gastropoda/trails

I had a lot of time by myself while Bob was preoccupied with his students, so I invested it in serious research, investigating “rose wine,” as the waiters called it. The House Cafe had a pleasant balcony and charged 12 Turkish lira for a big glass of fine Lal, from Kavaklidere, apparently the dominant producer in Anatolia. At the sleek cafe in the wonderful Pera Museum with its spirit-lifting Botero exhibit, I tried two other producers’ over two days for only 10 TL a pour and got amazing pistachios to go with them. And one afternoon I invested an hour tasting four different rosés at Sensus, a wine cellar with a cheese counter. I’m not sure how any of them would stack up against something from Languedoc or Provence, but they were beyond impressive there. I see Astor carries some of them in New York, and they’re much cheaper than they were in the restaurants.

Wow. Did I really eat out nowhere this week? I know I had endless Champagne at Mireille Guiliano’s book party at her home. And I ate some great short ribs braised in Austrian vinegar at a press party, plus a great fava bean salad with pumpkinseeds and pumpkinseed oil, all tucked into a crunchy cornet. But I also realized, yet again, why chefs should be wary of those kinds of promos: What I tasted from a restaurant I’d been wanting to try was rated NG. For all a certain chef’s alleged fear of cooking for 200 in a kitchen set up for that, the awful truth is that way too much turns to rubber chicken when you have to transport it and serve it to a crowd.

The good as always: The New French, for post-market cheeseburger and steak salad done right. Kitty bag was kinda sloppy (leftovers all tossed into one tin, which leaked) but otherwise it was as it inevitably is: perfect.

Otherwise, I only broke away from our kitchen for dinner at our friends Debbie & Jim’s place down CPW, and as always it was great food and consummate hospitality: excellent guacamole, trailer park dip (equal parts mayonnaise, Cheddar and Vidalia onion, baked till gooey), salad with watermelon surprise, seafood-chicken-sausage paella, raspberry-sauced almost-flourless chocolate cake baked by Emily the star of stage and small screen and many, many bottles of wine to fuel lively conversation. Much as I like to cook (and control), having someone else do it is beyond luxury these days.

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 pretty good: Anthos Upstairs, where one of the last editors with an expense account treated me to Recessionary Chic and where I wonder how happy the chef is that his downstairs regulars were so ready to try the cheap alternative. We split the better-than-Kefi fried cod, the exceptional dumplings with a surfeit of leeks, duck gyro (strange) and the beet-feta salad (great) and were comped the overwrought mussels and underwhelming red mullet. Each generous small plate was $12 or under, and you could get away with fewer dishes. The waiter seemed a good guide to the Greek wines by the glass, too. WIGB? I felt as if I was walking to a foreign country on leaving the subway, and I may not get a ticket there again soon. 36 West 52d Street, 212 582 6900.

The WTF was I thinking? Chez Lucienne in Harlem, where I dragged my long-suffering consort and the Bugses on a bitter night after I got a bug up my own restaurant notebook to try a nice chef’s latest outpost because it seemed so affordable. The host and the room were fine, very evocative of a French fantasy, but. .  .  The waiter was like a battering ram, repeatedly interrupting even though the place was pretty empty. And my consort spent half the long trek home bitching about the wine — the first bottle, a cabernet for $26, was so shiver-inducing he upgraded to the $32 St. Emilion for the second and felt twice as ripped off. As for the food, our shared endive-blue cheese salad was pretty sodden although the bit of our friends’ foie gras I tasted almost redeemed it. Lady Bugs and I both stupidly ordered the bavette, which was translated as skirt steak but was closer to hanger and really the worst of both cuts, chewy and sloppy. The potato gratin, while nothing to write home to Lydie Marshall about, was a saving grace, though. And certainly we did better than poor Bob with his cooked-to-winy-overkill coq au vin with noodles and Dr. Bugs with his beef daube (the polenta with it was fried, which seemed ill-matched). They split a “nougat glacé,” of which a forkful was plenty. It was $100 a couple, but Bob said he would always pay more for good. WIGB? Alouette is so much closer, if you catch my drift.

The adequate: The bar at PorterHouse in the dread TWC, where a friend and I hooked up before an outstanding evening of Jazz at Lincoln Center in the dread TWC. Pricey wines were strange (the Oregon pinot gris was as syrupy as they always are, and the Greek sauvignon blanc should have left the grape to New Zealand or Chile), but the bartender and his left-arm man were efficient enough to get us a bowl of $8 potato chips and a shared Caesar salad before we had to run to marvel at Wynton Marsalis et al in a performance broadcast live. Even with what seemed to be a huge meeting of Assholes Anonymous going on all around us, that whole experience was better than ducking into Blue Ribbon afterward, where the litter-covered floor looked like a tapas bar in Spain and wines by the glass were priced four times as high, and then Providence, where the eerie guy at the desk just inside, right out of “The Shining,” informed us there were no drinks to be had, and finally Kennedy’s, where the sauvignon blanc was just what you would expect in an every-day-is-March-17 kind of joint.

The reliable: Mermaid Inn, where I met a genius friend who is increasingly appreciating the lure of Demon Wine and where our usual server in the back room tacitly helped by pouring us to-the-brim glasses of the $12 Gruner. She also tipped us off to the changes in prep for the salmon and skate, and Pam went for the latter, braised on the cartilage with tomatoes, garlic and saffron and quite good. I, of course, had to eat like a home-alone child with the special fish and chips, which at least was excellent as usual. 568 Amsterdam Avenue near 88th Street, 212 799 7400.

The painful: Fatty Crab uptown, where a dieting friend and I connected to chagrin for her and aural abuse for me. She was the neighborhood moth drawn to the flame of the new, only to realize not much on the menu would make Weight Watchers happy; I was the uncharacteristically accommodating pal who by the end was ready to shoot out the speakers. Unlike downtown, the music was not just loud but pretty lame, but as she noted, all you could hear was bass. Booming bass. Add to that kiddle waiters (propellers would be appropriate on some caps) who came by every five minutes to ask if we were “still working on that.” As for the food, my memory must be faulty. I don’t recall so many bean sprouts padding out the excellent mango salad downtown, or such a skimpy portion of the fatty duck (I loved it although I don’t think it was the freshest thing in the kitchen). The “watercress,” as the waiter translated it, was perfection, though. We left debating whether the place would do well in a neighborhood where value notoriously trumps just about anything. But maybe we were grumpy because we settled for two dainty glasses of the $9 Gruner each rather than risking a $50-plus bottle of something unfamiliar. That list must have been written pre-Madoff. WIGB? Well, my consort will want to try it. And we have nothing to talk about when we go out. . . . 2176 Broadway near 77th Street, 212 496 2722.

The newly good: Kefi, where my consort and I were able to walk in early on a Friday after several tries at reserving and where the mood and food could not be more vanquishing of the failed enterprises that languished in that space. We had just been on the East Side for the Eggleston show at the Whitney, and my poor consort had had to listen to my rant that diners charge way too much for crapola ($20.95 for mahi on the blackboard we passed on Madison). But was I ever vindicated: My $16.95 grilled branzino was two perfectly cooked fillets of very fresh fish laid over fingerling potatoes, caperberries, olives and seared grape tomatoes; I even ate the skin. Bob’s sheep’s milk dumplings with sausage and pine nuts put 95 percent of Italian “gnocchi” in this country to shame. The bread arrived warm with really green olive oil; the wine was $6 and $6.50 a glass; the service was tag-team perfect. And they take credit cards. (Of course nothing’s perfect — the bar was a stroller maze by the time we walked out.) WIGB? Probably constantly. It’s as Greek as your average diner anymore. 505 Columbus Avenue near 84th Street, 212 873 0200.

The good and good again: The West Branch, where we were lucky enough to get seats to eat at the bar one night and immediately reserved for the next — usually on Jesus Eve we go to a movie and stop in any bar that might be open and inevitably wind up drinking with Santa, but this time we dined with friends and hordes, on serious food. First night was vitello tonnato, clearly assembled by someone who has never had the Piemontese original with proportions of veal to mayo reversed, and fine Caesar; next night was $17 skate over tomato-cabbage risotto, seared cod with zucchini etc., haricot vert salad and shared gingerbread pudding. Dr. and Lady Bugs seemed underwhelmed after following our recommendations on the crispy quail and duck choucroute, but their choices looked good to me even though I was happy with new and different. Add in warm bread, cheap wine, attentive service and I can even forgive Bedlam-level sound and A-train-at-rush-hour seating. WIGB? Absolutely. It’s Ouest for the little people. 2178 Broadway at 77th Street, 212 777 6764.

The enlightening: The Smith in the East Village, where Bob and I stopped in rather than schlepping to Porchetta for perfection after the Greenmarket and a detour to Jams for more envelopes for New Year’s cards and where his sandwich and the place itself saved the day. Usually Bob bitches about non-specialty sandwiches, but I think the fries caught his eye, and what arrived was enough for two meals: ciabatta with big slab o’ chicken, tomatoes, greens, Cheddar, chipotle mayonnaise. It was good. My “Alsatian pizza,” not so much — I have no idea WTF I was doing ordering it in an NYU hangout, but I paid for my lack of due diligence. I had a tumbler of Argentine viognier, which helped, as did the nice hunk of chewy baguette, the free sparkling water and the snappy service. Also the room, which Bob instantly pegged as a knockoff Schiller’s (thank you, Richard Price). WIGB? Probably. I was curious to see what provoked a news story on its survival, and the answers are self-evident. 55 Third Avenue near 11th Street, 212 420 9800.

The good: Mermaid Inn, yet again, where my consort and I reconnoitered with friends in from Chicago mostly because it was the best place within gimping distance. Service was pretty slow, but the food, price etc were all great. I had the skate with chorizo and potatoes and left happy. WIGB? As long as it’s the best place within 20 blocks. 568 Amsterdam Avenue near 88th Street, 212 799 7400.

The not bad: Whym, where my consort and two friends retreated after the OSI Moving Walls opening for, as usual, geographic convenience. We had to wait a drink but got a back table for mahi on white bean puree for two people, excellent succulent barbecue chicken and grits for Bob and an acceptable baby arugula salad with pecans, pears and goat cheese for me. WIGB? As long as OSI is showing photos, I guess. 889 Ninth Avenue near 58th Street, 212 315 0888.

The always good: Chola, where two friends and I convened at a crappy table for a few glasses of catch-up wine and the reliably satisfying buffet. I guess I’ve never been on a Friday, because there was a new, very spicy vegetable dish on offer (the name tags on the buffet are hopelessly generic), and a new potato dish (ditto), and the whole plate was just happy-making. The naan was a little flatter and drier than usual, but I was just happy to get it after flagging down several waiters. WIGB? In a second. There’s a reason it’s the only place jammed at lunchtime on that block. 232 East 58th Street between Second and Third Avenues, 212 688 4619.

The convenient: PJ Clarke’s across from Lincoln Center, where four of us headed after the intense “Rachel Getting Married” just because it was cold and it was close. The music was too loud and the waitress was too impatient, but my turkey club (with cheese) was actually beyond decent, and Bob’s chili was something we don’t get every day (bubble and squeak, either, but that I could skip). Our friends had burgers and shared fries, we split a bottle of cheap red and all got out for $26 a head including tax and tip. WIGB? Inevitably. The half-sandwich the replacement waiter happily offered to “box up” for me was actually still edible next day. 44 West 63d Street, 212 957 9700.

The pretty good: Artisanal, where I met my consort and a good friend with his new wife simply because they were staying a couple of blocks away and where I reserved with my own name to ward off any disaster (although Seth does love to collect NYC dining disasters with us; he will always tell the story of the leather jacket stolen in a restaurant and the coming home afterward to find a guy puking on our apartment building’s doorstep). We got a relatively quiet table after the three of them had downed their $20-a-glass wine at the bar (and had sent back dregs that were poured first), and we were comped warm gougeres. By then it was late enough on an 8:30 reservation that no one wanted more than appetizers, so we shared the fondue of the night (Morbier with apricots and not blowaway), then really good duck-foie gras rillettes, far-better-than-average steak tartare, acceptable tuna carpaccio, strange watermelon-feta salad and grilled octopus that they all liked but I passed up. We also had okay chocolate marquise and drank way too much wine, and the guys had to have grappa as the new mom nodded off, but we still got away for $125 a couple before tip. I had to study the bill next morning to figure that out. WIGB? Yep, but only under my own name. 2 Park Avenue on 32d Street, 212 725 8585.

The seriously good: Yerba Buena, where I headed in desperation to meet my consort and friends in from Portland, O. — I hate the East Village, but the chef is from the great Toloache, so why not? I got there first and took a seat next to a braying asshole at the bar and spent my first 10 minutes with $10 Uruguyan sauvignon blanc sinking into deeper despair, since Latino drinks could bring out the braying asshole in monks who have taken a vow of silence. And I was losing it when we were shown to a table right by the bar with the BA, because the room is very tiny and potentially excruciatingly loud. But it’s amazing what stellar service and really good food does for a bad mood. Not to mention cheap wine — we had two bottles of $30 Uruguayan blends and could not have been happier. We split good guacamole and the excellent picada: a frites cone filled with amazing chorizo chunks, tostones and yucca balls, with a little ramekin of great red salsa on the side that we fought to keep to dunk the last guacamole chips in. I didn’t like the one main course we ordered, the suckling pig, because it had that pig funk I can’t abide (too much time in Iowa as a 20-something), but the appetizers we shared were mostly great, particularly the empanadas, the arepas with beef short ribs and the fried calamari (the fish tacos were good but the main ingredient tasted many days from the water). As good as the food was, we were all blown away by the service (and I reserved in consortial name). WIGB? Absolutely, especially after anything at Landmark Sunshine so close by. 23 Avenue A at Second Street, 212 529 2919.

The underwhelming: Grom in the West Village, where we cabbed after dinner with the P.O. friends who were craving gelato when the Laboratorio was long closed for the night. There was no line, which was good, and the scoopers were beyond patient, but Bob and I realized why we had never had the stuff in Torino. It’s just okay, and it’s really ridiculous to pay $4.75 for a tiny cup even when a friend is paying. The vanilla-chocolate stracciatella had a weird coconutty undertone, and the salted caramel scoop with it would definitely not make Haagen-Dazs bag the dulce leche. Only Heidi’s grapefruit gelato jumped. WIGB? Been there. Done it.