gastropoda/trails

The good: PDT in the East Village, where a little horde of us headed after a friend’s superb photography opening as guests of the gallery owner and where I could safely guess our experience was not the norm. It’s secreted alongside the Crif hot dog joint on St. Marks Place, a sleek narrow room with booths, a bar and taxidermed animals (ours was an otter, teeth bared in a grin, with a lace cap on). I had an excellent St. Rita cocktail to start, with Champagne and rye as I recall, then wisely switched to wine, which the waitress would have been wise to identify as Dr. Frank riesling — she would not have needed to bring tastes of it and the Chardonnay to reassure us it would not be too fruity. Otherwise the service was superb. Dinner was a Lebanese buffet brought in from nearby Al Diwan, and everything I tasted was good enough to make me want to give it a real try someday, particularly the hummus, borek and baklava. Best of all was the noise level: Music was playing, but six of us in a booth could hear each other babble. WIGB? Not likely — I’m not that cool. 212 614 0386.

The good again: Aquagrill in SoHo, where we headed for our default brunch after the Saturday Greenmarket and after every other destination we considered had the usual egg-heavy menu. The place was quite busy, with the outdoor tables all full, but it was running at peak performance. We got a nice table (albeit next to the overactive linen closet), were served good Spanish rosé and warm breakfast breads right away and had our food almost too fast, given the long lines for the one-seat bathrooms. I ignored the lack of provenance on the salmon BLT and just enjoyed the perfect balance of fish against crisp bacon, mayonnaise and baby arugula on a ciabatta. Bob’s warm shrimp salad had nicely cooked shellfish with well-dressed potatoes on more baby arugula. The biscuits were exquisite. What was most impressive is that the bill, including one coffee, was about what really nasty Cabrito had cost the Saturday before; my sandwich with good fries was a buck less than the still queasy-making chorizo biscuits and gravy. Plus we were thanked at least four times on our way out. WIGB? Inevitably. They have restauranting down to an art. 210 Spring Street, 212 274 0505.

The not bad: SobaKoh in the East Village, where nine of us wound up after an opening at Leica Gallery and where the tiny room and excellent service made it the perfect destination thanks to one smart guy who lives in the neighborhood taking charge. The menu was huge, but soba with grilled duck and scallions jumped out at me, while Bob was taken with eggplant stuffed with ground duck for his soba. Japanese and I are not on familiar terms, but I was happy enough with our food, especially since the sake kept coming. Our young friend who barely drinks was floored by the $42-a-head tab, but that’s how it goes when you order $55 bottles. The best part is that even in a group that ridiculously large, it was easy to talk. And the waitress happily took a combination of cash and I think five credit cards. WIGB? Not likely, but only because soba sounds enticing about once in a decade. 309 East Fifth Street off Second Avenue, 212 254 2244.

The not great: Baoguette in Curry Hill, where I wandered in very hungry after the Wednesday Greenmarket on my way to Foods of India and where I paid for my stupidity in ordering the $7 “sloppy bao,” billed as spicy curried beef but more like a cafeteria special. The bread and the pickled vegetables and especially the heat were all good, but it was the kind of ground beef that comes with a remorse guarantee. What mostly struck me was how dull it was: After the third bite, whatever thrill there was was gone. The people were pleasant and efficient, though, and the thing was obviously prepared with a level of care. WIGB? Not likely, especially after I realized I could have had a full buffet with lots of vegetables for a couple of dollars more just up the avenue.

The newly good: Kefi, where my consort and I were able to walk in early on a Friday after several tries at reserving and where the mood and food could not be more vanquishing of the failed enterprises that languished in that space. We had just been on the East Side for the Eggleston show at the Whitney, and my poor consort had had to listen to my rant that diners charge way too much for crapola ($20.95 for mahi on the blackboard we passed on Madison). But was I ever vindicated: My $16.95 grilled branzino was two perfectly cooked fillets of very fresh fish laid over fingerling potatoes, caperberries, olives and seared grape tomatoes; I even ate the skin. Bob’s sheep’s milk dumplings with sausage and pine nuts put 95 percent of Italian “gnocchi” in this country to shame. The bread arrived warm with really green olive oil; the wine was $6 and $6.50 a glass; the service was tag-team perfect. And they take credit cards. (Of course nothing’s perfect — the bar was a stroller maze by the time we walked out.) WIGB? Probably constantly. It’s as Greek as your average diner anymore. 505 Columbus Avenue near 84th Street, 212 873 0200.

The good and good again: The West Branch, where we were lucky enough to get seats to eat at the bar one night and immediately reserved for the next — usually on Jesus Eve we go to a movie and stop in any bar that might be open and inevitably wind up drinking with Santa, but this time we dined with friends and hordes, on serious food. First night was vitello tonnato, clearly assembled by someone who has never had the Piemontese original with proportions of veal to mayo reversed, and fine Caesar; next night was $17 skate over tomato-cabbage risotto, seared cod with zucchini etc., haricot vert salad and shared gingerbread pudding. Dr. and Lady Bugs seemed underwhelmed after following our recommendations on the crispy quail and duck choucroute, but their choices looked good to me even though I was happy with new and different. Add in warm bread, cheap wine, attentive service and I can even forgive Bedlam-level sound and A-train-at-rush-hour seating. WIGB? Absolutely. It’s Ouest for the little people. 2178 Broadway at 77th Street, 212 777 6764.

The enlightening: The Smith in the East Village, where Bob and I stopped in rather than schlepping to Porchetta for perfection after the Greenmarket and a detour to Jams for more envelopes for New Year’s cards and where his sandwich and the place itself saved the day. Usually Bob bitches about non-specialty sandwiches, but I think the fries caught his eye, and what arrived was enough for two meals: ciabatta with big slab o’ chicken, tomatoes, greens, Cheddar, chipotle mayonnaise. It was good. My “Alsatian pizza,” not so much — I have no idea WTF I was doing ordering it in an NYU hangout, but I paid for my lack of due diligence. I had a tumbler of Argentine viognier, which helped, as did the nice hunk of chewy baguette, the free sparkling water and the snappy service. Also the room, which Bob instantly pegged as a knockoff Schiller’s (thank you, Richard Price). WIGB? Probably. I was curious to see what provoked a news story on its survival, and the answers are self-evident. 55 Third Avenue near 11th Street, 212 420 9800.

The pretty good: Porchetta in the East Village, where my consort and I trekked after the Greenmarket even though he would have preferred a sit-down lunch as Saturday-usual and where the sandwich alone was worth the schlep, as promised by the Robs. The perfect roll from Sullivan Street Bakery sopped up the fat and was just the right contrast between crusty and tender. The pork itself is outstanding, seriously seasoned and beautifully cooked (although also seriously salty, and I could eat salt as an entree), but it was better on bread for $9 than as a $12 plate with excellent broccoli rabe and nicely spiced white beans. We also split an order of roasted potatoes and burnt ends, also quite good. It all held up even though we shared it all on a park bench in bizarre Tompkins Square — a little unnerving to see a drunk getting hauled into an ambulance as we walked in; Central Park is Epcot Center by comparison. WIGB? Eventually. The pork is undeniably outstanding, but the order taker needs a better system for sure. 110 East Seventh Street, 212 777 2151.

The adequate: Thalia in the insane Theater District, where we ducked in for a glass of wine and Caesar salad as an alternative to Toloache after the unsettling “Religulous” (some scenes a little too close to a Palin rally for comfort). The hostess tried to shunt us off to a cramped little table in the noisy lounge, but we moved to the bar and the bartender was excellent. The good salad came almost as fast as the $9 wine. 828 Eighth Avenue at 50th Street, 212 399 4444.

The not very good: The Smith, where I headed for lunch in despair of finding anything interesting to the west of the Greenmarket on a Wednesday and where my reward was a seriously sorry fish sandwich after a very long wait. I ordered it because the fries across the room looked great, and they were. But the fish was soggy, the bun pathetic (cotton balls are sturdier) and the promised romaine looked as anemic as iceberg. Whatever the promised sauce was proved to be equally undistinguished (well, indistinguishable, actually). And I only found that out after the woman at the next table who was ordering when I sat down was completely finished. I think the cook had to go out and catch the disappearing cod. But the tumbler of viognier was actually seriously good (and $8), and the waiter was excellent. WIGB? Maybe. Not everyone can shop and fry like Pearl. 55 Third Avenue near 11th Street, 212 420 9800.

The not awful: Le Monde, where I made the mistake of stopping during brunch service and the bigger mistake of ordering something besides eggs and home fries and where I left wondering why I go out for lunch instead of cooking what I really want at home. The grilled vegetable sandwich had not a trace of the olive mayonnaise mentioned on the menu, and if that was mozzarella it had been put through a prosciutto slicer. The fries with it were limp, greasy and lukewarm. Why didn’t I send it back? Because it took so long to get in the first place. The waiter was hustling, though, and the place always has a good vibe. WIGB? Eventually. There’s not much competition. 2885 Broadway near 112th Street, 212 531 3939.

The understaffed: Gallo Nero, where three of us headed after an ill-fated presentation at ICP (shut up and show, someone should have yelled to the moderator). The busboy was super-efficient, so we had water, crusty rolls and bean spread almost immediately, but the one waitress was overwhelmed, and not just by the tightness of the tables. I tasted the octopus, which was tender but still creepy, but took my share of the mushrooms on crispy baguette, romaine salad with roasted pepper and avocado (overdressed but still good) and arugula salad with apples and goat cheese. We also split a plate of roasted peppers, prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella, which I hope was domestic. I ordered the same white twice and got two completely different tastes, but it was hard enough to get them that I just shut up and drank. WIGB? Probably. The prices are great, the room is really pleasant and the bathrooms are a train trip. 402 West 44th Street off Ninth Avenue, 212 265 6660.

The sublime: Chola, where I wedged my way in for an early lunch and where the new-to-me hostess immediately led me to the only open table, even though it was a four-top. The buffet seemed even more generous, with several excellent regional choices and a couple more chutneys than I had never seen before, but the usual three appetizers also arrived eventually. The place was swamped, with sit-down diners and stand-ups queuing with foil trays for takeout. But even surrounded by chaos, with waiters buzzing past, tucking into an overloaded plate there with just-baked bread was still like being transported to one of the best food countries on earth. 232 East 58th Street between Second and Third, 212 688 4619.

The ridiculous: Zocalo in Grand Central, where I resorted at an odd hour in an off neighborhood and could easily understand why so many people sitting at the other tables and lumbering past were so huge. I ordered the fish tacos and was presented with two very thin corn tortillas topped with four slabs of battered cod, each the size of a Taco Bell burrito, plus a honkin’ heap of slaw. There was no way to eat them right; each was enough food for a small village. They came with decent beans and rice I didn’t touch, preceded by a big bowl of weird-texture chips and bland salsa. I can never forget the cockroach big enough to saddle I once saw strutting through that area, though, and freaked when something (I know not what) hit my head shortly after I left the table. WIGB? I’m a slow learner, but. . . .

The halt: Toloache, where I met a friend for lunch and where the same waitress, same oven mistress, same menu etc. were all in play as on my last visit a week earlier but where almost everything was perceptibly less than perfect. The wineglass was slightly crusty, the rice was just slopped onto the plate, the black beans were whole rather than mashed. The huitlacoche quesadilla was still good, though, and the shrimp tacos were daintily superb. The waitress gets points for remembering me; it’s just too bad the kitchen didn’t remember how to get it absolutely right without the owner around. WIGB? Probably. When it’s on, it’s on. 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818.

The lame: Mermaid Inn, where I met a downtown friend now from the neighborhood who felt as compelled as I did to try a new addition. We got there around 6, when the nice-looking room was pretty empty and very quiet, and left around 7:30 with our hands over our ears after the music had been cranked up to wake-the-dead volume. The fried calamari in the appetizer we shared was cut fat but quite tender and had a nice sauce, then she just had a fish soup that was topped with a huge slab of bread while I did my best with the thickly sauced salt cod cake on frisee. Two bites of either and the exploration was done. The freebie dessert also seems to have suffered in the move; that little chocolate pudding was as rigid as a breast implant. WIGB? Inevitably, given that it is close by, affordable (including the $37 bottle of Naia verdejo) and is still better than so much around it. But never late. 568 Amsterdam Avenue near 88th Street, 212 799 7400.

The charming: Perbacco, where friends in from Chicago treated me on a birthday and where the friends-of-the-house service, cozy room, unusual menu and warm mood more than compensated for slightly slimy gnocchi with sausage. I tasted a couple of the shared appetizers, though, and both were excellent — polenta with Fontina and truffles, and a spinach-Parmesan pie — as was the lasagne with impossibly thin layers, although the friend who ordered it thought it was dry. We had prosecco to start, and I finally got a chance to try grecchetto, a wine I had been tempted by for a story in Italy last summer. WIGB? Maybe, although, even if you are not paying, cash only is a drag in that neighborhood. 234 East Fourth Street between Avenues A and B; 212 253 2038.

The perfect, at least at quiet lunchtime: Toloache, where I schlepped in despair all the way from the East Side after PT, passing one overpriced, mediocre restaurant after another gougy, bad restaurant. I walked in, the hostess instantly gave me a choice of a table or a seat at the guacamole bar, and I had a glass of wine in minutes and, shortly afterward, a superb huitlacoche quesadilla cooked in the wood oven right in front of me. It was $13, but it came with a heap of excellent rice and a schmear of great beans. The vibe in the place was also lovely — the owner was eating tacos at the bar after working the room, and everyone seemed relaxed and as mellow as the music. WIGB? Very shortly. 251 West 50th Street near Eighth Avenue, 212 581 1818.

The promising: Community Food & Juice up by Columbia, where I met an e-pal for lunch on a sunny afternoon so early on that the check was discounted 15 percent. I ordered what Scott Adams thinks no one would: a BELT (bacon, lettuce and tomato with an egg layered in), and while the T was pallid, the B and E were top quality. It came with “carrot hash” that reminded me of the mashed potatoes we fry up after Thanksgiving, but it was discounted 15 percent. The burger across the table looked good, too, although I noticed the woman down the banquette immediately scraped the mound of fried onions off hers. The supersize waitress was working hard, too. WIGB? Undoubtedly. Along with a juice bar, it does have wine and sunlight. 2893 Broadway near 112th Street, 212 665 2800.

The pleasant: Regional, where a longtime friend up from Bucks County took me and three whippersnappers and where we got two of the three things she wanted (proximity and relative quiet). We arrived so early on Saturday night that the staff was still listening to the chef teach them the specials, but they showed us to a nice booth-like table anyway. My bigoli with duck ragu seemed to have been rushed — the sauce had chunks of carrot and big slices of duck, while the noodles were so far ahead of al dente they were gummy — so I didn’t share to try the other pastas: pesto; ravioli with beets; ravioli with sheep’s milk cheese, and cavatelli with sausage and broccoli rabe (although the sausage in the latter looked out of proportion to the dish). The waitress and runners stayed upbeat, and one who agreed to take a photo of us all was a digital pro. Most encouraging? When I came out of the bathroom (after a cook, I might add), I told a hostess seating another table that the toilet was starting to look delayed-flight scary and she immediately got a manager to deal with the mess. WIGB? It’s close, it’s cheap, it’s pleasant, why not? 2607 Broadway near 99th Street, 212 666 1915.

The fey: Belcourt in the ridiculous East Village, where I met another e-pal and his wife for lunch on a gray day and where the brightly gorgeous room could still not compensate for the over-conceptualized, under-performing menu. I ordered “salt cod hash with poached eggs, Harissa and grilled flat bread,” and the first adjective was more discernible than the first noun. The Cod himself got skunked by choosing “boudin blanc dogs” — what read like a litter materialized as only a single runt, and in a poorly engineered “bun” at that. The Gascon and Provencal wines were hefty pours for $7 and $8, respectively, and the waitress was charming if not especially proficient. But it’s not good when portions are so dainty you leave wondering if a stop at a David Chang pork palace might be immediately in order. WIGB? Nah, I rate it a Kleenex; once was enough.