gastropoda/trails

The surprisingly good, given the reviews: Tipsy Parson in Chelsea, where we meandered after Doug Menuez’s opening and after finding Red Cat booked solid as usual on open-gallery night. We had to wait a few minutes at the bar but got a relatively quiet table in the back corner for an outstanding if dainty little plate of spreads: deviled tasso, pimento cheese and blackeye peas, with less-than-outstanding crackers. We also split a country ham and frisee salad that would have been great if the dressing had not been too tart because the egg on top was not oozy but poached rubber hard. Macaroni and cheese was above average, though. Gruner at $10 a good-sized glass also left us feeling good about the place. WIGB? Absolutely. 156th Ninth Avenue near 20th Street, 212 620 4545.

The when-the-fuck-will-I-ever-learn?: Les Halles, where once again, too late, we remembered only the affordable steak frites with salad, not the dispirited feel of the place and the absurdly disorganized service. As soon as I saw the leatherette on the banquette was split open, I knew the slide had gone a little farther. Bread, butter and fries were still great, but the steak was oddly un-beefy. And I made the mistake of ordering only the frisee salad with lardons and blue cheese, only to learn after one bite that stone-cold lardons are chilling  — the greens tasted only nasty porky-greasy. As I was goating through it, Bob ordered coffee, but it only came after the check (waiter never noticed he had billed for something not on the table), so we went next door to Fika for a seriously bracing Swedish espresso for $1 less and instant service. WIGB? Someone shoot me before I forget again.

The womb-like: Beco in Greenpoint, where nine of us headed just for drinks after a friend’s gallery talk nearby and where the staff could not have been more accommodating, pulling together tables and handing us all menus drink-side up rather than taking umbrage at the prospect of no food tab. I ordered a $6 sauvignon blanc before realizing caipirinhas were the way to go. Four of us walked out to hearty thanks and shivered to the L close by wondering why we can’t have a place like that in our neighborhood. Of course, the answer is obvious: Ridiculous rents and stroller gridlock. WIGB? Absolutely. It was so pleasant, and the well-priced Brazilian menu looked promising. 45 Richardson Street near Lorimer, Brooklyn, 718 599 1645.

The when-did-it-turn-so-touristy?: Keens Steakhouse too close to Macy’s, where we rushed back from Brooklyn on a Sunday night to meet steak-craving friends literally just off the plane from India, Madagascar and Mauritius and where I’m surprised their heads didn’t explode from culture shock.  We were shunted to a table upstairs, a room that felt like an over-lit theme park, with unsmoked pipes on the ceiling and waiters, hostesses and other diners all snapping photos of grinning Middle Americans, but that was not the worst of it. I can’t recall service that unservicey in a restaurant where entrees are in the $40s — our guy spent most of the evening lounging against the bar after taking our wine and food orders. The Bugses split a $90 porterhouse, but my consort and I were overwhelmed by the $43.50 sirloin; we all shared decent creamed spinach and a big order of fries. (And there was a tray of gargantuan carrot sticks and celery stalks with olives and blue cheese dip in the middle of the table, another heartland touch, as were the mints at the door and $1 coat check fee posted on a brass plate at the checkroom.) We took most of our steak home, and it tasted just as odd sliced and seared next day. Maybe we’re just used to better beef everywhere these days, but this was downright peculiar. Do they store it too close to the mutton? WIGB? Not if you paid me. I don’t remember it being that bad, but then the last time I ate in the dining room I think was after 9/11 when I did a piece for the NYTimes on vintage restaurants thriving in a shattered city. Too bad you can’t eat the 1885 scenery.

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 always good: The New French, where I guiltily went to re-calibrate my appestat after the Wednesday Greenmarket. A-plus for Cheddarburger, fries, rosé and service. Would have given my compliments to the chef on the way out, but he was doing what chefs so rarely do: Cooking his ass off at peak lunchtime. 522 Hudson Street at 10th, 212 807 7357.

The not bad: Bar Artisanal, where I hooked up with my consort after the book party down below and where the pluses outweighed the minuses, maybe because the Boss Man was on the premises, in his whites. Manchego “beignets” were a rip, four little deep-fried dabs on long skewers for $9, but the $16 seared cod with cockles, chorizo and potatoes was actually big enough to share and the $15 tartiflette “pissaladiere” was a generous slab richly topped with lardons, potatoes and Reblochon. I had a half-glass of Brachetto at the bar while waiting ($7) and felt happier with a full glass of $9 Verdicchio at the table. The place looks pretty grand, but the hostess told Bob it was one restaurant one night and this one the next, so credit where credit is due. 268 West Broadway at Sixth Avenue, 212 925 1616.

The promising: Centrico, where I was a bad guest at a decent book party and where the passed apps and the margarita made me think, yet again, I have been remiss in never investing in a full meal there. Crab tostaditos were irresistible and the little meatballs . . . spicy. Bartenders were great; it was all almost enough to make me forget my one ignominious night cooking in the teeny kitchen there when it was 211, back in the last century. 211 West Broadway, 212 431 0700.

The good: The New French, yet again, where my consort and I headed on finding Pearl closed for vacation after the devastating “Gomorrah” at IFC (toxic waste, toxic assets — what’s the diff?) The place was surprisingly empty on this Monday night, and only one waitress was working, but we had unsurprisingly great service and food, hanger steak with fries and great sauce for Bob and the salad with tuna for me. Half the meal was spent marveling that such careful cooking can be dispensed for such beyond-reasonable prices — the amount of labor that goes into the salad alone is daunting, a thought that was reinforced as we stood up to leave and saw the chef roasting a huge batch of red peppers for the next day’s round of copious salads. WIGB? The burger is calling my name. . . 522 Hudson Street at 10th, 212 807 7357.

The not bad: Cafe Luxembourg, where we reserved for complicated reasons involving crossed signals on concerts and Connecticut plus overbooking at West Branch and Kefi too busy to take reservations, and where the room and vibe, as always, compensated for perfectly adequate food. I had the New French steak on my brain and stupidly succumbed to the 7-ounce steak frites, a dish that was decent enough but nothing like what was stuck in my cranial sieve (and a lot more expensive). Bob was bummed that his chicken was the reheated kind, but our friends were polite about their chicken and their tuna burger. Bob’s beet salad to start was pretty okay, though. We split a bottle of gruner and got away for around $115 a couple. Probably the best part of the evening, besides the conversation, was knowing that that lame Compass next door has only survived from CL overflow. We met there for a glass of wine beforehand, and it was like God’s waiting room. WIGB? Inevitably. It’s the poor man’s Balthazar, but that is not a bad thing. 200 West 70th Street, 212 873 7411.

The transporting: New Leaf in Fort Tryon Park, where we stopped for lunch on our way to avail ourselves of the already dirt-cheap PJ Wine’s loyal-customer deal on bottles at cost and where the setting was like a Hudson Valley inn without the Metro North ride. For reasons I still question, I had the portobello wrap, with zucchini, peppers, basil aioli and tapenade (and, allegedly, Fontina, although it tasted more like smoked mozzarella), which came with a big mound of mesclun. It was actually better than a wrap has a right to be, and Bob’s chicken potpie was its rival, with puff pastry for a crust and a very rich sauce around perfectly cooked carrots and, he said, overcooked chicken chunks. Like almost everyone else — tourists and old people and hooky-players like us — we had to have alcohol, and the sauvignon blanc was a good pour for $9. One waitress, one busboy and a couple of managers worked that busy room like a winning team. WIGB? Absolutely. It’s so far away and yet so close. 1 Margaret Corbin Drive, 212 568 5323.

The good: Salumeria Rosi, where a friend offered to treat me to a birthday drink and snack and where we wound up staggering from Cesare’s beneficence. I got there first for a 5:30 connection, and the hostess seated me with a warning that the table was needed back by 7 or 7:30, so I ordered a glass of $9 tocai and as the waiter was explaining the menu an “Italian spritzer” landed — prosecco with Aperol. Another followed for Donna when she arrived, so we huddled over the menu choosing small plates. They all actually turned out to be the most satisfying tastes of the night, but it was hard to complain about the succession of indulgences sent from the kitchen: prosciutto bread; a beyond-generous platter of salumi; squash risotto with pumpkinseeds; caponata and heirloom-bean salad; salt cod, and Gorgonzola with candied almonds. We were more taken with the beyond-tender heirloom pork rib, the culatello, the green of the day (Swiss chard) and especially the lasagne, a small square of totally tender pasta layered with just enough ragu, cheese and sauce. Through all that, we somehow found room for three desserts, of which the date toffee cake was the most amazing. WIGB? Early for sure, and maybe with a bag over my head. 283 Amsterdam Avenue near  74th Street, 212 877 4800.

The not bad: Fairway Cafe yet again, where we retreated with Dr. and Lady Bugs after the beyond-abysmal “Wrestler” and where the cheap wine compensated for the soup sold as pizza and the rathah scary bathrooms (Dr. B lived in India for a month on a pittance and still decided he could count on his camel bladder to get him home to Brooklyn before he would brave a backed-up toilet as employees were voiding). We were there late on a Sunday night, and so the real amazement was that the branzino was not totally geriatric. I didn’t try our just-back-from-Argentina friends’ huge steaks (hanger, strip), or the shrimp chowder starter one got on the prix fixe, but their fries were good. The free flatbread was half-baked, though. We had a new, great waitress with serious personality, and the wine was all we wanted: cheap. For the first time, though, Bob left saying it was depressing. I reminded him the food is usually great. Plus the wine is extraordinarily cheap. And no fingers were excised in slicers like in the crapflick.

The transporting: Yakitori Totto, where seven of us hooked up for a little orgy of skewers etc. and where we learned to let the regular do the ordering — get greedy and you wind up with Vienna sausages made of chicken. Gyoza were exceptional, probably the best I’ve had in New York. But she also suggested good chicken and tofu and pork and indulged us with the asparagus wrapped in bacon; what’s great is that you can order by the $3 piece as you so rarely can with other cuisines. We didn’t try the dessert she was lusting after (and I didn’t steal a menu), but the green tea ice cream dusted with matcha was a good ending. The service was quite good, too; we’ve never been eased out so gracefully with people lined up for our table in a little front room. 251 West 55th Street, 212 245 4555.

The worth notice even though I am dispirited: Sookk delivered decent Thai for a Saturday lunch, El Paso came through with great enchiladas for me if not satisfaction for my two escorts and the Mermaid Inn was the right place to head for an early dinner after our kick-in-the-gut loss (Bob let me order clam chowder and french fries as my dinner — you take your balm where you find it).

The great yet again: The New French in the West Village, where we made our first pilgrimage in exactly two months to meet a friend and where the perfection was the same as it always is. I had had the cheeseburger on my mind since eating it on doctor’s advice last time, and it lived up to my memory: great meat cooked right, topped with sauteed onions and pickles with a chile sauce on the side; the good fries as usual came in a too-big-to-finish heap. Consort and friend had steak salads, also superb (anchovy vinaigrette is the way to dress), and she raved about her latte. A tiny table with a cushion for a window seat turned out to be ideal because we could all hear each other no matter how the throngs flowed in around us. Service and wine were also faultless. No wonder the food mafia is finding its way there, with two boldface names in one week. 522 Hudson Street at 10th Street, 212 807 7357.

The well worth the journey: Franny’s in the alien borough of Brooklyn, where friends who live nearby lured us with the promise of fabulous pizza and where the payoff included three of those plus amazing octopus and interesting wine (bianco di Custoza for $34 a bottle). Not to mention relatively few of the human larvae I was dreading. We shared the olive oil-sea salt pizza, one with tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella and one with clams and parsley, all little masterpieces on charred bread from the wood oven. Marinated olives as a starter were fine, but the octopus, which normally is blackened rubber, was totally tender, surrounded by a few chickpeas in great olive oil. WIGB? Absolutely, with a meat lover to try the house salumi, but the whole experience actually made me want to go exploring more. 295 Flatbush Avenue, 718 230 0221.

The right place on the right night: Kefi on Columbus, where we headed on New Year’s Eve because it met key criteria for us traditionalists — regular (read: non-gouge) menu, and location before Champagne at our friend’s in the Beresford and the fireworks at midnight in the park. For those whose first question is: Was Donatella there? The answer is yes; she showed us to a table on the lower level and apparently alerted Michael to our presence, because killer sardines and amazing Greek sausages arrived between the array of always-brilliant spreads we’d ordered as a starter and Bob’s fat slab of swordfish and my appetizer-as-main-course fried cod with garlicky potatoes. We should have split a bottle of wine because we ordered by the glass as a pacing mechanism and of course kept ordering, but it was worth it. The place was packed and beyond festive, especially after Donatella went through the room passing out hats and noisemakers. Which was reassuring when we remembered how many wonderful Dec. 31 meals we’ve had over the years in just-opened empty restaurants that are now long gone (can you say Toqué!?) WIGB? Early and often. 505 Columbus near 84th Street, 212 873 0200.

The pretty good: Fairway Cafe on Broadway yet again, where my consort and I met three young friends in search of an affordable dinner in less than bedlam when we could not get reservations anytime but 6 and 9:30 at three other options. (So much for Panchito and his whining that restaurants are being too aggressively accommodating.) We were supposed to be six, so I can’t complain that the big table was crammed in so tightly the poor busboy almost lost it on his second pass as I was trying to give him room. But the focaccia with herbed olive oil made up for that right away, especially with refills. My hanger steak had great flavor and fries to share with Bob, whose chicken seemed dry to me but made him happy. The big debate came when the check did, with charges for one glass of white and one of red rather than a bottle of each. Everyone else wanted to just overtip; I thought we should tell the waiter, and he did seem relieved. We still got away for less than the price of a salad and a glass anywhere else. WIGB? It’s relatively quiet.

The lame: Atlantic Grill on the Upper East Side, where I stopped for what is becoming a ritual whenever I have a hospital experience nearby and where my penalty was a very slow, very tasteless cheeseburger. The place was packed, which made me think fewer people got scammed by Madoff than we might imagine. The burger was much bigger than the Hansons usually are, and it had mega-cheese on it, but I kept waiting for flavor to kick in. The guy who seated me was nice, though, and the supercilious waiter from last time was not as supercilious. And at least I did not get as annoyed as the guy in the booth behind me, who was losing it because his food, too, took so long. WIGB? For many reasons, I certainly hope not.

The pretty good: La Rural, where my consort treated me to my first meal out since the Great Incision and where even a mis-ordered salad could not dampen my outsized pleasure at my escape from my own kitchen. We split the excellent entraña (skirt steak), seriously garlicky Provencal fries and that salad and had enough left for lunch for me next day. The place was less than half-full, so the noise level was painless, and the service was outstanding as always. WIGB? Meat’s still on my RX pad, so I hope so. With a glass of wine each, the bill was $56 before tip. 768 Amsterdam Avenue near 98th Street, 212 865 2929.

The good again: Aquagrill in SoHo, where we headed after my consort woke up late on Saturday and announced he wanted a real meal after seven beyond-grueling days of teaching while resorting to fodder rather than good food. I took that to be code for “fish,” and Pearl hates us on Saturdays, so we dragged all our bags from the market at Union Square to Spring Street only to find the crab cake sandwich I like so much is not on the brunch menu. But excellent roasted Casco Bay cod with spinach, artichokes and caper beurre noisette was, so I quietly put aside my salmon reservations and had the excellent BLT with the Atlantic fish and good fries apportioned judiciously. My qualms about octopus were stifled as well to please him, which was a good thing because the huge salad was outstanding: warm, amazingly tender tentacles with roasted peppers and sweet onions. Because we sat outside, the service was pretty discombobulated, with us begging for bread, waiting forever for wine. But WIGB? Absolutely. 210 Spring Street at Sixth Avenue, 212 274 0505.

The adequate: La Rural, where I met tired and annoyed Bob for a late dinner and where the entraña (skirt steak) was tougher than usual, but where the service and salad and wine were fine. WIGB? It is very close to home. 768 Amsterdam Avenue near 98th Street, 212 865 2929.