gastropoda/trails

The sensational: Hunan House in Flushing, where my consort and I trekked on a cold Saturday as a diversion from our usual Greenmarket/cheap Thai routine and where the whole experience was easily the most satisfying ever in a Chinese restaurant in New York. I did my homework online, looking for a sit-down lunch rather than food court craziness (see below), and once I hit “smoked duck” in the Robert Sietsema review my Metro card was out. The place looks pretty bare-bones but was super-clean, with tables well spaced, and the host and waiters were excellent, with none of the usual impatience and/or condescension, even when it was clear we were ordering the Village Voice specials, right out of the review. (I normally hate people who do that, but as China traveler Bob said, “Why take a chance, since we don’t know the food?”) So we started with the cold tofu, silky and jiggling-fresh with just the lightest drizzle of sesame oil and sprinkling of chopped scallions. And then the braised pork belly, Mao-style, super-tender chunks in a surprisingly sophisticated sauce with greens and julienned scallions. Water spinach, it turns out, is not in season, so we subbed the spicy cabbage with fermented soybeans, also in a good light, greaseless sauce and just hot enough with red chilies. And then the reason for coming arrived, as sensational as billed, tasting close to the smoked duck a friend once brought back from Goode’s in Houston. The smokiness almost vibrated through the anything-but-geriatric meat. It was way too much food for $44 before the tip, so we had a superb dinner and then lunch the next day, as did The Cat. One other nice touch: a little bowl of soybeans with a hint of star anise arrives with the pot of tea, to nibble on while you study the huge menu. I thought we were stuffed, but somehow we managed to eat two warm, as-good-as-Hong Kong egg custard tarts at the nearby Taipei Bakery after a stock-up swing through the supermarket in between. WIGB? Absolutely. But first there are so many other places to try in that neighborhood. 137-40 Northern Boulevard, Flushing, Queens. 718 353 1808.

The half-good: Joe Allen in the Theater District, where I met a friend who needed solace by mouth after her father died and where the cheeseburger definitely delivered. It wasn’t the best I’ve ever had, but it was cooked perfectly (against my medium wishes) and was teamed with the right amount of respectable fries. Plus it was only $14.50, less than Cafe Loup’s, which she’d suggested but I couldn’t face. A bottle of Cline viognier was $27, a much better deal than the $12.50 “quartino” of sauvignon blanc at the bar, and of course the room is quintessential New York. So what was the half-bad? I know it was after the theater rush, but the bartender and two waitresses who tended to us exhibited the worst “I’ve had it” I’ve encountered in a while. When we asked Server A about the viognier, worried it might be too fruity, she sent over a not-happy Server B who described it well if impatiently, then returned, uncorked it, offered a taste and plunked the bottle down, saying, “We’re very casual. You can pour.” We saw her again only to pay the check. With exactly double the tax as tip. WIGB? Sure, for the half-good reasons, plus it’s so easy to get to on an icy night. 326 West 46th Street, 212 581 6464.

The one-step-up-from JFK: Two of the restaurants at Eataly, where I indulged a friend who wanted to go back after a good lunch in the pizza/pasta corral. We got there early and wandered around awhile feeling overwhelmed, and by the time we decided to sit at the seafood bar for uni my head was throbbing from the jangle in the joint. I was happy to see Arneis by the glass for only $9 but not so happy on seeing what arrived after the waiter ran off to get the last order of uni: one good plump taupe specimen and three reddish shriveled ones, literally the bottom of the barrel, for $17 (Donna at least let the waiter know we were underwhelmed, but it did feel weird to be women complaining about shrunken gonads). The bread and olive oil were both worth the calories, though. By the time we went back to the pizza/pasta corral, we had to wait, which gave us time to discuss how cheesy a wall of crap Barilla looks, so by the time we got seats at that bar we felt as if we were eating in a duty-free shop. We ordered the cheapest white by the glass, and the waitress suggested a bottle, but I saw the Arneis was the same price: $28. Unfortunately, it was pretty warm once it arrived. Lasagne came almost immediately, maybe too fast — a few more minutes in the oven and it might have hung together more, although it tasted great (it reminded me of a New York-style enchilada, rolled and served without the extra time to bake it into more than tortilla and cheese). And I would have been more impressed with the pizza with salami and basil if I had not recently had the perfection that Pizza a Casa teaches down on the Lower East Side. But I guess it qualified as “just like in Italia/Italy,” as the menu promised, because the center was soggy. WIGB? I will for my consort’s sake, because he’s curious about the experience. I can do without stress for dinner.

The open, at least: Landmarc in the dread TWC, where I hooked up with a friend in from Florence after we found Bouchon Bakery closed at breakfast time. He was paying, so a $12 eggamuffin didn’t seem like a bad deal, and aside from the fact that it had zero taste it was fine (lardons as the bacon at least added texture, and it came with decent hash browns). The cappuccino, though, was as scorched as any I’ve had in this town. On the plus side, they gave us a booth for four by the window, and the service was decent. WIGB? Sure, if someone else is paying when Bouchon Bakery is closed. 212 823 6123.

The half-good: Papatzul in SoHo, where my consort and I settled when I wanted Mexican after the too-small Saturday Greenmarket in Tribeca we detoured to rather than face the prides of designer dogs and bewildered tourists in Union Square. Our timing was perfect; Bob paid the check just before a baby shower hit high hysteria (margaritas and cute-gift overload  are a dangerous combination). My $8 torta with chorizo and “Manchego” (really Oaxacan cheese) on a great roll had cascading flavors, with avocado, black beans and red onion. The $10.95 chilaquiles, unfortunately, played exactly one note. The tortilla chips were soggy, the sauce bland, the chicken for $2 extra insipid. But we couldn’t fault the service, and the room looks great at midday. WIGB? Sure — the brunch menu had too many enticing choices — but probably not at night. I imagine the crowd would put the din in dinner. 55 Grand Street near West Broadway, 212 274 8225.

The right place on the right night: Fairway’s cafe, yet again, where I headed with a friend who lives nearby for a cheeseburger and cheap wine after I came by to meet her new kitten, and where the only letdown was not getting table near the window. The fries were erratic (some wide, some thin), but the burger itself was fine, and the coleslaw with it tasted particularly lively. As always, $5 sauvignon blanc buys a lot of goodwill. I left not minding that Ruth Reichl, whom we’d spotted getting into a cab on WEA, undoubtedly went somewhere hipper, or that my consort had had happy meals last week at Cookshop and Recipe while I was left behind (V&T pizza, though, was apparently not so wonderful).

The obviously irresistible: Fairway’s upstairs cafe, where we wound up not just yet again but twice in three days, drawn by the ungreedily priced wine and the dependable food. I, of course, had the Caesar salad both times, and it was excellent both times. On encounter No. 1, the waiter suggested my consort and I order my salad and his chicken as the prix fixe, but we didn’t want the dessert and missed out on a helluva deal. One we availed ourselves of next time: I got the salad; he had the outstanding hanger steak, and three of us spooned up the banana thingola, for $26 total. WIGB? Absolutely. Not only is the food good and the wine cheap, but you can hear yourselves talk.

The almost great: The New French in the West Village, where we had not been in months and where we forced our friends in from Chicago to rush to avoid a long wait on Friday night. The bad news is that we arrived first and stewed in high anxiety about holding up a table as they were in E train hell. The good news is that they got there just as our special pizza bianca, with kale, Fontina, apples and Parmesan, was landing. I didn’t taste my consort’s roasted scallops or Paul’s grilled salmon salad (the table was too tight for passing plates), but they looked happy. Leasha said she had achieved the impossible for a change in getting her cheeseburger cooked all the way through, and my medium-rare one was sheer perfection, aside from the fries — the color of John Boehner and way too crunchy (I like a little potato with my carbon, ordinarily). We also shared a special salad of broccoli rabe with boccocini that was stellar, so much so that I regretted not accepting the kitchen’s challenge with my main course. WIGB? Absolutely. Even when the place is slammed, the service is good and the cooking superb. And the enterprising wines start at $9 a glass. 522 Hudson Street near Tenth, 212 807 7357.

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 always great: The New French, yet again, where five of us managed to convene without remembering it was Gay Pride Day after two had just been to “Food, Inc.” and still wanted the amazing cheeseburger (as did a third). I had the house-made sausage for the first time, which was unsurprisingly outstanding although the greens with it were overly sweet and underwhelming. And the fifth among us was very happy with the salmon salad. We also shared a suspiciously generous pizza bianca topped with runner beans and ricotta (as I recall). Plus rosé. Part of the reason we go back over and over is that this is such a deceptively serious restaurant. When I asked about the curry, which I’ve never had, the waiter took his time describing it, then when I wondered about the sausage, he squatted down to ear level to really describe it well. And everything is done with such care, right down to the sliced caperberries that one friend was so captivated by in the huge salad. 522 Hudson Street near West 10th, 212 807 7357.

The not bad: Num Pang Sandwich Shop, where I dragged my consort after he expressed a craving for a bahn mi and I didn’t remember he’d had the real deal in Saigon (not to mention in New Orleans East). The Cambodian version is rather ordinary by comparison. But it was a cheap lunch on a gorgeous day in Union Square: I had the roasted cauliflower with eggplant and he the pork belly with pickled rhubarb, both on good bread and dripping with chile mayonnaise. We didn’t really need the corn slathered with that same mayonnaise and dusted with coconut, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t finish it. WIGB? Maybe. The people were nice, and the service was fast. But we’ll try Republic’s first. 21 East 12th Street, 212 255 3271.

The entertaining: The Big Gay Ice Cream Truck, where we had to stop for a chocolate-dipped cone after our al fresco dejeuner. The balance of ice cream to chocolate was perfect because the latter component does not harden and shatter. It was mostly worth the $3, though, for the show and routine. First he was so busy chatting that the ice cream plunged off the cone into the hot chocolate, then he told us he also plays the reeds so ice cream cannot take all his time. Thanks to the weird weather, this is the best summer ever in the city of be-all-you-can-be, and an enterprise like this just makes it more so.

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 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 always great: Both Kefi and the New French, where I should be weary of the menus but where we find ourselves heading over and over. We met friends for a late Sunday supper at the former and wound up closing the joint, which gets extra points for easing us out far more gracefully than Le Cirque did. It was so late we all only split the superb spreads, an order of the sheep’s milk ravioli and another of the crispy calamari plus the house-made sausages the kitchen sent out. Chad and Pam each had the special white bean soup, which looked great. We were also comped our bottle of red wine, but even without it I would say the experience was close to perfection. Ditto for the New French, where we had to wait about 15 minutes for a table for latish Saturday brunch. The place is like a humming machine: the service was fast and friendly and efficient; the cooking was outstanding. Bob was as happy as ever with that masterpiece of a Nicoise-esque salad, which has to take mega-prep but is always done with care. And the cheeseburger was even better than I remembered. Bob insisted I take the half I didn’t finish home, and I would be embarrassed to admit I reheated it next day except that it was still great warmed over. 505 Columbus Avenue near 84th Street, 212 873 0200; 522 Hudson Street at 10th Street, 212 807 7357.

The pretty good: Savoy in SoHo, where I met a new friend for lunch after she suggested heading there to split one of the special cassoulets and where the waiter was only half-able to mask his disdain at our perceived chintziness. She had been once before to try the Toulouse version, so I trusted her when she said the Carcassonne would be enough for two; I certainly didn’t want to be still digesting at Christmastime as is usually the case with what my consort calls French pork and beans. And of course we didn’t even finish it, although the $25 portion in a cast-iron pot was not excessive, just lots of gigande beans with smoked pheasant, duck confit and outstanding house-made sausage. It came with a little mound of mixed green salad, but we’d also ordered one with goat cheese, so we got our cud’s worth. Bread and butter were excellent, and my gruner was a generous glass for $9 (she had Basque cider, poured right). Almost the best part was the table, perfect for people-watching in style central. WIGB? Yep. Peter Hoffman walks the walk. 70 Prince Street at Crosby, 212 219 8570.

The not bad: Adrienne’s Pizzabar, where we resorted after poor Bob was pressed into being a messenger boy at the end of a grueling week, with a stopover near Wall Street between a party in Dumbo and home. The place was rocking, loudly, but we got a table right away, had water and bread before we’d even gotten our coats off and had wine poured not long after that (undistinguished red from Campania for $34). My insistence on olives and mushrooms pushed the $16.50 “old-fashioned” rectangular pizza to $22.50, but it was beyond satisfying, with a crisp crust and a thick layer of fresh mozzarella along with the copious extras. We managed 2 1/2 slices apiece, had the rest boxed up and were set for breakfast for the next three mornings. WIGB? It’s a great port in a downtown storm, although one day I’ll get my nerve up to try another of Harry’s son’s enterprises. 54 Stone Street, 212 248 3838.

The snotty: La Pizza Fresca in the Flatiron, where we stopped in late with a friend after Bob’s star turn before a picture editors’ group around the corner and where the officious waitress who may have been the hostess or an owner was almost vibrating with scorn when we tried to order one pizza. (At that time of night I only need to see food, not really eat it.) She talked us into another plus a second salad and was never seen again, nor was the server once he poured the first round from our bottle of red. Salads were excellent, one just classic arugula with shaved Parmigiano, the other beets with Gorgonzola. But the pizza was as authentic as signs promised; like so many we have eaten all over Italy, both were more cheese soup on soggy bread than crisp crust with topping (funghi for one, buffalo mozzarella, olives, Parmigiano and basil for the other). I took some shit over at the Epi Log for getting “buffaloed,” but maybe you had to be there. WIGB? I’d have to be a glutton for condescension.

The good: Kefi, where my consort and I met great friends for an early birthday dinner and where their shock at the inflated wine prices in the new location was offset by the superb service and unexpected freebies. We got a relatively sheltered table in the cacophony (only in Strollerland would an 8 o’clock reservation be on the late side), and the waiter was outstanding. He sold us on a $48 bottle of “Red Velvet” to start, and poured it as judiciously as a waiter would in Paris. Our orders of the assorted spreads, grilled sardines, Greek salad, sheep’s milk dumplings and Greek sausage with pita were supplemented by the kitchen’s beneficence of grilled octopus and meatballs. We even got a comped dessert topped with a candle, a wedge of semolina cheesecake in filo sauced with quince and candied orange peel. WIGB? Late and often. 505 Columbus between 84th and 85th Streets, 212 873 0200.

The sad: Harry’s Cafe, where we stupidly agreed on Inaugural night to meet a friend who lives nearby, on the assumption that “Jump, You Fuckers” would be watching the teevee. Instead, the joint was sleepy, maybe six tables filling all long night long, and the only screen was in the busy bar. But our food was pretty good, both Bob’s frisee salad with egg and bacon totally reinvented and my copious portion of duck confit on white beans with portobellos and haricots verts. We didn’t try Kevin’s cod special but were happy enough with his choice of wine, a $40 red Bordeaux that was substantially better than the red Bob chose in the low $30s. So much for the cheapest wine on a great list; this one obviously caters to people who order by price. At the high end. The waiter, though, was spectacular. WIGB? Maybe. Not much happening down there these days. You don’t even have to watch for falling bodies. One Hanover Square, 212 785 9200.

The pretty good: Bar Boulud, where we toasted my actual birthday and where we were both thrilled not to be squandering the usual 300 bucks in some swank clip joint. Thank allah we got a table in the front, near the window, because even though I reserved (in a friend’s name) the “hostesses” wanted to shunt us to the jammed bar in a room that looks like a French train station. The paté “Grand-Pere” with foie gras and assorted meats was sublime, although the toasts that came with it were charred and poor Bob had to intercept the stressed waiter at a nearby table to get a second round of them. It was so great, in fact, that neither of us could finish even half of our main courses, not my rather desiccated monkish with blowaway “super green” spinach or Bob’s hyper-rich coq au vin with fat lardons and hand-rolled pasta. Our arbois was excellent with both of those, although I’m not sure I needed the sommelier to slap me down when I ordered our starter glasses as “Champagne” –  I know Cremant is just a sparkler and would have said it with a lower-case C if I had known he was in a superior mood. I also can’t remember the last time I saw busboys and runners who looked more defeated. WIGB? Absolutely, next time we’re leaving a movie and looking for a snack and a great glass of wine rather than a meal. The crowd is a trip; the tab was half the price of a visit to the vet with a geriatric Siamese. 1900 Broadway between 63d and 64th Streets, 212 595 0303.

The always good: The New French, where a friend and I adrift at an odd hour after the Bronx Museum wound up after having farts blown in our general direction at Company and after bailing on realizing we had landed in a “Sex and the City” bus tour at Spice Market. (I refuse to eat anywhere people are wearing sunglasses indoors. In winter.) The place was empty at around 5, so we got a nice corner table and soon had $8 and $7 glasses of Italian white, followed by two of what really are the best cheeseburgers in the city.  Neither of us could come close to finishing the heap o’ fries that comes with. WIGB? Absolutely, even though I inadvertently hurt the owner’s feelings by declining comped wine. The cooking and service are holding up incredibly well. 522 Hudson Street at 10th Street, 212 807 7357.

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.