gastropoda/trails

The good: The New French, where I met the Not-So-Tyro-Anymore for a perfectly pleasant lunch at that great little table in the window and where I was mostly relieved that I had not oversold the tuna sandwich (confit makes it as much as the proper proportion of bread). I had the special BLT pizza bianca, which tasted great but was tough to eat either by hand or with knife and fork; the judiciously applied creamy dressing on the greens over the tomato slice and under the bacon bits was outstanding, though. And we each had a glass of the Spanish rose. Like old pros. WIGB? It’s become beyond a habit, and lunch, even when the place is busy, is so mellow. 522 Hudson Street near 10th, 212 807 7357.

The hellish: Barceo 95, where I met a friend for location’s sake on a sweltering night when all the doors were open to the street and where we somehow managed to survive a few hours wedged into a tight table directly under a blaring speaker with the most inattentive service since Helen Keller last waited tables. We should have stayed at the uncrowded bar for our two rounds and a shared order of roasted peppers stuffed with cheese. As it was, the busboy got the bread, napkins, silverware and oil to us right away and kept our water glasses full no matter how tricky it was to navigate through too many chairs crammed into too small a room. The waiter was either overwhelmed or out of it; we might have ordered more if he had seemed half-engaged. I was fine with the $11 verdejo (quartino), but Valerie thought her $13 monastrell — listed as “full,” with extensive tasting notes — was on the wan side. Luckily, the place had emptied out enough that she was able to send back her second choice because the glass reeked of bleach. Unluckily, around 11 someone started to use that same cleaner to swab up around the bar. Not the best effect in a place where aroma is part of the pleasure. The only saving grace was that the human larva at the next table when we were first seated did not throw the shit fit you always anticipate from those ticking time babies. WIGB? Not likely.

The good again: Toloache in the theater district, where I ventured to meet a friend around 8 on a Saturday night, where we expected post-curtain dreariness and where it was just like eating in a real neighborhood. I got there first and took a seat at the bar, where the margarita inches away looked so seductive I ordered one myself, throwing off my friend. By the time we were ready to move to a table, we had to haul old ass up the stairs because the first floor was full; at least it was slightly quieter if much hotter (over the kitchen). The waiter was a charmer I remembered from last time, a guy who could sell sun lamps to Sonorans (he even pointed out that we would have been better off ordering a bottle of albarino). We split a special of crab, cheese, chipotle and pumpkin baked in a small pumpkin, with chips for dipping and a vibrant salad of quartered cherry tomatoes with onion on the side — my only regret on passing up the queso fundido for it was that it should have been bubbling hot. I had carne asada tacos in which the meat actually seemed braised, while Wally was in ecstasy over her octopus. We, being girls, had no room for the special of apple enchiladas, although that idea haunts my thoughts. WIGB? Soon, for queso fundido at least, although the skirt steak with enchilada next to that other margarita on the bar looked pretty tantalizing. 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818.

The not bad again: Saravanaas, where the south Indian thali is $9.95 at lunchtime, the German riesling is $6 a glass and the amplitude of the tiny dishes makes up for the sameness of flavors. Having been there often enough, I no longer get worked up about the brain-dead-to-hostile service. The place is clean, the light is nice, the food when it finally arrives is always fine. If I wanted variety and the whole spiritual journey, I would be up at Chola. WIGB? Absolutely. 81 Lexington Avenue at 26th Street, 212 679 0204.

The underwhelming: Shorty’s32, where I lured another friend who had proposed Aquagrill among other destinations and where we were lucky to escape without needing ear trumpets. And maybe if it had not been so loud and crowded we might have appreciated what the poor gifted chef is doing in a doomed space. Our food took so long to arrive we were comped a very rich Jerusalem artichoke soup with very Jean-Georges garnishes (I suspected intervention by another food writer across the room); maybe that’s why my “crab sticks” just seemed like a great crustacean forced into pollock duty. I didn’t try the chicken entree across the table but got the strong sense that a chicken shunner was not converted that night. The service was better than it had any right to be in a gang bang; the bartender in particular gets points for knowing what wines we had ordered from her before being seated after a surprisingly long wait. A few days later I ran into the above food writer at a kluster phuck and he made a good point — in my words, that real estate is restricting. WIGB? Maybe, although Provence when we fled there for a quiet drink afterward was so serene and comfortable and alluring I almost wondered why we care about food when we leave our homes with all of the above. 199 Prince Street, 212 357 8275.

The good: Land Thai Kitchen again, where $8 at lunch bought a bright and lively green papaya salad and a perfectly balanced pad see ew, a hearty mix of rice noodles, egg, cauliflower, broccoli and superfluous beef. My consort was underwhelmed by the special menu that day, mostly by comparison, but the service as always was enthusiastic and the room has such a sleek look and cheerful feel. WIGB? Yes, it’s worth the walk beyond Charm and Asiakan for sure. 450 Amsterdam Avenue near 81st Street, 212 501 8121.

The lame: PicNic for dinner, where we sat outside to avoid the nursing home crowd and were rewarded with overpriced, uninspired food. I just had the salad with goat cheese croutons, and the lettuce was supermarkety; Bob had sauteed trout that tasted mealy to me (you are what you eat even if you’re a fish). Add the AWOL waiter (Bob had to go track him down to order our second glasses of wine) and I wondered where our $83 went. WIGB? For breakfast only. No place for blocks is as appealing in the morning.

The clubby: Payard, where the duck terrine made me ridiculously happy, enough to ignore the snotty service. It was a hefty slab, studded with pistachios and very flavorful, and came with an oniony jam and a little pile of purslane to cut the richness. I treated it like a DIY tartine, and it was like eating in France. The $11 gruner-veltliner I ordered didn’t have much to say to it, though, and the bartender clearly couldn’t wait till I got out of the way of her regulars. WIGB? Probably, but I’d sit at a table next time, like the other lunching ladies, much as I prefer eavesdropping at the bar. 1032 Lexington Avenue near 73d Street, 212 717 5252.

The pretty good: Malatesta Trattoria, where uptown friends lured us deep into the West Village on a Friday night and where we should have known “quirky” meant no credit cards. The place is one of their favorites, and it was easy to see why: the room is very Italy-charming, not deafening, and the service was that rare blend of relaxed but attentive. The food was almost beside the point, although Nancy’s lamb chops did look straight out of Tom Jones. The gnocchi she ordered as a shared appetizer were better than either my special fettucine with infinitesimal lobster and alleged shiitakes or my consort’s tagliatelle with unnamed meat ragu. But the crostini were ample and the tiramisu and panna cotta were fine and the prosecco and wine kept coming. I didn’t even mind the inevitable baby Jesus rolling up at the next table. WIGB? Probably, but with cash next time. 649 Washington Street at Christopher, 212 741 1207.

The not as bad as it’s sounded: Provence, where we met friends for Saturday lunch just for the alluring space and walked away happy no matter what the critics had warned. As we headed there from the N train I was laughing that our back-to-back destinations were previewing our trip to both Tuscany and Provence, but the menu turned out to reflect very little of the latter. My poor consort and one friend wound up with slightly overgrilled shrimp on a sloppy pile of summer squash with shaved fennel and citrus, although her husband didn’t complain about the merguez sandwich. I scored with mussels and frites even though the promised chorizo was MIA in the brodo; the garlicky mayonnaise with the crisp and salty fries made up for that. The cheese plate was dainty but perfect, and a rhubarb-lemon tart made the others happy. Best of all was the bottle of picpoul we shared. WIGB? Absolutely, assuming it survives (it was pretty empty); it’s cheaper than a ticket to Nice this summer. 38 MacDougal Street, 212 475 7500.

The cacophonous: Dean’s Pizzeria, where in the name of something new I stupidly lured friends for the most aurally excruciating experience. The food and service and huge room were actually acceptable, but Jesus, do 5,000 human larvae ever crank out some serious din. We sat in the back (big mistake) and shared an okay bottle of Italian white, a respectable mushroom-sausage pizza (way heavy on the latter) and a “multicolore” salad with surprisingly good ingredients, starting with baby wild arugula. WIGB? Undoubtedly, but late, after the spawners have gone home. 215 West 85th Street, 212 875 1100.

The pretty good: Rain, where friends who know from health horrors treated me and my broken self to dinner and where I thus was feeling more accommodating than usual despite being seated at an awkward table right under a speaker. My tea-smoked duck was fatty and not the freshest bird in the flock, but the portion was enough for three (and Banshee next day). The peanut sauce and chips on the table to start were fine, and my hosts seemed satisfied with everything foodwise (green curry chicken, lemongrass grouper) but the greenery in the summer rolls. The by-the-glass wine list is strange — I refused to spring for a $14 sauvignon blanc and wound up with an $8 Alsatian syrup before switching to a pinot grigio that was like water against the food. And the waiter seemed programmed to push wine refills, to the point that Kevin said: “He’s a bit of a dick, isn’t he?” Hard to argue with that. WIGB? Maybe, if I remember it’s there. 100 West 82d Street, 212 501 0776.

The seriously off: Spice in Chelsea, where I took refuge at lunchtime after the market on a Wednesday when Rosa Mexicano was full for the first time ever, Tarallucci & Vino was ditzed out and the relocated Markt was backed up like a sewer. Bad sign in an old favorite when the bar had been eliminated to pack in more tables. The waiter screwed up my order, delivering fried chicken dumplings rather than steamed vegetable, and the check arrived with no pen to sign it, while the many waiters wandered around distractedly. Worse, the duck salad off the regular menu was a diabetic coma waiting to happen. WIGB? Maybe. Got to support anything to keep it from becoming converted to a bank in this borough. 199 Eighth Avenue near 20th Street, 212 989 1116. [Latish June 2007]

The good: Kefi, where we were able to reconnect after a school year apart and would have been thrilled with the noise level and good service even without the comped wine and appetizers. We both had excellent fish (the one thing Bob missed most in Middle Earth) and split the spreads, which were great although I have to admit they were outshone by the sausage/dumpling and grilled octopus starters on the house. And who knew a Greek rose would be so drinkable? We left the price of the bottle along with a better-than-20 percent tip and still got out for $80 cash. WIGB? Early and often. 222 West 79th Street, 212 873 0200.

The not bad: Five Front in Brooklyn, where four of us fogies wound up on a tip from an e-pal after a brain-cell-destroying hip-hop photo opening. I would have settled for a funky diner with crappy wine as long as it was quiet, but this turned out to be a surprisingly charming real restaurant with a garden, and even seated next to a birthday group ominously decked out in party hats we could still talk. I just had the $14 crab cake appetizer, which was huge, full of the essential ingredient and teamed with both a chipotle mayonnaise and decent guacamole. Bob passed me his special, too-rare-for-me tuna, and I also got a reassuring taste of the salmon. The bread arrived warm, the wines by the glass were adequate, and everything would have been wonderful if the kitchen had not been sooooo slow. WIGB? Maybe. Not much else around there. 5 Front Street, under the Brooklyn Bridge, 718 625 5559.

The just right: Fairway’s cafe, where we happened to land late after a movie and everything was working. They set a window table for us, got us our $5 wine immediately and good Caesar for me and excellent hanger steak with fine fries for Bob not long after. WIGB? When it’s on, that place is on.

The port before a storm: Neptune Room, where I took refuge in desperation at that odd hour of 4 on a weekend when it’s so hard to find real food. I got a table on the sidewalk, smart and personable service and a quartino of $7 verdejo and escaped just as the rain came pissing down. Who cared that the skate in my $13 sandwich was overbreaded and the basil mayonnaise had nil flavor? Even direct knockoffs of Pearl can’t get that right, and Neptune is clearly trying to be its own place. WIGB? Probably. Four o’clock will come again. 511 Amsterdam Avenue near 84th Street, 212 496 4100. [Mid-June 2007]

The good: My friends, who have kept me fat and happily fed through the most painful experience of my life. I wasn’t out of the ER more than 12 hours before the first party; even Gary settled for pizza-and-salad delivery from Pizzabolla after I canceled our date at Maremma (and that was one serious tradeoff). Donna did a Zabar’s run for me one night and turned up on another with the most amazing crab, avocado, arugula and artichoke pesto sandwiches on grilled bread; the leftovers kept me going for days (Valerie brought the “I have a dream” hat with the Chimp behind bars). Monica imported jerk chicken from Beacon for one lunch and a little feast from Homespun Foods there another afternoon: trout salad, marinated mushrooms, olives and eggplant plus cheese and crackers. Next afternoon I was lurching home from an emergency consultation with my unnervingly youthful orthopedist when I ran into Susan just after she had dropped off an exceptional assemblage of chicken, orzo, olives and lemon, all in perfect harmony. Joanne brought bakery indulgences; Wally schlepped in from Brooklyn with a Greenmarket/co-op spread of grilled tuna, asparagus, potato salad and strawberries. Mme X arrived with two pounds of hand-selected See’s and later lured me out for a massive cheeseburger at Landmarc in the dread TWC, then somehow got me to walk all the way home, my most exercise in 10 days. But Don gets the purple heart for putting his life on hold and moving in the first two nights, inadvertently placing himself in the path of the breakdown that was certain to erupt. And he managed the impossible — he brought me just what I needed, guacamole and enchiladas from Gabriela’s with my Food Section gift card after first letting me cry myself senseless thinking food would make everything all better before conceding that for once its powers were limited. At least in the hands of friends it’s a whole other antidepressant.

The bad: The miserable puffy bitch at the Greenmarket on 97th Street who, when I hoisted my market bag onto the table to support it while picking out what I wanted to buy on our first encounter this season, jumped up and shrieked, “Don’t touch the strawberries!” I obviously had only one hand/arm free with the scary-bruised other in a sling and just said, “I’m sorry — I’m not very stable.” And she yelped again, through her pig lips, “I don’t care. Don’t touch the strawberries!” When a silly basket of berries warrants more concern than the walking wounded, you gotta wonder. I came home fruit-free and crying and realizing we don’t need the big Holy Foods opening on Columbus around the corner from the market. Assholism has already taken root.

The ugly: Percocet. No wonder Rush Limbaugh is a big, fat idiot. [Early June 2007]

The adequate: Les Halles, where I took my littlest sister’s daughter and her husband when they wanted French and escargots at a reasonable price, all three increasingly difficult to find here in Beef City. This was my first dinner experience there since the expansion, and I have to say doubling the space has halved the magic; we could have been in an airport bar with a meat case. But it wasn’t crowded or deafening, and the waiter was attentive, and my duck confit was unobjectionable and my guests seemed very happy with their miniature snails and mushrooms on puff pastry, their paleron with bearnaise and pork tenderloin with garlic confit and potatoes. Then again, Zarah said she was recovering from food poisoning acquired at either Virgil’s or Tavern on the Green. This was a big improvement. WIGB? Inevitably. 411 Park Avenue South at 28th Street, 212 679 4111.

The good as usual: Tintol, where I ducked in after an opening of the amazing new shows at ICP and where my reward was an uncrowded bar and the perfect little supper — watercress salad with Cabrales and bacalao fritters (not quite perfectly fried). WIGB? Of course. That place is an oasis in the tourist circle of hell. 155 West 46th Street east of Times Square, 212 354 3838.

The adequate: French Roast, where I found myself starving on the way to Barnes & Noble and where I made the wrong decision on being told the vegetable croque would take 20 minutes. The special sandwich, carelessly grilled vegetables with alleged Fontina, was diner quality, as were the fries. But the waitress was efficient, the price was also diner level ($10.50) and the floor that looked pretty grody in daylight did get mopped while I was eating (I think that’s a good thing). WIGB? It’s too convenient for my own good. 2340 Broadway at 85th Street, 212 799 1533. [Mid-May 2007]

The pretty good: Fatty Crab, where the friendliest, most efficient service ever compensated for fatty duck that was more chewy duck. Even the music was welcoming rather than head-banging. I went for an early lunch, and the one waiter was wrangling half a dozen tables while lavishing attention on all of us. The bok choy was also the best ever, and both the duck and the rice under it were seasoned and garnished perfectly. Only the meat was a problem. Ever since the first chef moved on, the best thing on the menu has become a challenge rather than an indulgence, and I can’t tell what has gone awry. I just know the fat and flesh resist rather than melt when you take a bite. WIGB? Yep. When it’s on, it’s on. 643 Hudson Street near 12th Street, 212 352 3590.

The not bad: Republic, where I finally succumbed in a weak moment after resisting for as long as it has been there and I have been going to the Greenmarket. I wanted something quick, there was a table outside, the waiter had water and a menu to me before I could reconsider, and I wound up wondering why I had resisted for so long. The curried duck noodles were better than dispiriting (as that kind of combination so often is), the wine was not shiver-inducing, and the waiter was almost scarily efficient (no notebook, three tables’ orders taken at once, all delivered with no problem). When I schlepped inside to the bathroom, one floor and 14 miles away, I remembered what had kept me at bay. I hate communal tables. WIGB? Eventually. 37 Union Square West near 17th Street, 212 627 7172.

The trying: Charm Thai, where I felt compelled to try a lunch because it is new and close but where I walked out $14 lighter feeling cheated, and that was with the tip. The duck salad came with a plethora of unannounced raw mushrooms, which I never eat since a morel dealer in Oregon told me 15 years ago that they can hatch spores in your gut, while the steamed dumplings were more like little diapers full of spinach and oddly funky taro. I couldn’t figure out how to eat them with fork or fingers, and no chopsticks were on offer, so I tried and failed. The place looks nice, and the waitress was pleasant (although an old guy across the room was losing it). WIGB? Probably. It’s too close for comfort. 722 Amsterdam Avenue near 95th Street, 212 866 9800. [Early May 2007]

The good: Zoma, where a new friend steered me to my first Ethiopian in a quarter-century at least and where I discovered a whole new world a 15-minute walk away. She had sent me a link to the $25 and Under, which led me to expect a pretty bare-bones-to-funky joint. Instead I had the same reaction Gordon Ramsay did on reading truffles were nothing special: How jaded are they? The place was seriously sleek and smart-looking, especially the bathrooms. My friend ordered for us, a vegetarian combination for $17 with two spectacular spicy bean purees, a cabbage saute and one with green beans on ungreasy injera, and we split a rather lively California pinot grigio for $19. The waitress was attentive, and the noise level was not painful even when the place filled up with what looked to be monochromatic Columbia kids. WIGB? Can’t wait, but I’m leaving more time beforehand to go exploring. 2084 Frederick Douglass Blvd. at 113th Street, 212 662 0620.

The not bad: Bettola, where another friend persuaded me to meet her after she heard it was another friend’s favorite and where the wine and the sniffy waitress were the only drawbacks. Our shared pizza bianca, with mushrooms and truffle oil, was as thin and rich as a cheese crisp, while my green salad (di campo) was fine despite the paucity of cherry tomatoes (1 1/2 of the grape variety) and apparently AWOL basil. The vermentino, however, was both undistinguished and a stingy pour (once in a dirty glass) — but cost $9. Really, you could buy a bottle for that. And the service was of the woman-and-tip variety: which comes first? WIGB? Probably, but not when I’m thirsty. 412 Amsterdam near 79th Street, 212 787 1660.

The scary: Bistro Citron, where I made the mistake of stopping for a late lunch and do not want to consider why there was a yelling outbreak in the kitchen just before my burger arrived with a rip in it. It had taken so long I figured they were butchering the cow, but I guess they were just cooking the fries to death instead. I had remembered a big, juicy burger from a boozy night out with friends weeks ago, but this was big and bloody but weirdly hard and came with a slice of plum tomato so minuscule it was almost as if the cook was mocking me for wanting Cheddar when they only had Swiss. Worse, it cost $13, almost double what the great ones do at Fairway. The waiter was exceptional, though. And I did get to overhear two brink-of-60 women commiserating: “Yes, I open up my underwear drawer and there are my keys.” Chastity belts on their absent minds? WIGB? Unfortunately. It’s cursed with proximity. 473 Columbus Avenue at 83d Street, 212 400 9401.

The transporting: Subletea, where I stopped in for a scone to get rid of the taste of the curry doughnut I had succumbed to in Koreatown after skipping breakfast at home on my way to soak up rum. It’s a great corner cafe with communal tables, windows all around, magazines to read and a nice vibe and decor — it felt like Sydney. I didn’t have time for tea, but 36 were on offer. And while the scone might not have had much green tea flavor, the crustiness and the combination of coconut and currants made up for that. The sandwiches looked great, too. WIGB? If I find myself in that strange neighborhood again. 121 Madison Avenue at 30th Street, 212 481 4713. [Mid- to late April 2007]