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 train to Washington was rolling hell, with me trapped between a family with three noisy young kids and a texting-ignorant businessguy braying out all the dirt on his Newark deal, but the ride back was bliss, with almost no one in the quiet car, WiFi all the way and a luminous lopsided moon out the window. And the difference reflected how my attitude improved in just 36 hours. I saw a whole other side of the city and realized I have never hung out with people who choose to live there; I mostly know exiles from New York, there only for the job. Money has changed everything (except the restaurant situation across the Anacostia River), and it’s a much livelier place — it’s had to believe this was once a city where you would eat heavy French food in a stuffy dining room surrounded by fat cats drinking bourbon.

I was a guest for dinner at Lima, so I’ll be gratefully gracious. Spicy tuna sushi was spicy, and my steak was perfectly cooked. Afterward I was treated to palak chaat and a glass of gruner at the crowded bar at Rasika, the Indian restaurant everyone raves about, and the fried spinach assemblage was lighter than I’d ever had. (I was less impressed by the assholes next to me, a rowdy young couple on about their 16th cocktail who were surely only going to rent the food they finally ordered. At least thanks to them I know what “heads” make — about $60,000 — and that they get profit-sharing.)

I had breakfast (respectable student-baked croissant and scone) and lunch (restaurant samples of clam chowder from Ris, hummus from Lebanese Taverna, spring roll and dumpling from Hollywood East Cafe) at the Dames event out in what friends said was the boonies, then I hitched a ride back into town and walked through the Eastern Market. Which seemed smaller since the fire a few years back but had some great stalls with things I don’t see every day, particularly turkey transformed into pork (ribs, chops etc.) The produce outside, though, made me respect the Greenmarkets here even more for having principles. The day was so weirdly warm that the cherry blossoms and dogwoods are already in full bloom (nice habitat we had here; a shame we chose to ruin it), but it was still weird to see corn on the cob, watermelons, berries and more 10 days before spring even begins.

I knocked back an acceptable iced coffee (with only half-and-half to lighten it, no milk) at Port City Java, where you have to use a gas station-type key to avail yourself of the facilities (at least the ladies room was reasonably clean if not papered). And then I met up with my young genius friend to walk and walk to dinner at Bibiana, which was recommended by no fewer than four people in person and on Twitter. One slipped me her card in case I needed it to get a reservation, but Pam just went on Open Table and we were sitting down at a window table in that dramatic room shortly after 6 (after rejecting a cramped one on a banquette; as always, couples get first dibs on prime seating).

As I suspect I’ve mentioned many times, Italian is the least exciting style of cooking for me (I can’t even call it a cuisine), so I would have been happy settling for one or two twists on classics. But this menu was blowaway, and that was before the charming waiter came over to describe the specials: baby fried eels and a pasta with eel (if we heard right) and bottarga. We shared the dates stuffed with foie gras mousse and topped with crisp spiced almond slices, which Pam was seduced by online, and then one of the most amazing assemblages I’ve encountered in donkey’s years: a “45-minute egg,” poached sous vide, I’m guessing, topped with sautéed wild mushrooms and a crunchy mushroom “crumble” and teamed with a puree made from three kinds of dried mushrooms, reconstituted and blended to silkiness. Conceptually, texturally and flavor-wise I’d give it an A+. The egg was just runny enough to bring all the elements together, and the potato focaccia was perfect for mopping them up.

All the pastas read well and sounded better when the CW described how they were put together. Pam’s “burnt-wheat” cavatelli arrived looking like a salad, with a shower of Tuscan kale and shredded pecorino over the pasta and the coffee-fennel sausage with it. My cannelloni stuffed with braised beef seemed a bit dried out, but I blame us for taking too long with the appetizers while catching up on Pam’s new life in exile. (She likened them to sliders, her favorite.)

Prices were amazing, too: $8 for the four dates, $12 for that egg, $17 and $19 for our pastas. And the wine list was also a deal, to the point that I didn’t mind my Ceretto arneis was not the usual marvelousness — a quartino was only $17. By the time we were ready to haul ass to retrieve my bag at the hotel nearby and speed to Union Station, the place was packed and the CW had gone AWOL. But WIGB? Absolutely. I’ve even persuaded my consort maybe we should make a pleasure trip back just to eat at a few more places from the same owners.

The pretty good, and quite authentic-feeling, in a bad way: Chola on the East Side, yet again, where I met a friend on a sweltering day at a table under a halogen light in an un-air-conditioned room and where our sweat was definitely transporting. We hadn’t seen each other in a year and a half, so this was one of those bottle-and-a-glass lunches, which the waiters took in stride, giving a little hint at what kind of ladies lunch there. The routine has changed, so I kept expecting the apps to arrive when you now can make some chaat yourself off the huge buffet, which remains my favorite in the city (especially for a paltry $13.95). Everything else was outstanding aside from the saag paneer and the dosa, which both seemed a little wan. We did get a tindal curry, though, which I don’t think I’ve ever had in this country. And the vada counted as a particular treat. Points off, though, for a bathroom floor I almost slipped on even before our sauvignon blanc’s cap was unscrewed, and for the staff cleaning with ammonia, which does tend to drown out flavor. WIGB? Always. It does Indian right. 232 East 58th Street, 212 688 4619.

The good: Market Table in the West Village, where my consort and I wound up after a lively 50th at Automatic Slim’s a few blocks east on St. Drunken Day when Pearl was backed up and Fedora was Bedlam and where we scored some pretty great food at a fair price at a relatively quiet table. The $12 crispy calamari, with a thick crust around juicy “meat,” ranked among the best I’ve ever eaten, especially with the guacamole and chile crema blanketing the plate underneath. We shared a salad of Cara Cara and blood oranges with hearts of palm, basil and pomegranate, too, and Bob (and later The Cat) seemed content with his $22 “pan crisped” chicken with sweet potato salad and bok choy. Service was also above average. WIGB? Happily. Hospitable and creative are not to be underestimated. 54 Carmine Street at Bedford, 212 255 2100.

The floundering: Elsewhere in Hell’s Kitchen, where we headed with two friends after a Moving Walls opening at OSI after getting shut out of Yakitori Totto and where we must have been jinxed on this third try. We first got a crappy table near the door and the din and had to wait forever to order wine, then I asked about moving to the booth where we sat on our first foray and we were accommodated but then waited forever to get the gruner, which the servers kept coming back to say was hard to unearth (even though it was poured by the glass last time). The kitchen was on the slow side too. Len didn’t seem too wowed by the portobello sliders we clearly oversold, but Bob cleaned his plate of the sliced hanger steak over (chewy) spaetzl and brussels sprouts, and my Caesar was better than average. WIGB? Yeah. Just because there still isn’t much competition thereabouts. 403 West 43d Street, 212 315 2121.

The trip: Hindu Temple Society’s canteen in Flushing, where we hooked up with new friends via Bob’s gig at CUNY and where the tradeoff for folding tables and styrofoam dinnerware under fluorescent lights was very lively and seriously filling South Indian food that would have been a deal even if we had not been treated. After letting our new friends-in-the-know order for us all in a medium-long line at the counter, we sat down to a table soon covered with mango lassis and mango juices, plastic cups of water and plate after plate: chile-flecked vadas with coconut chutney and sambar; dosas stuffed with potatoes and with potatoes on the side; a special vada with red onions, and a vegetable uttapam, a big pancake studded with peas and tomato. It was all transporting to Bangalore, although the coconut chutney was milder than I remembered from seeing it pounded on the floor at MTR. The bill came to a little more than $9 a person, with way too much food. WIGB? Yep. To take someone new. It’s a great experience, not just as an alternative to Chinese in that neighborhood. 45-57 Bowne Street off Kissena Boulevard, 718 460 8493.

The half-good: The Mermaid Inn uptown, yet again, where a friend and I settled after a special screening of “How to Live Forever” when we knew a pizza as enticing as the one we had just seen would be hard to find anywhere close by. We got a table in the back in the five minutes the hostess promised, and I stupidly didn’t insist we sit on the empty side of the room rather than between two big, loud groups (although it was still less deafening than in the front). I thought we’d had that waitress in the past, and she had been superb, but this night she was a trudging example of dazed and confused (although she did pour generously once she finally took our muscadet order). Joanne seemed happy with her huge grilled shrimp sandwich and fries, and I was amazed that my lobster bisque actually had chunks of meat in it — I don’t think I’ve ever experienced that; usually it’s flavor over substance. WIGB? Always. It’s a deal. 568 Amsterdam near 88th Street, 212 WHY DONT restaurants print phone numbers on receipts?

The good at the time: Aangan on the Upper West Side, where we met friends in from Chicago checking out Columbia before the vegetarian daughter decided on which of the six colleges she’s been accepted by. The place looks disturbingly swanky, especially for the neighborhood, which made the $9.95 veg thali that much more appealing. It might be the most elegant one in town, with salad presented first and then the tray holding little bowls of dal, curds, samosas, chutney, two curries and dessert ringing a mound of rice, then a basket of naan. That bread was easily the best I’ve had in New York, not at all greasy and perfectly pliable to use as a scoop. And the samosas were fascinating; if I had not ordered meatless I could have sworn they were chicken. Aside from the dal, though, everything else was tame, even tasted off a fork or spoon rather than bread alone. Our friend Paul seemed happy with his huge tandoori salmon, and my consort ate all his lamb/chicken thali. But afterward he said the flavors were too muted. And as we walked for the next hour and then settled back at our desks, both of us started feeling ready for the Macy’s parade, and not as spectators. I have no idea what was in the food, but it was painfully bloating. WIGB? I’m torn. That’s a great deal even for bland food, just not for the after-effects. And I didn’t even clean my tray. 2701 Broadway near 103d Street, 212 280 4100.

The good: Kefi, yet again, where I was unforgivably late for a Friday night reservation with friends but where the staff let the three of us hog a table for hours. When I got there they were halfway through good potato chips with tatziki and their first glasses of wine, and the conversation got so spirited we were soon mostly through a bottle of the Skouros before we got around to ordering. Sue was so persuasive I ordered the macaroni and cheese, something I almost never do, but she was right: it was not the usual stodge; the combination of sharper cheese and greens made it more like a respectable baked pasta. We shared a good Greek salad, and Donna was thrilled with her grilled octopus with chickpeas. The staff was so patient we didn’t even object to the overcharge for the glass of wine Sue canceled before we ordered the bottle, just paid up happily. WIGB? Of course, even though it does get loud on a Friday night. And all agreed we would never want to go out for Greek but are always up for Kefi. 505 Columbus Avenue near 84th Street, 212 873 0200.

The good II: Toloache, yet again, where my consort and I hightailed for a little more food after hors d’ (by Restaurant Associates) before a screening from our friends’ doc on “How Democracy Works Now” (begins soon on HBO). The place was relatively quiet, and we had wine before us in minutes, followed by the huitlacoche/truffle quesadilla (still more of a cheese crisp, with only one tortilla, but excellent since the woman chef was back at the oven) and a great salad with jicama, almonds and tamarind vinaigrette. WIGB? No need to ask. 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818.

The not bad: Bhojan in Curry Hill, where Bob and I made our way after the Greenmarket for Saturday lunch and where he admitted only on finishing that he never wants to go out for Indian. “I got over my red-checkered-tablecloth idea of Italian, but I still think of that street with Indian,” he said, meaning Sixth, where the old joke was that one kitchen spewed into every restaurant, and poorly. This place was a thousand years more modern, looking like someplace swank in Calcutta or Mumbai, with upside-down kadais on the ceiling as decoration and light fixtures made of green wine bottles and a bathroom enclosed in clouded glass. And the thalis, both my Gujarati and his Punjabi, were a pleasure to explore, all 10 or 11 elements from chutney to four kinds of bread, and worth the $16 weekend price (smaller ones at lunch during the week are $8). My curds and a salad of sprouted mung beans were particularly good, and the dal and black chickpeas special rivaled them. And for once there was enough bread, good bread, to scoop up as much as I could eat. I even liked my dessert, “sweet curd,” flavored with saffron and flecked with chopped pistachios. The service was a little slow, but we overheard a waiter saying the place was not even officially open yet, despite having been touted in the Times. WIGB? Maybe, although every time we head to that neighborhood there’s something new to try. 102 Lexington Avenue near 27th Street, 212 213 9794.

The reach-exceeding-grasp: Bhatti Indian Grill in Curry Hill, where my consort and I wound up after the Greenmarket when Park Avenue was closed to cars and the mood was so festive and he was wanting to wipe out the pallid taste from mal-Indian in Brooklyn Heights the day before. File yet another under “doomed by the desire for new.” We scanned the menu outside only cursorily before plunging in and taking a table in the empty, small dining room, and I had immediate misgivings. Everything was too swank for the neighborhood, plus it was hard to make sense of the menu and the kebabs, when the former seemed so familiar and the other so under-explicated. But we ordered achari paneer tika (four slabs of grilled fresh cheese with peppers and pickled onions), haryali chooza (“coronation chicken marinated in a heady mix of fresh mint, cilantro, green fenugreek, green chilies and hung curd, grilled”) and dal Bhatti, for which I will not even waste keystrokes to transcribe the menu description. Paneer rated an A, the chicken — thighs on the bone with superb texture and flavor — an A-plus and the dal about a B, simply because I could have made it at home, and maybe better, using the cookbook I brought home from Kolkata six years ago. The garlic naan was above average, however, and Bob seemed happy with the rice I didn’t touch (I eat with my fingers). And the pappadam and sauces, the chips-and-salsa of Indian restaurants, were unobjectionable. I said nothing as we were leaving when they asked if we had “any suggestions for the food.”

But cooking doesn’t always conquer all. The AC was on arctic overdrive, and even when they turned it down at my request it was still ridiculous to the point that I had to wear Bob’s over-shirt while watching the food congeal. Worse, the kitchen had apparently been slammed the night before and some things Bob wanted to try were not available. Worser still, the bathroom was not usable for at least the first 10 minutes; someone was either “working in it” (official story) or dumping in it big time. Given how key sanitation is to cuisine in India — you can eat anywhere if there’s a sink in the dining room — this was epic fail.  But WIGB? No, and primarily because it’s mislocated. In that neighborhood, you don’t want fancy table settings and flatware changed between courses. You want something approximating Real India, Saravanaas-style. Bhatti would probably do quite well up on East 58th Street. Only at dinnertime, though, not up against Chola’s buffet.

The ridiculous: Lucy Browne’s in SoHo, where I suppose I deserve everything that happened even though Bob and a friend did not because I was the one who chose it in the interest of newness and cheap food and accessibility after they and two others went to see apparently awesome “Cove” at the Angelika. Once again, I learned you get what you pay for. I got there first and would have bailed if I had been alone, even though the host was beyond hospitable, as soon as I heard the young woman with her dad next to me at the bar ask what cocktails were on offer and the blowsy ’tender say only: “I can make anything: Cosmo, martini. . . “ Sorry. Girls just want to be seduced with long lists of enticing ingredients fortified by booze. Big-time missed opportunity. I got an equally lame response asking about white wine, and it was only after we finally were seated and I saw the list that I learned gruner was an option beyond the usual pinot grigio, chardonnay and sauvignon blanc (and a buck cheaper to boot). Guys to my right ordered nachos that looked pretty half-assed, and I was really ready to bail but had no backup option, so Mr. Good Sport snared us a picnic table on the sidewalk around the corner, where we sat. And sat. And sat. He was actually on his iPhone ready to call The New French to see how busy it was when the waiter finally materialized.

So we got our wine, and we sat through the up-selling on the specials and I asked for the one thing that appealed on the long menu: crab cake appetizer. Which of course they were out of. Bob and Jessica ordered the BBQ ribs and I settled for — what else? — a Caesar that was not half-bad. The ribs were juicy and meaty and probably unobjectionable, but the little plastic ramekin of slaw with them was off and the corn on the cob had clearly suffered failure to thrive — it was both skinny and tasteless. The Jamaican waiter (he invoked his heritage, not me) was smart enough to approach the table with wine bottles in hand to sell a second glass, but both Bob and I switched wines (and I got a fresh glass only because I pointed out that I was switching). So all and all it would have been just another night in misguided restaurantgoing with at least what appeared to be a tranny sideshow on the sidewalk. But then a cockroach the size of a UPS truck shot up from the gutter and under our table. And then I stupidly decided I might want to empty my bladder before the long ride back uptown.

At this point, around 9, the dining room was all but empty and I should have just closed the door to the beat-up-looking stall. But I locked it. And when I went to unlock it, the whole mechanism fell out onto the floor. I was trapped. I tried to jigger the screw back into the lock to refit it into the hole in the door but had such little luck I confess I had a hollering panic attack. I almost never carry my phone, and I envisioned being stuck back there for days. (As Bob later said, you never want to invade someone’s public space in a restaurant toilet; he and Jessica just politely waited and waited on the sidewalk.) Luckily, a woman’s voice was soon heard on the other side of the door, and she offered a few suggestions before heading off to get a screwdriver, which she threw over the door after warning me to step aside (think this has happened before?) and which of course landed in the toilet. She offered to get me a glove, but I fished it out barehanded for expediency’s sake and we threw it back and forth until I was finally released. On the plus side, she sent the worker who brought a stepladder to tell my pals what was going on, and she was a total pro who offered to buy me a drink to make up for the awfulness of it all. On the big-time minus side, it was pretty clear that lock was trouble from the git-go. What kind of restaurant, especially one freshly opened, does not maintain the basics? WIGB? In about 15 years I might find the whole experience amusing. Right now I think the place deserves what will undoubtedly happen: Early death.

The peculiar: A shake from Shake Shack on Columbus. We were walking home from an Illy run to Grandaisy when Bob offered to buy me one if there was no line, and of course we walked right in and ordered. It was a zoo when we walked back out, which gives a sense of how long it takes to get the namesake whipped up. I should have gone with the healthy choice — strawberry — but chose a black-and-white, which had an odd aftertaste and effect. WIGB? The burgers actually looked enticing, in a fast food sort of way — Bob thought they were just what you would love to pound down while hammered. So, if there’s no line: Maybe.

The really good: Fatty Crab uptown on second try, where my consort and I snagged seats at the bar away from the din and where we scored with food, service and lagniappe. It was a choice between a crappy table right inside the door or a 20-minute wait, so we settled for the latter and stayed put once we saw what people around us were eating. The bartender was patient and solicitous, too, pouring glasses of Grüner to try before filling them and doing a serious selling job on the special chicken-and-oyster banh mi, endorsed by the guy to my right. I had gone in wanting only wine but agreed to the green mango salad to go with the Fatty Dog Bob ordered; we were halfway through it when the touted banh mi landed. The bartender admitted he had gotten so distracted selling it that he had put it through as an order, so he said we should take it for free while he got the right dish. And it was all he said it would be, as was the dog, actually XO-flavored sausage in a soft bun. Best news: The mango salad is back in proper proportion. WIGB? Absolutely; the kitchen has hit its stride. 2170 Broadway near 77th Street, 212 496 2722.

The pretty bad: Cabrito, where we settled after schlepping around the West Village after the Greenmarket, finding the new Vietnamese place in Time Out a long way from open and the menu at Centro Vinoteca a little unpromising. I should have known not to enter any restaurant with exactly two customers at prime brunchtime, and we paid more than the $12 price of the entrees: The arepa “biscuits” under the fried eggs and chorizo gravy on my plate were sawdusty-dry and too thick by half; if the eggs had not been cooked so hard oozy yolks might have helped, and I hate oozy yolks. Worse, the “gravy” separated out into fat and chunks, to the point that it will be a while before I brave chorizo again. Bob shelled out $7 extra for goat, and it was certainly better than my food, big chunks of the meat with three fresh tortillas, chopped onions, cilantro, salsa borracha and crema. Guacamole was not bad, either. But both of us nearly fell asleep on the subway home, and both of us needed naps before heading out to a dinner party. Does goat have tryptophan? WIGB? Nope. Second time was the turnoff.

The promising: Dhaba in Curry Hill, where I stopped for fortification before getting all but thrown out of a shop for taking out a notebook and pen. The buffet lunch is $9.95, and if it was not Chola-level it was redeemed by the naan, far superior to what I have had anywhere else in town. I prefer veg over non-veg and was happy enough with the potatoes, spinach, peas and dal on offer, but people who eat lamb and chicken would do better here. Two tandoori drumsticks arrived with a little plate of limp fried potatoes and other vegetables as an appetizer, and they were actually pretty good. The carrot dessert was also surprisingly satisfying, and I have no sweet tooth. I missed the raita and the mango pickle. Service qualified as discombobulated at best, but WIGB? For sure, for lunch. 108 Lexington Avenue near 28th Street, 212 679 1284.

The gruesome: Nha Trang One, where I stupidly wasted my one jury-duty lunch thanks to a notebook jotting about it being a favorite of an admirable chef and where the F&W tout posted in the window should have been a warning. I studied both lunch and dinner menus for a long time, realizing as I slowly turned the pages that I knew way too little to be even trying to navigate the cryptic descriptions, before randomly pointing at something in the beef section starred as spicy. Five seconds later a mound of gray meat and white rice with big nasty hunks of onion arrived, and it was so profoundly disappointing I called the waiter over to ask for spring rolls — grease absolves many sins. But these, which arrived in all of 10 seconds, were even nastier, more wrapper than filling with no discernible flavor. The people were nice, and the bathroom was wild (black fixtures), and the $4 wine was a big gobletful. But WIGB? Not a Chinatown chance in hell.

The lame: Baluchi’s in the West Village, where an Indian-craving friend and I wound up after deserting a wineless new Thai place whose web site promised a full bar and where the food was only slightly better than the service, which sucked the big one. Ironically, Wally had said as we walked up and saw it was all but empty: “At least they’ll treat us well.” First they gave us a crappy table right by the kitchen door, but my consort was wise to insist we move once he arrived. And then cobwebs were forming on our menus by the time we were able to order. The wine “list” was a few varietals on a table card, with neither producer nor price produced; we tried to order a bottle of sauvignon blanc but settled for glasses of pinot grigio from the dim bulb in a waiter’s uniform. The naan was not as bad as I’ve had elsewhere, and the chana masala and vegetables jalfrazie  had nice-enough sauces. But we were a long, long, long way from Chola. Or even Sixth Street. WIGB? Not even at gunpoint.

The good: Toloache yet again, where we stopped in after the excellent “Juno” for a snack and a little wine. We got our usual seats at the bar facing the oven where the woman chef who works like a machine turns out quesadillas etc. and split one with huitlacoche (superb as always) plus the tacos de pastor and de cabeza (with braised veal cheeks). WIGB? Anytime; the servers are good even when they screw up a wine order. 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818.

The bad: Nice Matin, where I stupidly retreated for a late lunch and found myself surrounded by fixed Upper East Siders, so I should not have been surprised that the prices are up and the quality is down. The crab salad, which was always borderline exquisite, arrived this time as a big mound of mayonnaise-drenched lump crab topped with half a sliced avocado on a few greens with asparagus sliced the long way and a few little nubbins of raw vegetables. The waitress was overwhelmed, no bread was ever served and the whole experience felt like a diner with scarier patrons (we need an immigration wall through Central Park). WIGB? Fool me one last time. . . .

The overpriced: Buceo 95, where we met a friend just to try something new and where it might have been a little too new — the smell of varnish was still so fresh it overwhelmed the wine. Which was no small consideration given that the quartino of Quincy from the Loire was $13 (and why does wine portioned that way inevitably feel like a rip?) The kitchen also seemed to be finding its way: The bacalao in cucumber cups ($12!) was undersoaked and so very chewy, while both the chopped Mediterranean salad and the albondigas were mediocre at best. Only the slow-roasted pork with potatoes on what looked like little soft nacho chips (billed as a mini-wrap) was anything special, and that only by comparison. The olives and oil served with the bread were lively enough, though. As for the sound system blaring techno music, it seemed to be tuned into a hair salon. WIGB? For the hospitality and to try the cheese plate, maybe. It’s slim pickings up this way. 201 West 95th Street, 212 662 7010.

The slightly off: Chola, where I met a friend for a long winy birthday lunch and where the usual mob seemed to be taking an unusual toll. We never got vegetable fritters to start; I had to ask for bread (and it was not as good as it normally is). But we had a great table and easy access to all that wine, and the buffet was outstanding as always if a little too familiar from my last visit. WIGB? Not on a Thursday for a while. 232 East 58th Street, 212 212 688 4619.

The surprising: The cafe at the Cooper-Hewitt, where we only had restorative caffeine between the great Gus Powell show at the Museum of the City of New York and the spectacular Ingo Maurer lighting show upstairs from our table overlooking the garden. I didn’t try my consort’s tea, but my huge cappuccino was, amazingly, perfect (for $3.85). The salads, sandwiches and wines by the glass also looked worth a return visit for whatever exhibition comes next.

The painful: BXL Cafe, where we ducked in for a drink after a totally pretentious ICP opening down the block and where the din was at CIA torture level. We only split an order of seriously slopped-out calamari before fleeing. WIGB? Never after dark.