gastropoda/trails

The very close to perfect: Momofuku Ssam, where I met a friend for lunch on my birthday and where everything from attitude to kittybag was done right. The rotisserie duck was easily the best nonsmoked duck I have ever eaten, and I have eaten a lot of duck in my many years — you’d almost think it was sous vide from the tenderness and concentrated flavor, but my consort and I watched one roast on the spit on our last visit, so that can’t be true. I didn’t even get into the rice and watercress the slices came with, but I did like wrapping them up in the pancake with all the accoutrements. The $20 weekday set comes with a side, and the spiced fingerlings were pretty amazing. Fried duck dumplings with pickled red cabbage were exquisite yet again, too. Wines by the glass are a better deal in the front room, BTW. WIGB? Any day now. The best part was hearing my friend recall how scary that very corner was back in the Eighties, when another good friend was mugged right outside where we were indulging. 207 Second Avenue at 13th Street.

The superb: Aldea, where Bob and I headed for my birthday the night he got in from 10 days in Costa Rica and where seats at the chef’s counter made the perfect perches as neutral territory for reentry. His sardines were a little mushy, the skin chips in my duck rice a little fatigued, but otherwise the whole experience was sensational. I was pretty taken with the sea urchin laid over cauliflower puree on a toast as a starter, and my entree had almost too much duck breast and chorizo. Bob had to order the suckling pig after seeing it plated: a slab of almost terrine-like deconstructed/reconstructed pork seared and teamed with both kohlrabi and “crispy potato” that was like the world’s longest strip/chip. (Best part of sitting at the counter: You can ask how they do everything, and this was by mandoline.) We should have listened to the sommelier on the Basque white; as he hinted, it was pretty acidic and watery, but our shared glass of sherry overcompensated, especially with the excellent mignardises. WIGB? Absolutely. Great value, great experience. 31 West 17th Street, 212 675 7723.

The good, and good deal: Mermaid Inn in the West Village, where I led us after the dazzling “Pina” at IFC and where the waitress’s tout for Blackboard Eats made me remember the Twitter secret and where 20 percent off made a great experience even better. We split a $35 bottle of decent verdicchio with the trout over kale and the outstanding crab cake appetizer ($15 but enough to kittybag). It was before 8, so the noise level was tolerable in the old-folks back room, too. The server and hosts could not have been more hospitable. But someone needs to sit the busboy down to a free dinner and show him how it feels to have someone invade your space with a git-’er-done roughness. He’s super-efficient, but he’s working too fast and definitely too hard. Still, WIGB? Of course. 79 Macdougal Street, 212 260 0100.

The surprisingly not bad: Plein Sud in Tribeca, where we wound up after the outstanding opening of the revitalized South Street Seaport Museum and after finding our destination across the street — Nam — was in the midst of morphing into some new destination. I’ll admit I trudged to the table with dread dragging me down, because I’d read in the WSJ that the chef was mostly known for being one of those lower-end Tin Chefs, and had worked in other not-great restaurants. The place was packed, but we got a good table, and the food/service/wine all delivered. Bob ordered a not-promising $11 tarte flambee as soon as we sat down, and I would have called it quits at that, but he insisted I order something else, and the $12 beet “tartare” with Fourme d’Ambert, pine nuts and chives almost changed my mind about the sugar veg. His $21 skate with capers turned out to be even more satisfying. WIGB? Surprisingly, yes. Everyone was so nice when we were so old by comparison with the rest of the room. 85 West Broadway at Reade Street, 212 504 5555.

The good, now that I’m over my snit: Crema in Chelsea, where my fried consort suggested we head after an exhausting morning at the Greenmarket on Union Square. I’d been boycotting it since a bad experience so long ago I can’t even remember, but his instincts were, as usual, dead-on. We got a table in the back right away and had superb service from one personable waiter; the $10 margarita was huge and perfectly blended, and the food dazzled. Bob’s chilaquiles easily outshone Hecho en Dumbo’s, which outshone El Paso Taqueria’s, but my chile relleno was a reinvention that could redeem the whole category of stuffed peppers. A roasted poblano was presented on a crispy flour tortilla alongside a little cylinder of good tomatillo salsa, with the pepper not battered or fried but slit open and loaded with eggs scrambled with chorizo and chipotle-flavored (I think) potatoes. The whole assemblage was presented on a schmear of black beans, so if you tackled correctly you got nearly everything in one bite. WIGB? Now, absolutely. 111 West 17th Street, 212 691 4497.

The aurally correct: Ditch Plains on the Upper West Side, again, where we wound up with friends after the underwhelming “Contagion” and where, once again, the deserted dining room was nearly half the allure. I didn’t taste the deviled eggs or fried calamari across the booth but can vouch for the plain Caesar and the spicy salad, again (shrimp or no shrimp, the heat redeems it). I did snare a bite of the Ditchbar ice cream sandwich, with mint flavoring, which was great. Three of us shared a good $38 bottle of Spanish red, and this time no one lost a molar to the saltwater taffy. WIGB? Definitely. 100 West 82d Street, 212 352 4815.

The seriously good: The Dutch, again, in SoHo, where my consort and I were able to walk right in after an early showing of “The Trip” at IFC on a holiday weekend and where the food was even better than we’d remembered. We got a nice corner table where we could sit side by side (inspiring far younger couples) in the happy front room, which is much quieter than the bar, and if the waiter was a bit ditsy and distracted and emptied the rosé bottle too fast, the busboy/runner was a total pro (little things that mean a lot: before clearing the silverware between courses, he discreetly checked the check to see what was arriving next). We’d had popcorn, so I wasn’t going to tackle a main course, which meant Bob got a rare shot at the duck option I always hog. And it was of course perfect, plus the dirty rice with it seemed even dirtier than the first go-round. We split asparagus with pork belly, poached egg and shaved bonito to start, which gets A for effort. Even the whole loaf of warm cornbread that arrives first seemed to have come into its own. But the total winner was my dressed crab, set over avocadoey Green Goddess in a Bloody Mary pool. That is the most amazing combination since the crab-jalapeño crostini at Locanda Verde. WIGB? Every night if I could. The food was even more enjoyable after the fussy stuff in the well-made movie. 131 Sullivan Street at Prince, 212 677 6200.

The seriously lame: The new Zero Otto Nove in the Flatiron, where we made the mistake of heading after the Greenmarket on Fourth of July weekend and where the fact that only three tables were occupied in the huge room should have been a warning that this would not end well. And of course the pizza we remembered as so great on Arthur Avenue, made by the same guy we’d seen tossin’ there, was half-assed, with a doughy crust and sloppily disbursed porcini and grape tomatoes over the mozzarella and Gorgonzola. The eggplant parmesan we shared to start was nearly cold at the center, which made its heaviness fork up even gloppier. The air conditioning was also emitting an annoying high-pitched whine, although the place looks to have cost a bloody fortune to design. But all that would be forgiven if not for the asshole waiter. He was not happy that he kept getting interrupted in his endless specials recitation by busboys trying to shove wads of cardboard to stop the table from rocking, on both sides. Then, when I asked the price of the special pizza, he just said: “How should I know?” Well, if you were going to be the one paying, Bub, you could keep your little secret. (He did admit what I suspected: It would be a lot more than pizzas on the menu.) And when I didn’t finish my half of the eggplant, he asked why. Excuse me? That’s between me and my hips. But his worst offense was lounging near our table so we couldn’t talk. Or dis the joint. WIGB? Not even for free pizza. Afterward we walked through Eataly to see if it was busy on that dead weekend, and we both agreed we’d have been happier eating in the Birreria. . .

The pretty good: Tenpenny in the Gotham Hotel in the Theater District, where we headed after the showing of students’ work at ICP and where the quiet alone would make it vaut le mini-voyage. The over-lit room is strange, and the emptiness didn’t make it any more inviting to us walk-ins, particularly after I’d gotten some bullshit about no tables when I’d called to reserve. But the servers were efficient, and the wine was generously poured. Pork belly tots, an appetizer, tasted underwhelming, neither porky nor totty enough. A starter of mixed spring vegetables was superb, though: roasted, raw, candied & crisped. And the black garlic spaghettini with lump crab, chorizo and charred scallions qualified as brilliant, one of the best pasta dishes ever. WIGB? Absolutely, even just to sit at the bar for a snack. Cuz it’s a wasteland around ICP. 16 East 46th Street, 212 490 8300.

The pretty reliable: Recipe, again, for my welcome back to this time zone after Italy; it’s always best there early at night before everyone gets anxious about turning tables. The cooking was not quite spot-on (pork was done to chew-toy state, and duck was too rare, and not in a good way). But the service was great. 452 Amsterdam Avenue near 81st Street, 212 501 7755. Under the same category, file Luke’s Lobster just down the avenue, where we collected our free roll after having bought 10. And that one was just as good as the first one.

The always good, even better with Twitter discount: Mermaid Inn uptown, where Bob and I loved our two most recent dinners even more for 20 percent off thanks to the secret code of the night. A table on the sidewalk only made things more enjoyable on a hot night. Both times Bob had the mustard-crusted trout with crushed cherry tomatoes and spinach; I had fine roasted cod with truffled mashed potatoes once and just a perfect soft-shell crab appetizer the second outing. (Seared shisito peppers were too bland, though.) A bottle of rosé went fine with each. WIGB? No question. It’s the best place for many blocks. Plus I sent Coloradans there and they were blown away. 568 Amsterdam near 88th Street, 212 799 7400.

The barely bearable: The newish Spice, where we met two friends for an early dinner rather than risk the new Saravanaa and where my promise of relative quiet was a joke. It wasn’t even full and we couldn’t hear each other talk, and we all had travel tales (they were just back from Paris, Bob from Oslo). And the waitress needed remedial English. Plus lessons in how to pour wine. But if was not cheap, the food was better than it had any right to be, especially the duck wrap (although with two few lettuce leaves provided), the papaya salad and the crispy duck main course. Even the Massaman vegetable curry was above average. WIGB? Unfortunately, yes, because of where it is, and what a bargain it is. But Mermaid never looked more enticing when we walked past afterward. 435 Amsterdam Avenue at 81st Street, 212 362 5861.

The port in a literal storm: Market Cafe in Hell’s Kitchen, where a friend in from Veneto and I retreated as the rain was threatening when he had only a quick window of time for catching up before his flight home after going to B&H. I heard no complaints about his steak frites although I should probably not have dissuaded him from ordering the salmon he really wanted after a week of too many sandwiches in the Outer Banks. And I had no complaints about my BLT, which was packed fatter with bacon than any I have ever eaten; there was more than enough to kittybag. Good fries with both were also copious. I don’t recall the service but will add redeeming points for the window table with a fabulous view of those buckets of rain. WIGB? Probably. Because I need to find more places around B&H and the 42d Street movie houses. 496 Ninth Avenue near 38th Street, 212 564 7350.

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 pretty good: The newish Luke’s on the Upper West Side, where we stopped for a fast lunch on the way to Fairway to shop for a dinner party and where the one downside was seeing how more than one other patron somehow grew to adulthood without knowing you are supposed to chew with your mouth closed (I felt sad for the baby strapped to the chest of the mom out with hubby and in-laws: doomed). We timed it well and got stools at the weirdly configured counters on that sleety/rainy afternoon, and the crab and lobster rolls were almost too richly satisfying. I would have been happy with only half of one although I had no problem helping eat the two $1 bags of chips, and tasting the tiny chocolate whoopie pie. Both sandwiches were overloaded with nothing more than meat, a tiny bit of mayonnaise and a splash of butter, on warm buns. And each was a deal, $10 for crab, $15 for lobster. WIGB? For lobster for sure. I’d forgotten Maine crab means stringy Jonah. 426 Amsterdam Avenue near 80th, 212 877 8800.

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

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

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

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

Thanks to a sudden death in the family (11-year-old cat), we just had to make yet another trek to Buffalo (or, as the purists would have it, suburban Buffalo). And I wasn’t surprised my worst eating experiences were on the way there — I’m opting out of the cancer boxes and groping at the airport, so I had to brave Amtrak. Which was beyond great: I walked into Penn Station as the train was boarding and stepped off at the Depew station eight hours and 20 minutes later, about double the time it took my consort on the train to the plane, the Airtrain, in the miserable security line and on JetBlue. But my trip was mellow all the way, a beautiful ride up the icy Hudson and across snowy New York State. I read, I worked, I read some more. (There was no wifi, but I did have an outlet for my MacBook.) I didn’t leave enough time to pack or buy food, though, so I had to settle for the least scary things in the cafe car, first a sawdusty muffin and later a little frozen pizza that the sweet barman managed to nuke to rubber on one side while leaving the other side cold.

Fortunately, my grieving in-law equivalent was up for going out to dinner and even willing to brave SeaBar, despite the fact that she would eat duck’s blood soup before raw fish. Happily. She was the only one of us who knew to dress appropriately; Bob and I were chagrined to see all the other patrons in their Friday best in that very stylish room. The menu was almost overwhelming, but the chef himself stopped by to explain the specials, and Bob had to have the New Zealand salmon he was selling, with a chorizo and smoked paprika sauce swiped from Le Bernardin. The I-LE was sold on the pulled pork, which was pretty amazing, the tender meat crusted with panko, fried and served in blocks over a poblano puree and Chinese-style noodles, an absurdly huge (read: Buffalo-size) portion for $17. I was glad I went for the appetizer size of the sublime glazed duck breast with a corn pancake and mango salsa; it would be a generous full in Manhattan. The meat was beautifully cooked, and the corn cake soaked up the juice (which sounds so much better than blood).

As starters, we shared the bizarre-sounding, too-filling miso caramel crab roll, with cream cheese and mushrooms in tempura, at least half a dozen fat slices. And a seaweed salad, to introduce the I-LE to that sensation. And the great unagi BLT handroll, stuffed with avocado and tomato along with the eel and bacon. We overindulged and had to kitty-bag our main courses, so dessert was out of the question, but the waiter said we were getting after-dinner drinks on the house. Which is when I learned Bob had reserved in my name although I had checked in as Sacha. I’d recently used the chef for a magazine piece, and he knows I’m coming up to help judge the Nickel City Chef next spring. But he’d nicely said nothing until after we’d eaten.

A note about the alcohol: Of the many wonderful things about Buffalo (and, for the purists, its suburbs), you can always get a big pour for very little. I had two sauvignon blancs for $6.50 apiece. The comped late-harvest Riesling (which sounds so much better than ice wine) was excellent. And the teetotaling I-LE swore she got soused on her Bailey’s.

As a result, next day she was in no shape for brunch out, so we set off in search of anything but eggs, heading for Duff’s as a default after scouring the internets. She had suggested Marotto’s, so we swung by to find it closed but the Delaware just opened, the “gastropub” I had just read about, on Buffalo Spree.

We wanted to get to the Burchfield-Penney Art Center and almost fled after walking in and finding one table of three sitting unattended, with no host or waiter in sight, but the bartender laid menus out in front of each stool, so we took a look and a chance. And it was so worth it. The $8 pastrami sandwich was excellent there, but the second half was even better on the train ride home next mid-morning. (Buffalo does have great rye bread.) And this thickly cut meat was pretty sensational, as was the balance of cheese and sauerkraut and Russian dressing. The fries with it seemed sad, though, soggy and limp, but still less flaccid than the “thinly cut fries” mounded over Bob’s outstanding hanger steak — I mistook them for onion shoestrings gone greasily bad. The meat (for all of $14) was really tender and perfectly cooked, though. We also shared the $5.50 artichoke-Cheddar-Gouda rarebit, too, a gooey-good mess with rye toast points for dunking.  The bartender was old school, attentive and chatty and very efficient. And it made for an out-of-Manhattan experience for sure: a football game on the big screen teevees with Sarah McLachlan on the sound system, and every other patron at the bar wearing the same North Face fleece. . .

Amtrak home was a gorgeous ride even though we were delayed an hour by a freight train in front of us and a single track near Utica, I think. But from Depew to Rochester I had an entire car to myself to watch the snowy countryside glide past, the ultimate in luxury. I’d take it again; the fare was $140 round trip, and there could not be a more soul-reviving way to travel. All those “real Americans” out in fly-over country should get behind some serious, China-level infrastructure investment — high-speed rail would open up their world to us “elitists.”

SeaBar, 475 Ellicott Street, Buffalo 716 332 2928
The Delaware, 3410 Delaware Avenue, Town of Tonawanda 716 874 0100

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 again: El Paso Taqueria on the Upper East Side, where my consort and I, in search of soothing/cheap food on a stressful Sunday, trekked with bulging Baggus from the Columbus Avenue Greenmarket and where our rewards were a plethora of overstuffed tacos and one great plate of three enchiladas with salsa verde, black beans and rice. I always want to write the place off, but the combination of location and value sucks me back in. My enchiladas were all of $9, and they were even better reheated next day to get them to Arizona-level meltiness. Bob’s tacos were $2.75 apiece, and two would have sufficed. WIGB? At least until a branch opens on our side of the park to beat down overpriced Cafe Frida and lame Noche Mexicana. 64 East 97th Street, 212 996 1739.

The not too bad: Little Giant on the Lower East Side, where three of us retreated after the outstanding Ed Kashi opening at Anastasia Photo (complete with good bar and great bartender). Our mission was to get far away fast to talk, so we passed up other places I was tempted by, and we got a table right away. The fact that we could not order a few apps first with wine was off-putting, but we did get to sit there for hours, sharing one bottle of red, some okay deviled eggs, some decent seared peppers, an over-cheesed kale salad and finally a pozole-esque concoction senza the dread cilantro. Too late, I remembered the place is all about the staff’s convenience. WIGB? Maybe. My cranial sieve is increasingly unreliable. 85 Orchard Street at Broome Street, 212 226 5047.

The tired: Aquagrill in SoHo, where I wound up with a great friend in from Veneto after finding my first old-reliable/quintessential-American choice has lost its chef to the wonderland of the West Coast. It was one of those gorgeous days when the outside tables were too tempting, but, as always, we would have been better off inside (and he might have gotten more of an impression of a Manhattan restaurant). The receptionist was nice enough to check his stack of books he was bearing to FedEx, though. I ordered my standby, the Aquagrill sandwich, after trying to explain what a crab cake is (“like a burger, but made with fish” — no sale), and he had the salmon BLT on my recommendation; apparently he scored. My choice was pretty heavily breaded, and the fries alongside seemed weary and meager (as did his). The breads to start also looked to be limping. We each had an inoffensive if not brilliant glass of white from Friuli, too, for $10. What was weirdest was the service. The waiter was flummoxed when I asked for tocai, which was all I absorbed from the description of the wine blend while Diego and I were intently catching up, so he brought the dessert menu to clarify. And then he never approached the table again for an hour and a half. How do you say WTF in Italian? This was a reprise of our last experience at the Red Cat, where a furriner also spooked the pro. WIGB? Hope not.

The somewhat good: Atlantic Grill, the new one across from Lincoln Center, where my consort and I wound up after a surreal photo opening at the Essex House, which had had finger food ambitious enough for us to want better than we normally settle for. It’s amazing how the Ginger Man was transformed so quickly, and it was even more amazing how packed it was right around showtime. We settled for a table out in the north forty, which at least was quieter although apparently farther from the kitchen, because the food took just short of forever. And when it came it was more strange than satisfying, particularly the weird maki (we ordered one with spicy tuna, eel and avocado but the bill shows one with scallop and crab salad, and it could have been either). The seared octopus had too many accouterments (smoked paprika, chickpeas, mint, harissa etc.), and the poor creature was either old or abused; either way, it was tough chewing. Even the salad, frisee with bacon, was more shopping list than satisfaction (green beans, mushrooms, pecorino etc.) Wines were only $10 a glass, though, which was good because we were on our second by the time the plates arrived. WIGB? Maybe. Location, location. And Bob liked the look of the place. 49 West 64th Street, 212 787 4663.

The fully reliable: Mermaid Inn uptown, where I made two poor friends meet me again because I was too stressed to think of anything more ambitious and where we were at least rewarded with the usual. My cod with mashed potatoes and crispy spinach was a little bland, but at least the portion was enough for my dinner, two tastes for them and lunch the next day for me and The Cat. I liked what I sampled of the pecan-crusted trout with sweet potatoes, too, and the skate looked good. Service was rather dismissive, I guess because I was the only one springing for wine. But we all left happy enough.