gastropoda/trails

The good: Boqueria in SoHo, where we headed with a Philadelphia friend in town for the book expo who expressed a preference for either Caribbean or Mediterranean, anything “light and sunny.” Sort of Spanish sort of fit the bill, although I admit I paused at the blackboard brunch sign out front when I realized how likely eggs were to dominate and how close we were to the Saturday fallback, Aquagrill, with its sidewalk terrace. But it was early, and we got a nice table overlooking the plancha, and the waiter was attentive and the food and wine were excellent even if the music deserved deportation and the bathroom looked worthy of a train, and not in tidy Spain. We just shared a few pricey but excellent tapas: tender octopus on skewers and toast with tomatoes and sugar snap peas in green olive vinaigrette; diver scallops with English peas etc. in bacon vinaigrette; three croquetas — suckling pig, mushroom and salt cod — with sauces, and padron peppers, which were good but not up to Lanzarote level because only one I got had any heat. Rosé and sangria were $9 and $8 a glass; with two each it came out to $38 a person with tax and tip. Not bad, but not the proven deal down the block. WIGB? Maybe. Just not on Egg Day. 17 Spring Street between Thompson and West Broadway, 212 343 4255.

The better than we had any right to hope: Le Petit Marché in Brooklyn Heights, where I met locals and my consort after his workday and with very low expectations, given the neighborhood and the Alouette evocation when I walked in the door on a drizzly gray night. But our food was pretty satisfying, much more so than the sullen-at-best service. I had eaten earlier so only ordered my idea of nibbles — an appetizer of crab-chickpea fritters with chipotle-smoked paprika aioli plus a side of truffle-Parmigiano fries — and was happy with both. My consort made me taste his very chewy but flavorful duck with date gastrique and sweet potato puree, and our friends seemed happy with a special pasta with sausage and summer squash and crab-corn chowder (on this gray evening) plus an off-the-menu pork chop with corn risotto. We split two bottles of red and I think got out for under $100 a couple. WIGB? Absolutely, were I to find myself in that neck of the far woods ever again. 46 Henry Street, 718 858 9605.

P.J. Clarke’s at Lincoln Center, where nine of us landed after the disappointing “Departures” at the little theater around the corner and where we had no reason to complain given the location, location, location coupled with the reasonable prices, decent cooking and showoff service. Our small mob was seated almost instantly at a few tables jammed together in a back corner where we could mostly hear ourselves talk, and the waiter was patient and mellow when some of us just ordered salads or side dishes and others ordered no booze. My Caesar was the same as it ever was, and my consort looked to have more goat cheese than he needed on his spinach salad. Friend to my left was blissful with her sliders if not the bizarre “bubble and squeak” that came with; friend to my right ate the latter with as few complaints as he had for his French onion soup once the kitchen omitted the cheese topping. WIGB? Absolutely. Even if we have to again fight our way through a bizarre horde trying to get into the bar at Center Cut next door. 44 West 63d Street, 212 957 9700.

The pretty good: Pegu Club, where seven of us met for early drinks on a Friday and could actually hear ourselves talk until about 9 in a second-floor space that really looks straight out of Hong Kong. Our social secretary, Julie, snared us a huge but snug booth near the bar and was waiting with a generous glass of wine, the sight of which made the $12 price tag much easier to swallow. (After extensive research, the Goldwater sauvignon blanc was more to my taste than the Joseph Drouhin Chablis.) We ordered not enough food, unfortunately, and I tasted only the good deviled eggs stuffed with trout and something strange; pulled-duck sliders with excellent filling, okay vegetable spring rolls and a bit of the exceptional tuna tartare. We had to sit next to Republicans, though, which was so unnerving that when I made some lame joke about the oceans and the fucker in the White House I thought the waitress was coming by to shush me. But that, sadly, was one of the few times she or anyone else in a dress voluntarily approached the table. A little more service would generate many more orders. 77 Houston Street near West Broadway, 212 473 PEGU.

The better than usual: Pearl Oyster Bar, where I went for my lunchtime fix of skate sandwich and where what seemed to be a new kitchen team was more surgical than on my last outing — the ciabatta was layered perfectly with just enough tomato and greens without huge globs of tartar sauce. The bartender was also new to me but was, as they always are, worthy of a starring role in a training video on service. Surprisingly if refreshingly, it was almost all solo diners on a rainy day and no one wanted to chat. But they still shared, if unwittingly: One woman was clearly on a POB orgy, starting with shrimp, then a lobster roll, then a butterscotch praline sundae, nearly licking the plates clean every time; a hungover guy almost had his head in his Caesar salad until his clams arrived and he snapped back to life. WIGB? Where else can you get two meals for one price? My consort had the other half of my huge sandwich for a late dinner. 18 Cornelia Street, 212 691 8211.

The promising: Madaleine Mae, where a friend and I had a magical lunch with snow showering down out the windows and where I swore I would never go for dinner but still found myself just four nights later, wedged into the next table. Kinks are still being worked out, but our food at lunch was well above Columbus Avenue standards — the seafood gumbo needed only a little Tabasco, the crab cake sandwich was very meaty and the mirliton fritters with roasted pepper aioli were so dangerously good we only tasted rather than risking a Mr. Creosote. Service was a little erratic, but it had just opened, and our waitress was ebullient if not totally attentive (Jonathan himself waved goodbye as we left, though). And the room is so seductive, with barely a trace of its time as Kitchen 82. I assumed it would be brutally loud at dinner, but Bob and I were due out of a movie at 7 and so I reserved. Noise was not an issue, and although the tables around us were antsy about the service, the waitress was surprisingly efficient, although she did need to be prodded to bring the bread trowel everyone else had gotten. So we tried those four breads and were underwhelmed by all but one sort of warm biscuit; the scone, second biscuit and cornbread were all cold and chewy, not light or flaky or airy. Wines were good again, starting at $8 a glass for red or white from Argentina. My nut-crusted redfish tasted as if it was at least as old as the restaurant, but the new-wave succotash with squash that came under it was vinegary and great. And Bob’s jambalaya was outstanding, rich but light and with the perfect balance of seafood and sausage to popcorny rice. It all just made us wonder why Jacques-Imo’s went out of business serving similar food five blocks south. I guess it needed the not-from-around-here crowd. . . . WIGB? Often, I suspect. 461 Columbus Avenue at 82d Street, 212496 3000.

The pretty good: Irving Mill, where we walked in bedraggled and overburdened from the Greenmarket and Barnes & Noble for lunch on Saturday and where we were given a booth big enough to sleep in with all our belongings. The food was almost beside the point — the place is so overdesigned right down to the bathrooms I’m surprised Danny Meyer isn’t pulling a Rebecca Charles. But I liked my peekytoe crab salad ($14 appetizer) with frisee, fingerlings, beets, leeks and crosnes even though the dominant flavor was salt rather than the promised truffle vinaigrette. I also liked my consort’s less-than-succulent braised rabbit with olives, garlic sausage and potato puree even though it, too, seemed to be absent a menu-marquee flavor (rosemary). The bread and butter were as copious as the wine pours were abstemious (the $9 verdejo was underwhelming, the $9 Bordeaux better). Service was a bit pretentious, but it is competing with the best restaurant in St. Louis. WIGB? Bob said yes for me on the comment card, but on reexamining the bill I see the rabbit was $22 on the menu and $24 on the receipt. Not so sure now. 116 East 16th Street, 212 254 1600.

The promising: Pamplona, where one drawback beyond the risky business with the credit cards is the noise level. Six of us were lucky enough to score a back booth, so we could sorta hear what three of us were saying at one time, but I guess that’s what you get when the draw is imaginative, well-executed nueva Espanol. Food went by in a blur, but I know I tasted good chickpea fries, salt cod croquettes and salt-cured tuna, way-above-average patatas bravas and lively crab lasagne with salsa verde, among other dishes. The free-flowing tempranillo was fine, too. WIGB? Cautiously, given the carelessness with credit card numbers and the fact that I just looked at the purloined menu and see that it advises a 20 percent service charge tacked onto bills for parties of six or more — if I dredge up that telltale receipt and find we all tipped twice, we will not exactly be happy. 37 East 28th Street, 212 213 2328.

The boring: Market Table in the West Village, where a friend/professional eater in town for a few days to soak up New York at its most exciting was lured by this fool too lazy to schlep to more promising destinations. The service was beyond personable and friendly, but my $19 crab cake sandwich was a snore begging for livelier tartar sauce and less rubbery bun. All the menu was a snooze, though, to the point that we briefly considered decamping to Pearl on first scanning it. But it was raining, so we stuck around for good bread and butter, good gruner (a glass going for what the same bottle sells for at Gotham) and a borderline-acceptable noise level. My friend was happy with her very straightforward soup and the side of sauteed greens she persuaded the waitress to bring, and with the bathrooms, which she said are way far above those in the town where she is sentenced to serve. She also got her New York’s worth yukking it up over the maple syrup for sale in the weird “market” at the entryway. How many ways can you say “buyer beware new-age idiocy”?