gastropoda/trails

The always good: The Mermaid Inn uptown, where my consort and I hooked up with a friend in from out of town and another friend from way uptown after Kefi proved to be horologically undesirable on a Friday night. We sat in the old folks’ pen, which at least provided quiet enough to make our DC friend realize we had traded energy from the front room. As always, the food at the price point was pretty much faultless, although I did suffer serious remorse on seeing the latest incarnation of the skate land before our DC friend and realizing it was about as lame was last time I braved it. Cartilage is trouble. My salmon with lentils and turnips was sublime (at least then — kittybag included only the fish, not the accouterments, for next day). Our shared salad of calamari with cheese and frisee was better than it had any right to be. And of course the newbies to the place were thrilled with the free chocolate pudding and fish fortuneteller. Bob and I split a bottle of Chilean Jimenez sauvignon blanc that we probably would not order again, but what the hell — it was the right place at the right time. 568 Amsterdam Avenue near 88th Street, 212 799 7400.

The newly good: Roberta’s in Bushwick, where I accepted my payoff for nattering on Heritage Radio Network, in the backyard of Hipster Central a long way from the closest subway stop on a weekend when the transit gods were crazy. I followed emailed instructions and waited at the bar even after arriving late and was ready to head back out into the rain when it occurred to me to ask if my hosts had noticed I was on the premises. While waiting to be retrieved, I did have a fair amount of time to study the menu and wonder why wine prices were so high in a neighborhood young friends fled a year ago as too desolate. But all that was forgotten once we took off our headphones and headed to a table. The co-host’s recommendation of a shared Bibb lettuce salad with Gorgonzola and dried cherry vinaigrette plus walnuts was brilliant, and our Crispy Glover pizza with guanciale, egg and mozzarella needed only salt to reign as best pizza of the three I’ve had lately. The price was also right (HRN guests get a food credit), and the company and conversation were beyond worth the journey. WIGB? Absolutely, if I’m ever out that way again and carrying cash. 261 Moore Street, Brooklyn, 718 417 1118.

The surprisingly good: West Bank Cafe, where Bob and I headed in search of cheap/decent after paying $5 extra a ticket for misreading the schedule for “Where the Wild Things Are” on 42d Street and winding up in the Imax theater. The din was deafening as we walked in, but the hostess led us to a table in a glassed-off section too close to the bar, and the waiter and busboy took it from there. I regretted ordering my usual Caesar once all the appetizer options sank in, but Bob shared his excellent chicken with Robuchon-wannabe potatoes plus seasonally appropriate vegetables. The olives and bean spread with bread also took a serious edge off. Two glasses each of wine pumped up the bill, but it was still a serious deal. 407 West 42d Street near Ninth Avenue, 212 695 6909.

The trippy: El Parador, where we wound up after sticker-price and aural shock at all the other possibilities between a photography opening at SVA and the C train home from Penn Station. Lines out the door from Bar Milano north made me nervous until I remembered a friend loved this time-warp, and both of us were astonished at the scene when we entered under a tired awning so far east toward the river: It was packed with young people. The host said it would be a 20-minute-plus wait for a table, so we settled in at the bar and ordered on the cheap side: mushroom quesadilla, sautéed chorizo, shrimp seviche. The salsa was remorse foretold, almost sweet and hinting of Cincinnati chili, but the chips and and bartender compensated. And our “mains” were outstanding. The best part was scanning the reviews posted on the wall on the way out, ranging from the Herald-Tribune to NYPress (by Panchito’s successor). WIGB? Sure. 325 East 34th, 212 679 6812.

And the vaut the voyage: The New Amsterdam Market at the South Street Seaport, once again, where I ate and loved Marlow’s chili, Porchetta’s porchetta sandwich, Dickson’s sausage, Saltie’s eccles cake, Hot Bread Kitchen’s freshly made corn tortilla, plus assorted cheeses. I was not so crazy about Bklyn Larder’s fennel sausage with undercooked beans, and I didn’t brave the longest line, for Luke’s lobster and crab rolls. We also bought a habanero chile from the Queens County Farm Museum and a slab of extraordinary Vermont cheese from Anne Saxelby and Liddabit Sweets’s salted chocolate caramels (Tootsie Rolls gone wild), plus olive bread at a bargain $5 from Sullivan Street Bakery. This market is an amazing addition to the city, and I think it works because it’s neither a free free-for-all nor a gougefest but an ideal blend of  sampling and selling. All it needs is a wine-by-the-glass section. Or at least beer. Next market is November 22.

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 pretty good: Applewood in faraway Brooklyn, where we met friends who live nearby but had never been and where the best part was the noise level. Imagine four people sitting at a good-sized table in a nearly full dining room and actually hearing each other talk. But that’s not to discount the food, which was far better than the understated menu led me to expect — except for the goat stew and pan-roasted sweetbreads, most entrees read like stuff I could make at home. The energy and the deftness in the cooking, though, would be beyond me: my $23 sautéed haddock came with peas and bacon plus a potato cake, while my consort’s $23 bluefish was not only perfectly fresh but would have been redeemed in any case by the tapenade with it, and our friend’s $24 grilled pork sausage was certainly impressive. Bob and I split roasted beets with goat cheese fondue and roasted hazelnuts and snared a taste of our other friend’s lively mixed green salad with prunes and country ham and the good scallops with peaches, onion jam and chimichurri she had as a second course. Everyone else was happy with two shared desserts, but I have to confess they were literally forgettable (I don’t care, and I didn’t keep the dessert menu). Wine was a reasonably priced verdejo, and the bread with choice of schmears (blue cheesy, cayenney and plain butter) was a nice touch. Service was fine, and the room is really seductive, with a screen door to the kitchen and a few tables on a little patio out front, but I have to modify my “good” because the entrees were so sloooow in coming — I actually started to wonder if they were grinding the sausage from scratch. WIGB? No, but for only one reason: The whole experience was so satisfying it only made me want to explore others of this ilk. Otherwise, a resounding yes. Starting with the reservation process it was everything a restaurant should be. 501 11th Street off Seventh Avenue, Park Slope, 718 788 1014.

The not bad: Jolie, again in faraway Brooklyn, where six of us decamped after Veuve Clicquot, raspberries and cherries in a fourth-floor walkup and where the ambiance alone was worth the journey. Again, all of us could talk comfortably, and the service was good, and everyone else seemed happy with their food, not least because that night the special was three courses for $30. Maybe it was all the fruit beforehand, but by the time we were seated the only thing that appealed to me on the short menu was the crab cake appetizer. My consort insisted on sharing his beet salad, then gave me a taste of the accouterments [NYT preferred spelling] with his lamb chops and then his sorbets (passion fruit and coconut were sensational). So I didn’t even mind that my choice was heavily breaded and fried and over-garnished to an absurd state; the spicy sauce redeemed it. I was surrounded by apparent happiness. And not just at our table. WIGB? Maybe if I lived closer. 320 Atlantic Avenue between Smith and Hoyt, 718 488 0777.

The almost Italian: Caffe Falai in SoHo, where Bob and I landed after the Saturday Greenmarket just hoping for an alternative to eggs and where the linguine with imported clams was like eating in the pesto homeland. This was the day he should have been flying off to Tuscany to teach as usual, but the Chimp brought down the goddamn global economy, so it was almost bittersweet to try something so transporting: good pasta cooked till it was just chewy enough to support the light and liquid pesto, very tender tiny clams with actual flavor, the ideal balance of sauce to other ingredients. The portion size was also authentic (at $14). Our shared salad with avocado and truffle oil balanced rich and bitter nicely as well. I liked the $12 gnudi with spinach and sage, but Bob hit on exactly why they were off: They seemed unfinished, more like loose cheese and chewy vegetable than a cohesive dish. We both decided we like our focaccia a little lighter and airier, but the other bread, flecked with fennel seeds, made an ideal mop for the vinaigrette, his sauce and the butter on my plate. Tiny, amazing bombolini served with the check almost tempted us to order dessert. Bob’s macchiato was a little milkier than it should be, but then we weren’t in Tuscany. The room is really airy and light and actually better than sitting outside, and the service would be best described as relaxed and professional. WIGB? In a Roman second. 265 Lafayette Street at Prince, 212 274 8615.

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 really good: Aldea, where I lured my consort for his birthday because he wanted someplace relaxed with good seafood and where he knew instantly that the “arroz de pato” was why we were there. Even though rice is one of my least favorite foods (fodder as a kid), the enhancements listed on the menu — duck confit, chorizo, olive, duck cracklings — had to make it splendiferous, and it truly was, with very tender slices of breast to boot. We got off to an awkward start first when Bob saw his surname was F’ed up on the reservation screen and then when the hostess tried to seat us in the empty upstairs while the open kitchen was glowing like a lamp for us moths. After gently objecting, she did let us take two stools at the counter facing into the glow, and it was perfect. The chef plating apps was close enough for Bob to ask what the little puffy white things were with the sardines (along with Madeira raisins and citrus) and close enough for him to go get a green almond, cut it open and show what he had extracted to soak in milk. Boss came over to watch, too, said hello and then comped us each a huge, beautifully cooked scallop set over farro risotto with cucumber and orange. The scallops had been scored so that they got really crusty on the plancha, and the combination of hot grain and cold accents was revelatory with them. Nothing will convert me to sardines, so I swapped Bob for his ramps with crisped pig’s ear, apple and cumin yogurt and while chewing still thought I came out ahead. His main course of monkfish was better than we could have made at home, with crab and sausage in the brodo. We split a bottle of light Portuguese white for $28 and each had an albariño for $7.50, all fine with the food. The servers were that rare mixture of friendly and competent, too. Best of all: $126 before what I realize was too small a tip. WIGB? Absolutely. That “duck rice” was $20. 31 West 17th Street between Fifth and Sixth, 212 675 7223.

The pretty good: Gradisca, where two friends lured us to meet his Italian cooking teacher and where I was relieved she had the same verdict on the mamma-made pasta so that I can report with no qualms. Bob and I had had lunch there years ago and remembered the ravioli being spectacular but very expensive, so the $26 on the menu was not shocking. And if the gems had been cooked just 30 seconds longer, they would have been perfect; the filling was sublime, only the edges were doughy. Bob and I split little artichoke “meatballs” that were nice enough plus one wedge of Anna Teresa’s piadina, which almost wiped out my memory of the one we’d had at another restaurant that was about as supple as a Communion host. And I snared a bite of our host’s excellent fresh mozzarella (with anemic tomato). Bob’s main course of cavatelli with eggplant and ricotta salata was faultless, as was the farro lasagne my friend shared. (I think — should have stolen the menu for notes because nothing is current online.) I was glad we were there early; by the time we left it was getting very loud in the back dining room, and the food was already slow to arrive. WIGB? Maybe, if someone else was paying again. As good as the food was, it was very removed from the matter-of-factness in Italy. 126 West 13th Street between Sixth and Seventh, 212 691 4886.

The always good: The New French. Yet again. Running out of descriptives, but there is no better burger. Spanish rosé was perfect with it and the salmon salad.

The expedient: Hecho en Dumbo, where 500 of us descended just before the kitchen closed after the amazing “Driftless” screening at Galapagos and where the service was surprisingly proficient. My “picaditas” with chorizo, though, were topped mostly with potato, a complaint the friend to my left had about the chorizo filling in his “burritas.” More demerits for the din, the cash-only policy and the one bathroom, which by the end of the night looked Hecho en Mexico. WIGB, though? Probably. Location, location, location. 111 Front Street, Brooklyn, 718 855 5288.

The good: Hecho en Dumbo, where I met my consort after an excellent afternoon with a fellow language junkie over in Brooklyn Heights and where the food and prices were worth the oily after-effects (you’ll leave there smelling as if you just ate at Ugglesich’s in New Orleans). I also suspect the place might be brutal, noisewise, later in the evening, but around 7 on a Monday night it was superb. We split the best guacamole in eons — what looked like a mingy portion was actually ample with the warm chips — and then outstanding sopes topped with crab and with chorizo etc. Wines and service were also better than I would expect. WIGB? Undoubtedly, given that the prices are right and the place is right around the corner from Bob’s underheated office. 111 Front Street, Brookyn, 718 855 5288.

The also-good: Zoma, where a table right next to the arctic-breezing door was the one downside to dinner for four of us with one injera spread with mounds of well-spiced vegetables and another with lamb, chicken and sirloin. The price was certainly right — I got there first and ordered a $7 glass of sauvignon blanc to keep me company in the cold, and then we split a bottle of red and it all came out to all of $25 a person. The place looks great, and the staff is surprisingly attentive and efficient. I don’t know enough about Ethiopian cooking to be critical, but I liked most of what we ate, particularly the red lentils, which could pass for Indian. WIGB? The price is right. (Cash only, though, and reservations are respected.) 2084 FDBlvd (Eighth/CPW) at 113th Street, 212 662 0620.

The adequate: Metro Marche in the Port Authority Bus Terminal, where we headed for proximity’s sake after an opening at ICP and an encounter with NYC’s nastiest outside a Hillary event (pedestrians forced to walk in the street? no problem!) The place was the busiest I think I’d ever seen it, but the bouncer/manager was doing a better job than the cops; when three girls tried to use the same bathroom, his shoulders stepped in. Wine, service, my pizzette were all fine, but Bob’s frisee salad looked as if it had walked in from Weehawken: tired, overdressed greens mixed with soggy lardons and weary walnuts. It didn’t matter, though, because the subway entrance was mere steps away on that brutally cold night. WIGB? Inevitably. The crap going in across the street at the shrine to Pinch’s ego doesn’t look much better. 625 Eighth Avenue near 41st Street, 212 239 1010.

The unsettling: Pearl, where I was so disoriented by the emptiness at lunch that I must have set myself up for disappointment. When I got there exactly no one was at the bar and two tables were occupied in the “dining room,” but that didn’t stop the bartender from pushing around a couple of foreigners who did not understand why they had to wait for a complete party to be seated and who were told to “take any stool on the wall” when one went to the bar to sit down while the other was on the phone; the surliness even after one ordered a bottle of “Champagne” almost made me embarrassed to be a New Yorker. It’s the first time I ever thought about how one letter separates “rule” from “rude.” (Or maybe I’ve just been kicked around too much in countries where I don’t speak the language.) As for the food, I got my usual fish sandwich, and the bread was so huge I ate quite a while on one half before finding the cod in all the sauce and lettuce. I guess it was what it always is, but for the first time it struck me as almost gross. Fries and muscadet were fine, though. And the bartender/enforcer was certainly efficient with my order. WIGB? Yep. Any place can have an off day, with or without extenuating circumstances. 18 Cornelia Street.

The cheap and cheerful: Cafetasia, where we ducked in after freezing our bones and metal off on Union Square and where my crab Rangoon and Thai-eggplant-loaded green curry together cost about the same as the pound and a half of organic stew meat we had to buy at Whole Foods because the Greenmarket only had goat and pork. For the same $7.50, Bob had gyoza (lame) and udon (respectable). The place was packed, but the staff was outstanding (we got a table immediately in a room designed for communal eating). I just wish I had been two tables away with the male couple who were on their second bottle of wine at 12:30 on Saturday. WIGB? Probably. The green curry sauce was much gutsier than Spice’s, and the price was tres right. 38 East Eighth Street, 212 529 2363.

The painful: Ninth Street Espresso in the Chelsea Market, where I met a friend for our once-a-year coffee and where I can’t remember when I have felt more bilked (and she bought the $3.50 cherry scone at Amy’s afterward). The Camorra have killed for a less muddy cappuccino. For $4 at that.

The great yet again: The New French in the West Village, where we made our first pilgrimage in exactly two months to meet a friend and where the perfection was the same as it always is. I had had the cheeseburger on my mind since eating it on doctor’s advice last time, and it lived up to my memory: great meat cooked right, topped with sauteed onions and pickles with a chile sauce on the side; the good fries as usual came in a too-big-to-finish heap. Consort and friend had steak salads, also superb (anchovy vinaigrette is the way to dress), and she raved about her latte. A tiny table with a cushion for a window seat turned out to be ideal because we could all hear each other no matter how the throngs flowed in around us. Service and wine were also faultless. No wonder the food mafia is finding its way there, with two boldface names in one week. 522 Hudson Street at 10th Street, 212 807 7357.

The well worth the journey: Franny’s in the alien borough of Brooklyn, where friends who live nearby lured us with the promise of fabulous pizza and where the payoff included three of those plus amazing octopus and interesting wine (bianco di Custoza for $34 a bottle). Not to mention relatively few of the human larvae I was dreading. We shared the olive oil-sea salt pizza, one with tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella and one with clams and parsley, all little masterpieces on charred bread from the wood oven. Marinated olives as a starter were fine, but the octopus, which normally is blackened rubber, was totally tender, surrounded by a few chickpeas in great olive oil. WIGB? Absolutely, with a meat lover to try the house salumi, but the whole experience actually made me want to go exploring more. 295 Flatbush Avenue, 718 230 0221.

The right place on the right night: Kefi on Columbus, where we headed on New Year’s Eve because it met key criteria for us traditionalists — regular (read: non-gouge) menu, and location before Champagne at our friend’s in the Beresford and the fireworks at midnight in the park. For those whose first question is: Was Donatella there? The answer is yes; she showed us to a table on the lower level and apparently alerted Michael to our presence, because killer sardines and amazing Greek sausages arrived between the array of always-brilliant spreads we’d ordered as a starter and Bob’s fat slab of swordfish and my appetizer-as-main-course fried cod with garlicky potatoes. We should have split a bottle of wine because we ordered by the glass as a pacing mechanism and of course kept ordering, but it was worth it. The place was packed and beyond festive, especially after Donatella went through the room passing out hats and noisemakers. Which was reassuring when we remembered how many wonderful Dec. 31 meals we’ve had over the years in just-opened empty restaurants that are now long gone (can you say Toqué!?) WIGB? Early and often. 505 Columbus near 84th Street, 212 873 0200.

The good: Bocca Lupo in Brooklyn, where friends who live nearby lured us for a good catch-up meal and where my only complaint would be the noise level, although we certainly contributed to it after way too much of the reasonably priced wine. Walking there I realized yet again how much has been sacrificed to real estate greed on the big island; my neighborhood is totally overrun with Fuckin Donuts while Smith Street has small shops and character (at least from what I could see walking fast in the dark). Dr. and Lady Bugs know their food, I know, and so we let them do the ordering of a bunch of small plates to share. Veal and porcini meatballs were excellent swimming in sauce on a slab of sturdy bread, and braised endive was as good as it gets. Farro with mushrooms was also superb. We split bruschetti with eggplant and with butternut squash and an order of broccoli rabe, too. I’m not much on lamb or shrimp, but everyone else seemed happy with those dishes and with the Nutella and banana panino. WIGB? Absolutely, but we’re ready to go exploring other places around there first. 391 Henry Street, 718 243 2522.

The good: El Paso Taqueria and Toloache, each in its own way. The former was our refuge after we realized Square Meal would be filled with fixed and scary rich bitches at lunchtime when we were looking for sustenance after the underwhelming Cai Guo-Qiang at the Guggenheim; the latter was our happy destination after the not-great opening at ICP (pretty bad when the best image is the actuality of Diane Keaton being photographed by cellphone). As always, El Paso came through with excellent enchiladas (red sauce, green sauce) if not solicitous service, while Toloache delivered superb pork tacos and huitlacoche quesadilla and a special crab salad well worth the $15, with splendiferous service. 64 East 97th Street, 212 996 17390; 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818.

The not bad: A Cafe, where I met my consort after work on his co-worker’s recommendation and where it was hard to complain about anything when the service — one waiter totally on top of everything — was so amazing and the tab for three courses was $38 before tax and tip. BYO is a huge savings, but said waiter took the time to engage as he uncorked our bottle and stopped back repeatedly to be sure we were happy; when we asked for the leftovers (in foil swans) he even came back to be sure we didn’t want a sauce that would not survive the trip home. Bob and I split a grilled avocado, of which the less said the better (nirvana to me is half a Hass slathered with Hellmann’s), and then I just had the vegetable terrine, which was refrigerator-fatigued. The merguez with couscous, though, was outstanding, and lamb is far from my favorite meat. (The only good thing about it? It’s not deer.) WIGB? Maybe. I hear the neighborhood is better than it looks. 973 Columbus Avenue near 108th Street, 212 222 2033.

The adequate: Heights Cafe in Brooklyn, where I stopped for sustenance after interviewing a neighborhood resident who said the food most places was the shitz. He recommended Teresa’s two doors down, but on my most optimistic days I never have high hopes for Polish (don’t tell my in-law equivalents). This place looked great, and it was staffed like the first-class cabin of British Air. But I should have known a $10.95 crab cake sandwich would be mostly bread, between the filler and the bun. Still, the fries were pretty good, and the pickle was exceptional. And the room looked great. WIGB? Not in that big booming borough. 84 Montague Street, 718 625 5555.

The high: Suenos in Chelsea, where I led three friends after “Iron Man” at that nasty theater on 23d Street and where we all were almost blown back to the street by the pungency of geriatric fish as we stepped inside. Only the facts that it was late and nothing close by seemed reasonable kept us from fleeing, but Pam did actually get up and leave our booth to walk outside and see how funky it seemed on her re-entry. The place passed, so we split a bottle of too-fruity Torrontes and a bunch of appetizers and the staff was nice enough not to roust us even as it got later and later. Unfortunately, I think the best flavor experience was the black bean spread with cornbread that arrived gratis. Well, maybe the cute little beef taquitos and a “shrimp stack” of which I tasted only the garnishes. Plantain empanadas with goat cheese were molasses sweet, while the quesadilla with chayote etc. was misguided at best. Nobody finished the chilaquiles. And why do I suspect the webmaster is also the fish steward? WIGB? Not likely.

The medium-low: Anthos, where I steered the boss lady from the other coast for dinner and where the room, service and overall experience could not have been more ideal but where the cooking just refused to do what I promised. The menu read great; it was nearly impossible to decide which combination of mind-bending combinations to go for. The assorted pre-tastes were also enticing — of the four I only tried the cod tatziki and fried halloumi but was totally jazzed. The rolls were spectacular, to the point that I even felt compelled to taste the goat butter offered alongside a quenelle of regular butter (still can’t get into the dairy I was weaned on). I was even able to ingest the mini of lamb carpaccio. But my grilled quail appetizer was just okay, dry and not especially flavorful, redeemed only by the braised endive and fried halloumi underneath; turbot over fried oysters with cardoon etc. was just a Mormon marriage with none of the partners talking. Mme X’s sheep’s milk dumplings were the best thing we tasted: pungent but airy and paired with favas, peas and other complementary greenery. Unfortunately, the “milk fed” chicken with figs, walnuts and Metaxa sauce continued her Benoit losing streak. I came away thinking something I never have at Kefi: The best floor staff on the planet cannot compensate for an absent genius chef. WIGB? Unfortunately, my Lotto ship will not be coming in to make it possible. Entrees go for what a bottle of wine used to cost. Then again, that assyrtiko at $14 a glass was pretty easy on the “pallet.” 32 West 52d Street, 212 582 6900.