gastropoda/trails

The totally good: Perla in the West Village, in the space that was our great friend Rolando’s magical Bellavitae, where we headed after I met my consort post-”Jiro” at IFC and where the wait was worth it, not least because it’s such a great corner on which to cool heels, with Amy’s Bread and Murray’s Cheese just across Sixth Avenue. We came back with heels cooled and bags full to be seated at a lovely booth with the most attentive service. And awesome food. Even Mr. Sprat agreed our shared foie gras tramezzini with pistachios and cherry were exquisite. And we both scored with garganelli with tripe and guanciale and with cavatelli with pancetta, egg and pecorino; both the portion size and the balance of flavors were faithfully Italian. But what made this a resounding yes to WIGB? was the service. Superb. 24 Minetta Lane, 212 933 1824.

The pretty good: ABV Wine Bar on the Upper East Side, where I lured Bob on a night when we both needed a diversion and when the prospect of a walk in the park followed by interesting food paid off big time. The place, in a long-abandoned brownstone, is a bigger spinoff of a tiny bar that opened not so long ago on Park Avenue, and the whole experience was like eating in Brooklyn. We snared seats at the bar and soon had interesting wines and an explanation of the name: (A(cohol) B(y) V(olume). We split a basket of decent fried smelt with how-can-you-go-wrong sriracha-tobiko sauce to start, then quite good gnocchi with root vegetables and mushrooms and then two scallops buried in cauliflower cream with cremini. A salad of bitter greens with banana-walnut butter, oats and shallot vinaigrette coulda been dessert. WIGB? Absolutely, but only on the early side. I suspect it might get loud later. 1504 Lexington Avenue at 97th Street, 212 722 8959.

The good again: The second-floor cafe at MOMA, where we settled in after the kick-in-the-head Cindy Sherman show with a friend in from DC and where the food/service/setting again matched the museum quality. Kainaz and I were hungry earlier than the breakfaster who’d had oatmeat with egg, tofu and sriracha, but Bob indulged us, so we were able to beat the line and get a nice spot at the window counter. We split the excellent bruschetti (cauliflower, mozzarella with olives, hummus with prosciutto and arugula), then rigatoni with pork and fennel in a tomato cream sauce (needed salt), salad with bresaola, candied pecans, dried cranberries and blue cheese, and the always-good mushroom tart. It did add up ($77 with 10 percent tip), but the guy who paid agreed: It was worth it.

The great with an asterisk: Excellent Thai in Flushing, where a friend in an eating group lured us for a Sunday lunch meet-up and where I got a refresher course in the payoff in letting go. With 12 at our big table, I just sat back and let the leader lead; he was the one who lived in Taiwan and who had sussed out the owner’s Burmese roots and homed in on the unusual offerings on a menu encompassing Thai, Malaysian, Burmese and Yunnan. So it was one dazzlement after another: Yellow tofu salad (made from peas, not soybeans, and much richer-tasting) with a spicy sauce. Tea leaves salad, like nothing I have ever tasted, with both crunch and heat. Shredded pork with bamboo shoots, which the outstanding waitress said we could not like (the shoots were kinda funky, but in a great way). Sautéed sweet potato leaf, which could have been anything but was perfectly done anything. Green beans, crunchy okra and baby eggplant Belaran, in a rich curry sauce. Beef with ginger and scallion, though, was perfectly cooked and greaseless but tasted like something you could get anywhere. The fins-down winner, though, was the whole fish steamed in chile-lemon sauce. It had flavor down to its essence — Le Bernardin would have a hard time improving on it. All that came to about $28 a head with tax and tip. WIGB? No, for only two reasons — without a guide through the menu, lunch might be pretty ordinary, and then there is the little issue of Hunan House being just a couple of blocks away. (Compromise: Eat elsewhere and pick up a smoked duck to take home.) 3650 Main Street, 718 886 8972.

The half-goods: The Tangled Vine and Ditch Plains on the Upper West Side on a Friday early evening, where and when we shared wine with a friend who knows her way around a happy hour but had never been to the kiddle kraziness uptown. She was worried we would be turned off by the B rating at the first stop, but I have to say that was the least of my worries heading in and heading out — when I would have awarded an F to the “servers.” Gruner for $6 a generous pour, a table overlooking the sidewalk and pretty great chickpea fritters otherwise added up to a WIGB: Yep, but only at happy hour. As for the second stop, a place I’d sworn off since an abysmal experience at Landmarc in the dread TWC, I’ll say I don’t regret the revisit. The place was overrun with human larvae, but we were sort of shielded in a booth, and the food was distracting (bland deviled eggs jazzed up with sauces from Buffalo chicken wings). WIGB? Oh, why not?

The dispiriting: The newish Jackson Diner on University Place, where Bob and I headed for lunch after the accountant near the Wednesday Greenmarket and where I knew on walking in the door how I would feel on exiting. But I also knew he needed to eat, and fast, so I shut up and loaded my plate with poorly fried pakora and bland “curries” and then sat and waited for (pretty good) naan to eat it all with. Tandoori vegetables tasted better than I expected, if sweet and gloppy, but the whole experience was just unsatisfying. I have never once gone back for seconds at the buffet at Chola, where the room is not papered with “don’t waste food” and other warnings. But here I debased myself, desperately seeking satisfaction. Then both of us hit the intestinal inflation wall at the exact same minute. Even though the people were so nice, and the room so pleasant (we two got a booth for four), WIGB? How do you say “emphatically no” in Hindi?

The seriously good again: Momofuku Ssam in the East Village, where my consort and I met another food-obsessed couple via the Twitter for a Sunday lunch that was even more invigorating than my two previous weekday indulgences. We were there before the door opened at 11:30 so of course got a nice table (and, I learned later, a waiter who Tweets, too). The four of us shared everything, which meant I tasted excellent sweetbreads I normally would spurn (prep them once or twice and you will, too) and the spicy sausage and rice-cake dish, as well as lively pickled vegetables and a pear sorbet brilliantly accessorized with pumpkin, cornflakes and blue cheese. All the duck — rotisserie, dumplings, pulled sandwich — was of course perfect. The only letdown was apple kimchi with bacon and maple labne, which amounted to ingredients talking past each other. WIGB? Can’t wait. 207 Second Avenue at 13th Street, 212 212 254 3500. (BTW: We all went down the avenue afterward to Vandaag for the exceptional coffee in that rigorously designed room; the cappuccino was one of the best I’ve ever had on this continent.)

The transporting: Il Buco Alimentari in Nebulousnabe, where we fortified ourselves with  Saturday lunch before a time trip through the amazing Merchant’s House Museum nearby and where the history was nearly as palpable (wood from the way-back machine). Seeing a whole porchetta on the rotisserie in the theatrical open kitchen made the panino irresistible, and it was a juicy/crunchy/tender marvel on just the right bun; pickled vegetables on the side only made it seem more of a deal at $16 (Porchetta’s is of course sublime and much cheaper but without the creature comforts). We shared the $14 insalata di cicoria despite my resistance to Scalia anchovies for their name alone, and it turned out to be one of the rare enjoyable bitter salads, with almost sweet Treviso radicchio tossed in and crunchy fine bread crumbs over the top. And $14 grilled sausage over Umbrian lentils had real nuance; fried sage leaves and sweet onions were grace notes. As the server warned, the coffee needs work; even with way more than a cloud on the macchiato it was bitter. (We stopped by Colombe later just to compare and now suspect, though, that taste is not what’s cutting into business; it’s probably more the scene.) The market in the front is quite nice, too, although we managed to get out without buying anything. WIGB? Absolutely, at least for serene lunch. I’d guess it might get loud at dinner, with all those hard surfaces. 53 Great Jones Street, 212 212 837 2622.

The satisfying, again: La Mangeoire in Midtown East, where we landed after being warned of a 45-minute wait at the Smith after an opening of New York in Color with a friend’s work at the Howard Greenberg Gallery on 57th Street. The $38 white from the Languedoc matched well with both Bob’s intense coq au vin with mushroom-bacon sauce and my pork roast (first time I’ve ever ordered that, and my reward was super-tender thanks to the server actually asking what temperature I wanted). And the anchoiade, olives and oil with the bread basket were just gravy. I’ll admit it was a little sad to see Christian Delouvrier and think back on Ruth’s bedazzled  review in his $30 soup days, but his cooking has lost only the flash and price tag, not the style and substance. WIGB? We may never make it to the Smith. Add in no din and the option of downsized main courses and it’s definitely worth the journey. 1008 Second Avenue near 53d Street, 212 759 7086.

The over-the-top: RedFarm in the West Village, where we left my name and of course got a perfect little table and no end of comped food from gregarious Eddie Schoenfeld; we only had to wait as long as it took to pick out three new salts at the Meadow down the street. Thank allah we kept a receipt, because it really was more dishes than any cranial sieve could retain (he at least did the smart thing and said: “Take a taste and take it home”). We chose good shu mai shooters (two for $7.50), huge and slightly overwrought crab and duck dumplings (four for $12), exquisite vegetable and chive steamed dumplings (four for $8), noodles with both Dungeness and rock crab ($27) and sublime okra and eggplant yellow curry ($17 and enough to keep me from succumbing to mediocre Thai again for a long, long time — this had at least six kinds of vegetables in addition to the excellent stars, and the sauce was all nuanced flavor). Forced upon us were killer soup dumplings with truffles; strange but irresistible eggplant “bruschetta” topped with smoked salmon and caviar; mushroom spring rolls; amazing barbecued Berkshire pork belly; the $39 like-buttah Creekstone prime rib steak with the best baby bok choy I’ve ever stuck an implement into, and two desserts: chocolate pudding and a “fruit plate.” The kittybag was damned heavy on the way back to the C train, and we ate from it for three days. We also shared a $32 bottle and two $16 glasses of an ideal wine for Joe Ng’s style of cooking, S.A. Prum “Blue” Mosel riesling (Joshua Wesson did the list). WIGB? Can’t wait, although I may sneak in with a bag over my head. But that might mean missing out on Eddie’s entertaining tales. 529 Hudson Street, 212 792 9700.

The “good luck to them”: Left Bank in the far West Village, where we met one of our favorite people, in from Veneto, for a great long, long Sunday dinner. We reserved at 6:30 to try out the “happy hour,” which sounded so much more respectable than “early bird,” but were only able to take advantage of the half-price, half-assed Aperol spritz ($6) because Diego didn’t get there by 7 for the three courses for $20. Dinner was still a steal: I had outstanding potato gnocchi with pumpkin, black pepper and pecorino, almost like spaetzle, for $17; the guys both had the superb juicy-crisp roast half-chicken with capers, cornichons and dill for $21. (Usual sneakiness: Sides are sold separately.) We also shared a pretty great rendition of brandade with warm toast and olives for $10 and a lively bottle of grillo from Diego’s second home of Sicily for $36. Service and the room were both fine, too. (Even though we got the worst table in the house, right under the speaker with nothing but #RIPWhitney — by the end of the night I was starting to realize why she needed drugs.) WIGB? No question, if it lasts. I know we’ve eaten there before . . . 117 Perry Street at Greenwich, 212 727 1170.

The dispiriting despite the design: Cafe Centro in Hell’s Kitchen, where we ducked in just for cheap sustenance at a sunlit table on our way to the must-see Loving and Weegee shows at ICP. Warm, salty chips and decent salsa were too easy to fill up on, which was lucky because the rice and beans with my lukewarm cheese enchiladas merited no more than one bite each. Bob ordered tacos with carnitas cooked in Coke and we were both glad he had resisted the mahi ones; these were overfilled and hyper-sweet, but things coulda been worse. WIGB? Why do restaurants get better on Ninth as you head south?

The good: Frankie’s 17 on the Lower East Side, where we headed after the Eater/Food 52 Bib party and its clever tidbits and cocktails. The waiter was capable if disengaged, but the food more than compensated, especially the house-made cavatelli with Faicco’s hot sausage and sage butter. WIGB? If I were in the neighborhood; otherwise, it’s on to 570 with great anticipation. 17 Clinton Street, 212 253 2303.

The better: Coppelia on the West Village/Chelsea border, where we stopped for Saturday lunch after the Greenmarket and left impressed with everything. Usually an empty restaurant is a sloppy restaurant, but the staff could not have acted happier to serve us, and both the flounder tacos and the pork-stuffed Cubano were little masterpieces of balanced tastes and textures. The two breads that arrived first were also outstanding. Plus the place looks great, and the music was lively but not loud and not the inevitable Buena Vista Social Club. WIGB? Happily. 207 West 14th Street between Seventh and Eighth, 212 858 5001.

The great: Fedora in the West Village, where we scored a table after seeing “Tabloid” the night before hurricane lockdown and where we would have been happy to count that as our last meal if necessary. Everything sounded tantalizing and turned out to be more creative than it read. We just had three appetizers: Egg in a hole with tripe ragout and cheese was a little exercise in overkill, and the charred squid was dainty but gutsy. Best of all was what was described as cured char with potato pancake, avocado and tobiko, which turned out to be more like a dosa, with a light pancake enfolding the other ingredients. Brilliant. Add in good wine, great service and a tolerable noise level and there’s no question of WIGB. 239 West Fourth Street between West Tenth and Charles, 646 449 9336.

The spectacular: Torrisi Italian Specialties even at lunchtime, where we headed on a Di Palo’s run for the cheapest Illy in town. Bob is down on sandwiches but was pretty happy with the two-fisted Italian combo, stuffed with meats and cheese for all of $8. Broccoli rabe for $3 was even better, almost half the little bowl made of up garlic and hot peppers. But the knockout was the $10 eggplant Parmesan; exquisite is not a word you associate with that concoction, but this was a marvel of very thin, perfectly breaded-and-fried eggplant slices layered with just enough cheese and sauce. It was an architectural marvel as well as a taste sensation, as good as the best in Parma. The server also deserves points for  being so upbeat and accommodating even when the tiny place was packed. WIGB? In an unhyped second. 250 Mulberry Street, 212 965 0955. (Also have to rave about Di Palo’s, which has expanded its display cases and is now even easier to navigate and which is always a trip. The owner waited on us, giving us tastes of two pecorinos and a Parmigiano and taking his time explaining mozzarella and sausage options. Plus he calculated the tab to the penny before ringing it up on the old-fashioned register: $77.66, including six cans of Illy, half at $9.99, the rest at $8.99.)

The also-rans: A) Hecho en Dumbo turned out to be better than it had any right to be at brunch once we settled in at a quiet table and saw the menu was kinda gouge-y unless you want a honking margarita — I took one for the team and it definitely mellowed me out even before my exceptional torta of rajas con queso landed. Bob’s chilaquiles also redeemed the reputation of that dish, which is so often just dishwatery dull.

B) The New French in the West Village, where we wound up with three friends at one’s suggestion after Pearl was overrun early after “The Future” (and let me warn you — you’ll need more friends to understand how much that movie had going on). I had pretty much given up on the place since the chef went westward and the sidewalk stressed everyone else, but we did well, thanks to Bob braving the elements and getting us one o’ those sidewalk tables, risking the rain but saving our eardrums. And the cooking has held up. Cobb salad reinvented had no poultry but blue cheese dressing, all nicely done.

C) Ditch Plains on the Upper West Side, where we had a nice quiet early dinner and two half-bottles of red/white wine at $20 apiece. Excellent deviled eggs were set over chopped lettuce, which kept them stable and added crunch. And the option of bacon in a chopped salad was genius, especially when that means lardons. Bob was not as thrilled with his chicken with rice and beans, though; the side seemed lackluster.

The pretty good: Zero Otto Nove on Arthur Avenue, where we led two friends after a long morning at the New York Botanical Garden and its underwhelming azalea gardens and where the magic was missing but the price was right. We were fried and still had eight stops to make in provisioning, so I’m hoping that’s why the pizzas were not as dazzling as our last. The potatoes on the one with porcini and mozzarella were cold and oily, although the crust was charred/puffy perfect. And the one with broccoli rabe, sausage and mozzarella felt like more of a struggle to eat. The arugula salad lived up to our memory, although the escarole with eggplant and olive reminded us all why we don’t usually order escarole. We left convinced they’d cranked up the AC to drive us out to close for a break before dinner. WIGB? Absolutely. It is the best option for sit-down food in the neighborhood. And the tab with tip was like $50. 2357 Arthur Avenue, the Bronx, 718 220 1027.

The addictive: Luke’s Lobster on the West Side, where we are now one roll away from a freebie after accumulating three loyalty cards at various outlets. For $15, you can’t get a better experience, with a good amount of meat and just the right amount of butter and mayonnaise. As my consort, the Maine Photo Workshop veteran, noted, you would pay $20 for something less satisfying at the source of those lobsters. We split a bag of chips and a lemon-lime soda and were out for $34. WIGB? Definitely once more to collect on that card. 426 Amsterdam Avenue near 80th Street, 212 877 8800.

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

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

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

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

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

The seriously good: Recipe, again, where my consort and I headed shortly after he landed from his latest time-zone abuse, 10 days in North Carolina after at least that long in Istanbul and before that Phnom Penh and Ukraine. Our apartment is not only too hot to cook in, with half the windows plywooded over, but it always helps to reconnect on neutral ground. The great lunch prices also made it worth the short walk: $11.95 for my grilled calamari with two kinds of beans and cascading flavor, and a slab of sliced steak with potatoes, broccoli and green beans plus exceptional chimichurri (not just parsley and garlic but fresh oregano, cilantro, green peppers, celery and jalapeño Tabasco, the chef said when he stepped out of the kitchen and Bob grilled him). Bob scored just as well, with a little Nicoise-esque salad (olives, hard-cooked eggs, green beans, anchovies) followed by the roasted half-chicken with grain salad mixed with carrots and asparagus. WIGB? Anytime. Can’t believe it’s even in our neighborhood and not over in a certain borough. 452 Amsterdam Avenue near 82d Street, 212 501 7755.

The not bad: Mermaid Oyster Bar in the West Village, where three of us headed after the well-made but depressing “Restrepo” at Angelika on Saturday night and where we were lucky enough to snare the last bar table rather than wait two hours. The place was mobbed, but the staff was rolling with it — our glasses were kept filled with a Provencal rosé, and the busboy was quick to remove extra plates from the overcrowded table. Our food came too fast; my fries and the oysters in my otherwise fine $16 po’ boy could have been crisper. But everything tasted great (I didn’t try Pam’s fluke seviche with its “three-crab” sauce or Bob’s two kinds of raw oysters; Roy Blount Jr. and his “like swallowing a large baby” keep me away from those guys). The $20 crab cake was a big, meaty one with good tartar sauce, “whale” fries (potato slices), coleslaw and lettuce. WIGB? Probably, but only with a reservation. And an understanding that the huge markups on the wine underwrite the very affordable food. 79 MacDougal Street just above Houston, 212 260 0100.

The geographically correct: Canteen 82, where a friend in the neighborhood lured me on the one-week anniversary of my return to this tiny town from the mega-city on the Bosphorus. She loves it; other friends who live relatively close by love it. And it’s certainly better than any of the other dreary “Chinese” restaurants that don’t require braving the subway on a 95-degree Saturday. But the soup dumplings were underwhelming, and the Peking duck buns full of too-sweet meat (yes, she was right: ordering them was a mistake, but I was glad we didn’t get a dozen of the dumplings). The scallion pancake was crisp enough, and the green salad was a deal, for $6, with lots of vegetables and a paving of avocado slices over the top. But the service was ridiculously inattentive in a nearly empty room. And that breakfast/brunch menu of Western standards made me wonder if any kitchen could juggle hollandaise and special orders of slivered ginger without losing its way. WIGB? Probably. It is convenient, and Bob needs to taste for himself. But while it seemed like a deal, our lunch at Recipe was 35 times more satisfying for about the same amount of money. 467 Columbus near 82d Street, 212 595 4300.

The oops, I forgot: Stone Rose at JFK, where I ducked in to top off my tank after skipping lunch before getting trapped in the absurdly long security line at Delta (a whole fucking hour). I figured if I ate before boarding, I could sleep straight through to Istanbul, and that was exactly how it almost worked out, except the cheesy “steak flatbread” with pico de gallo seemed to expand in my stomach like a Houlihan’s special. Also, too, the portion was T.G.I.Friday’s outsized, and I ingested only a little and still suffered. I figured I would at least get a decent glass of wine from Rande’s cellars, but they were out of the NZ SV and I had to settle for chardonnay. WIGB? If I stupidly ever fly Delta ever again? All I can say is I was disappointed on heading to the gate to see I had missed a Chili’s. . . .

The good & good deal: Fairway Cafe, once again, where my consort and I headed unhesitatingly after he expressed an interest in satisfying food with cheap wine after the absorbing and haunting “Serious Man.” Hard to complain about a window table, a perfect hanger steak with fries for $21 and a fine Caesar, especially after the warm flatbread with herbed olive oil. The only downside is that $5 and $6 glasses of drinkable wines make it awfully hard to swallow gouging anywhere else . . . 2127 Broadway at 74th Street.

The Epago: Co. in Chelsea, where we ducked in early after our first High Line perambulation and where the message could not have been clearer — eat, pay and get (the hell) out. We were seated instantly, at one of the long, cramped communal tables, and we all but instantly had $10 tumblers of wine in front of us along with the $5 special “toast,” topped with greens and rendered prosciutto. We shared a radicchio salad with raw shiitakes and a few chunks of Taleggio, then a dainty pizza topped with, if the menu was to be believed, roasted cauliflower, bechamel, buffalo mozzarella, Parmesan, green olives, chile, garlic and parsley. One bite in Bob wondered, “How much do you think it costs them to make this?” And as satisfying as the charred crust was, it was hard to think the thing was worth $17. WIGB? Probably not. Keste is calling.

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.