gastropoda/trails

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 good again: The New French, where my faith in the restaurant business is always restored — it is possible to get it exactly right right out of the starting gate. And the advantage over Pearl is that it was open Saturday for lunch when my consort and I had an errand on Bleecker Street. The tuna sandwich on pizza bianca with fries was just as amazing as last time, and the brisket sandwich on ciabatta with greens was nearly its equal — I took the last four bites home. We were going to skip wine, but the rose was too tempting and the waitress too easy to hail. The best part was that the brunch menu had those eggless alternatives. And without elaborating, I’ll just say the attention to detail is like nothing I’ve ever experienced in this city. Even the doggie bag is right (no wasteful packaging there). WIGB? My cover’s blown, but absolutely. 522 Hudson Street near 10th Street, 212 807 7357. 

The surprisingly good: La Rural, where we headed for a latish Sunday supper despite having heard stories of rudeness and cluelessness recently but where we got service as good as the food. We shared a cheap bottle of Malbec plus a skirt steak — a great slab of meat grilled really rare, with a mound of sauteed grape tomatoes alongside — and an excellent tricolore salad with blue cheese. We were there too late for garden seating (it ends at 8), but our table right by the back door compensated. WIGB? Even with no BYOB, it’s still good value and a really nice room. 768 Amsterdam Avenue near 98th Street, 212 749 2929.  

The reassuringly good: Toloache, where we retreated from the hordes and the Trader Joe’s plonk at the ICP student exhibition and where the food and service were as superb as ever, even if the cooks were now wearing gloves (why anyone thinks those are better than clean hands is beyond me). We got our favorite seats at the guacamole bar and shared overstuffed brisket tacos, a quesadilla with huitlacoche and the trio of empanadas; we ordered in stages, and somehow comped guacamole with chips and salsa verde materialized in between rounds one and two. The vibe in the place is always great, too. 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818. 

The whoa, what the hell happened? Gallo Nero, where I lured a friend for a scheming lunch when she had to be in that neighborhood for a meeting and where I walked out embarrassed nearly two hours later. Not only was everything we ordered lame, but it was also slow — three small dishes took forever to come. The porcini under the provolone on crostini were slimy, and the crab in the crab cakes could have been canned salmon. The fried calamari and zucchini were fat rubber bands and a few charred slices of squash. Even the bean puree with the bread needed salt. The waiter was the solicitous one from my first trip, and the wine was decent, and the room was still very charming. But WIGB? Not on a bet. 

The good: Rhong-Tiam in the West Village, where my consort and I met friends in from the ’burbs who wanted something not too fancy on a weeknight and where they were unnerved by the emptiness of the place but we were thrilled by the cooking. My pal who would know has raved about the place on his blog, so we mostly used his cheat sheet to order and totally followed his advice to get plenty of rice because the food is authentically incendiary. The papaya salad was exceptional despite being almost too hot to eat, but the duck chu chee (succulent deep-fried breast with curry gravy) was just right even though I insisted on having it spicy. Overall, flavor trumped heat. Nuer nam tok (Thai beef salad) was outstanding, the meat very tender and the lime sauce very lively. “Roasted pork neck” as an appetizer looked similar but tasted different, with thin juicy slices in a vibrant fish and chili sauce. Tom yum was very rich and full of seafood. Crispy basil pork was also smoking but balanced, with the stir-fried ground meat mixed with sweet and hot peppers under a duck blind of deep-fried herb leaves. Even the non-spicy compromise entree, the lemongrass chicken, was at least 10 times better than anything I’ve experienced in most Thai restaurants. We also split two ice creams and a creme brulee, and while Bret warned that beer was the best choice because the wine would probably not be good, the list was actually smart (maybe too much so — we ran up a ridiculous tab with only two iced teas and one sake on the other side of the table). WIGB? Can’t wait, assuming it lasts — I don’t think more than two other tables filled the whole evening. 541 LaGuardia Place, between West Third and Bleecker Streets, 212 477 0600.

The better: The New French, again, where Bob and I headed after being spurned at La Lunchonette, where we stupidly headed after a friend’s gallery opening nearby (the place was literally half-empty and they insisted we needed a reservation; luckily, the rebuff lasted just long enough to make me remember how mediocre the food was the last time we risked it). Our second choice was packed, but they took Bob’s name and cell number and promised they would call us in 30 minutes if we wanted to go have a drink across the street. So we had a glass at Bayard’s and then, right on time, got the ring tone to head back for that perfect table in the window and an overall excellent experience. The place has so much energy, and the staff seems so happy that it’s jammed and jazzy. (Not incidentally, that staff is exactly the same as the first time we went.) I just had the pizza bianca again, this time topped with two cheeses, onions and peppers, while Bob, who had started the night craving fish, tucked into a huge Nicoise-esque salad with charred steak (he ordered medium and it arrived rare, as it needed to be). Wines by the glass were excellent and priced right (about $9), and the service was exemplary, too. Odd as it sounds, it felt like eating in a new place in Paris. WIGB? If we can get in. 522 Hudson Street near West 10th, 212 807 7357.

The annoying: Bar Blanc in the West Village, where I took my super-stressed consort for his birthday (blame a certain Alsatian) and where I had that Niagara Falls feeling (what’s a honeymooner’s second biggest disappointment?) The host and waiter were superb, but they stuck us back at a table so cramped it was really like eating at 30,000 feet — I couldn’t stretch out my fucked-up leg, and every time the polyester napkin slid off my lap it was like trying to retrieve something from an aisle clogged by a drinks cart. Bob hated that, but I pointed out that at least we were not under the techno-thumping speakers. He got more pissed when the sommelier presented the verdejo we ordered from the relatively reasonable list and then vanished to open it. If he did so in front of the customer, he explained when asked, “Things could happen.” Okay. . . . All of which would have been forgiven, but the food was surprisingly one-note given the Bouley heritage of the founders. Buffalo mozzarella with ramps turned out to be two bland balls, cold at the center, sitting in rapidly cooling mushroom foam. Seared black cod with “wilted arrowleaf spinach, roast sunchoke, squid ink, saffron mussel sauce [really foam again]” proved to be just what it read like: one of those Mormon marriages on a plate. Bob’s crispy striped bass was at least redeemed by the amazing black risotto on which it rested. The olive bread was outstanding, more so with the olive oil for dipping. But as we headed out on an early Friday night as the cheap “Sex and the City” knockoffs were settling in, we were wishing we had realized P*ong was just a couple of doors away. WIGB? Fool me once. . .

The I-Gotta-Start-Planning-Better: Youzan, Alouette, Rosa Mexicano, Whym and Pio Maya: Whoever described going out to dinner as a 90-minute solution to a 30-minute problem was talking my week. Forget why that was, but we/I had one crappy experience after another just because my consort was stressed and I was both stressed and unwilling to pick up the sponge after one recipe-testing bout worse than the last. Youzan I thought would make Bob happy because he loves Asian food more than I do Mexican, but he instantly noticed how the space feels just like evil Gabriela’s with a Japanese menu. He got some grim sushi thing, I ordered a teriyaki salmon thing that reminded me why I have not wanted to eat Japanese in the 24 years since I last encountered that leathery fish. Alouette was pretty much a disaster on every level except the one for which I chose it: Nice, quiet, cheap wine, pleasant atmosphere. This was a Monday night, so the staff were happily talking among themselves, and to call the service offhand would have been overstating it. Bob’s scallops with spinach and mystery potato puree were fine, but my “duck confit salad” appetizer comprised shreds of geriatric meat on a little pile of frisee. I pushed the funky meat aside, tasted his entree and paid $75 for that little bit plus two glasses of wine each. As we left, not a word. Rosa? I have to remember never to agree to a table in the back room on 18th Street at Wednesday lunch when I go for my queso fundido fix. The bright sunlight showcases the grime on the glasses, the waitron is always distracted, I always and inevitably get so angry I would walk out except it ain’t that easy with a heavy bag from the market. QF was fine, though, and the waitress went into kowtowing overdrive once she realized she had bowed to another table of two broads who had arrived after me and wanted to babble on while I stewed.

Whym at least was the right refuge at the right time — we were six leaving the OSI photo opening around the corner, and at least we could all hear each other even if the air was a little on the fried side. Bob’s salad of salmon over greens was decent, but I was walking wounded next day after greens with cheesy dressing. The price was right, though. As for Pio Maya, shoot me, which I think is exactly what Mr. Sacha was ready to do after we wound up there after the Greenmarket on Saturday after finding Elettaria not open for brunch and before realizing he had to get to a Story Corps interview way downtown so fast. The funky little place I remembered has turned itself into more of a cafe, but shoving the steam table into the kitchen has clearly set it back big time. My chorizo torta was not great (stale roll, architect in absentia), but Bob’s chicken salad comprised a few strips of bizarrely orange protein on a tiny mound of romaine and chopped vegetables. I tasted the protein only out of curiosity and thought it could have been fish. Maybe dried. Possibly rehydrated. $12.98 total? Overpriced.

I really have to start keeping a notebook again. Surely things are not as bad everywhere as they tasted. . . .