed interested in selling us another glass or so. WIGB? Undoubtedly. Location trumps many flaws. 49 West 64th Street, 212 787 4663.

The bittersweet: reBar in Dumbo, where we joined MediaStorm & famille for a last holiday party and where we got to celebrate Bob going from panda to condor again — he’s leaving regular feeding times in the zoo to go back to flying freely — while acknowledging it would be the last time we partied with this crew in this way. The tables were covered in food by the time I got there (late), but I can vouch for the guacamole, the pico de gallo and the penne with artichokes. And the wine service was surprisingly attentive considering how busy it was on a Monday night. WIGB? If he still had to commute, maybe. 147 Front Street, Brooklyn, 718 677 9110.

The womb-like: Beco in Greenpoint, where nine of us headed just for drinks after a friend’s gallery talk nearby and where the staff could not have been more accommodating, pulling together tables and handing us all menus drink-side up rather than taking umbrage at the prospect of no food tab. I ordered a $6 sauvignon blanc before realizing caipirinhas were the way to go. Four of us walked out to hearty thanks and shivered to the L close by wondering why we can’t have a place like that in our neighborhood. Of course, the answer is obvious: Ridiculous rents and stroller gridlock. WIGB? Absolutely. It was so pleasant, and the well-priced Brazilian menu looked promising. 45 Richardson Street near Lorimer, Brooklyn, 718 599 1645.

The when-did-it-turn-so-touristy?: Keens Steakhouse too close to Macy’s, where we rushed back from Brooklyn on a Sunday night to meet steak-craving friends literally just off the plane from India, Madagascar and Mauritius and where I’m surprised their heads didn’t explode from culture shock.  We were shunted to a table upstairs, a room that felt like an over-lit theme park, with unsmoked pipes on the ceiling and waiters, hostesses and other diners all snapping photos of grinning Middle Americans, but that was not the worst of it. I can’t recall service that unservicey in a restaurant where entrees are in the $40s — our guy spent most of the evening lounging against the bar after taking our wine and food orders. The Bugses split a $90 porterhouse, but my consort and I were overwhelmed by the $43.50 sirloin; we all shared decent creamed spinach and a big order of fries. (And there was a tray of gargantuan carrot sticks and celery stalks with olives and blue cheese dip in the middle of the table, another heartland touch, as were the mints at the door and $1 coat check fee posted on a brass plate at the checkroom.) We took most of our steak home, and it tasted just as odd sliced and seared next day. Maybe we’re just used to better beef everywhere these days, but this was downright peculiar. Do they store it too close to the mutton? WIGB? Not if you paid me. I don’t remember it being that bad, but then the last time I ate in the dining room I think was after 9/11 when I did a piece for the NYTimes on vintage restaurants thriving in a shattered city. Too bad you can’t eat the 1885 scenery.