gastropoda/trails

The good: The Redhead in the East Village, where we met two friends coming from Greenpoint as a compromise location and where we had that rare experience where things got better as the place got busier/louder. The lighting at 5 was police-interrogation level, so we spent our first round feeling as if were drinking at a VFW hall, but that soon changed. Then we were worried they would rush us out of our table as people started arriving for dinner in the tiny room, but the servers couldn’t have been nicer. We had to start with the bacon peanut brittle, which was not as great as I’d remembered from the New Amsterdam Market, but my duck rillettes, a special, may have been the best ever in an American restaurant, and came with enough toasts for a change. Bob’s fried chicken was also respectable, and a huge portion, with a big salad and corn muffin. I didn’t try the gnocchi across the table but heard no complaints, and we could still hear. Wines were well-chosen, too, and our friends seemed happy with beer and a Sazerac. WIGB? If I were in that neighborhood, for sure. 349 East 13th Street between First and Second, 212 533 6212.

The promising: Tolani on the Upper West Side, where we headed after finding Fairway’s cafe closed for a private party after the depressing “Inside Job,” and after I remembered reading about this weeks-old place in the Columbia newspaper my consort had brought home from his teaching gig. We just glanced at the menu prices ($18 or so) before asking for a table, and the super-happy hostess turned us over to a congenial host who led us downstairs to the “garden,” an awkward room with a glassed-in back wall and a view of the kitchen. (The upstairs was full.) And then the waiter informed us everything was small plates, designed for sharing. But we’d had popcorn for our first course and just ordered the grilled quail, hot but listed under “cold” because it came with a bulgar salad with dates, and the roasted half-chicken, with creamy mashed potatoes. Both little birds were juicy and flavorful, perfectly cooked. I recognized the consulting chef’s name, Craig Hopson, but had forgotten he works for Le Cirque; he’s branching out with this couple, who own another restaurant on the Upper East Side. The wine list had a couple of choices neither of us had encountered, including a Tasmanian white that was really fruity and would be great with that quail if I had not moved on to a New Zealand sauvignon blanc. WIGB? Absolutely. The cooking and the combinations were spot-on. 410 Amsterdam Avenue near 80th Street, 212 873 6252.

The fine: Num Pang in the Central Village, where we stopped for a quick lunch on a market Saturday after the Strand (which now must have the best penny-candy selection in town, and where we were amazed to see how many people could pay in cash when the computers went down — the line was huge). Bob shared his “seasonal special” sandwich, with five-spice glazed pork belly, that was messy/juicy perfection for $7.50; I had a $3.75 cup of the good “curry red lentil soup,” topped with pickled red cabbage, cilantro and fried shallots. With both, it was easy to see why the house policy is “have it our way,” with no substitutions, alterations or modifications allowed — the combinations work. As a bonus, we were able to grab stools in the teeny dining room up a spiral staircase rather than searching out a park bench. WIGB? The ginger barbecue brisket sandwich is calling my name. . . 21 East 12th Street between University and Fifth Avenue, 212 255 3271.

The right port in a nonstorm: Regional, where a friend and I hooked up with my consort after “Selected Shorts” down the street, The place was scary-empty, but that was good for us, with no din and great service. All we wanted was snacks, but the bar snacks were only available at the bar and we were on the banquette in the bar. Bob got a decent baby arugula-and-tomato salad, our friend didn’t complain about what seemed to be goat cheese in her beet salad where Gorgonzola was promised and I was more than fine with my balm: polenta sticks with fonduta. With a glass of wine each and a shared slab of bread with bean puree, we got away for $20 apiece including tip. WIGB? Undoubtedly for location and price, although I have to say walking past there a few days later and seeing a young chef walk out and energetically hawk all over the sidewalk was not exactly enticing. 2607 Broadway near 98th Street, 212 666 1915.

The good: Bocca Lupo in Brooklyn, where friends who live nearby lured us for a good catch-up meal and where my only complaint would be the noise level, although we certainly contributed to it after way too much of the reasonably priced wine. Walking there I realized yet again how much has been sacrificed to real estate greed on the big island; my neighborhood is totally overrun with Fuckin Donuts while Smith Street has small shops and character (at least from what I could see walking fast in the dark). Dr. and Lady Bugs know their food, I know, and so we let them do the ordering of a bunch of small plates to share. Veal and porcini meatballs were excellent swimming in sauce on a slab of sturdy bread, and braised endive was as good as it gets. Farro with mushrooms was also superb. We split bruschetti with eggplant and with butternut squash and an order of broccoli rabe, too. I’m not much on lamb or shrimp, but everyone else seemed happy with those dishes and with the Nutella and banana panino. WIGB? Absolutely, but we’re ready to go exploring other places around there first. 391 Henry Street, 718 243 2522.

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 until it got annoying: Pudding Stone West, where I arranged to hook up with a friend on a chilly Sunday night and regretted it once great throngs of cloned women — all the same age, all the same look — thronged in and started whooping and Vows-hunting. Until then, we had been enjoying our $9 wine at the bar, with the superb bartender and a martini glass filled with $10 avocado puree for dipping with chips. By the time my consort turned up, I had heard about enough. WIGB? Only if I can sit outside. There are worse things than views of funeral homes where you can still hear the eulogy. 645 Amsterdam Avenue at 91st Street, 212 787 0501.

The not bad: Bodrum Mediterranean, where the three of us decamped in search of quiet, a good snack and more wine and where those minimal expectations paid off. The place is pretty slick, with good flatware, but we were only in the market for mezze and happily split a $14 plate of mixed tastes and then a pizza. The first (hummus, babaganoush, lebne etc.) I liked better than my consort did, and the second left me wondering, yet again, what in the name of rennet people are buying instead of real mozzarella. This was like slime on a crust, and it’s the same mucus-like experience you suffer everywhere pizza is sold anymore. WIGB? Maybe, because it’s in the neighborhood, and our friend who used to live here was amazed at the options. Still, when we signed our bills at 9:20, we felt as if we were keeping the staff from going home. 584 Amsterdam Avenue near 88th Street, 212 799 2806.

The pretty good: Pudding Stones West, where I met my consort for an early dinner to escape my own kitchen and where we had a surprisingly great experience, despite the views (huge piles of garbage bags in Bob’s line of sight, a funeral home where we saw off a friend and neighbor in mine). In a million lifetimes I would never have expected a pretty sophisticated wine bar with outdoor seating to open on that — or any — stretch of Amsterdam Avenue, so I would have been happy with just a couple of glasses and a decent snack. But the hummus with warm pita was outstanding (if a tiny portion) and both my Caesar and Bob’s goat cheese and roasted beet salad were spiffy-looking and great tasting. The waitress was excellent, the wines were decent pours (although of the four we tried, two were just slightly past their prime) and even the kid at a nearby table was behaving — mostly because his parents were slipping him a little red every so often. WIGB? Absolutely. The serious food looks enticing, too. 635 Amsterdam at 91st Street, 212 787 0501.

The good: Square Meal, where we finally lucked in on a Saturday night and only realized why when we saw so much Passover food on the menu. On the plus side, the place never filled up, so the din a friend had warned me of never had a chance to build to bedlam level. On the minus side, chicken liver pate with matzoh is not my idea of bread and butter. But my consort loved his roast “organic/kosher” chicken with potato latkes. I was happy with airy/crispy fried “Thai” calamari on an Asian pear and Meyer lemon slaw, and we both were impressed by the “Boston ’n buttermilk” salad, with its delicate balance of leaves and dressing with tiny croutons and bacon bits. We almost never order dessert, but Bob got kid’s eyes over the ones being served all around us, so we succumbed to a pretty decent coconut cream pie. It’s BYO, and I had a great red left from a magazine story, so we got out for $55 before tip. Bonus points for the look of the place, which is sleek but homey, and for the staff, all total pros and a real team. As the neighbor who tipped me off to the Yura enterprise put it, “It’s special.” And considering where it’s located, it really is. WIGB? Hope so. 30 East 92d Street, 212 860 9872.

The not bad: Pasita, a Venezuelan wine bar where we wound up after the devastating “Body of War” at IFC. The long, narrow room was nearly empty on a Monday night, and the server spent most of the evening reading at the bar, but the food came fast and the wine pours were more than generous for $9. A pizza would have been the way to go, judging by the brick oven, but we just split a “cremosa” salad with iceberg lettuce, avocado, red onion and tomato with a creamy pepper dressing, and, at the child-for-a-night’s insistence, “tequenos,” described as cheese puffs dusted with cumin but actually more like mozzarella sticks with a great green salsa. My Los Andes Torrontes was outstanding, which I guess shouldn’t be surprising in a place whose slogan translates as “happiness in a bottle.” WIGB? Absolutely. 47 Eighth Avenue near West Fourth Street, 212 255 3900.

The not awful: Ostia in the West Village, where I stupidly suggested we repair when the one table open at Centro Vinoteca after an early book party seemed to be in an especially deafening level of aural hell. Of course as soon as we sat down and ordered wine I realized we were trapped next to something worse: a big table of braying Euro-holes. But the poor waitress was so mumbly-shy we stuck it out to share some decent grilled shiitakes and an obviously made-to-order tortilla (never a good thing). That and three glasses of wine cost fifty bucks. WIGB? Not likely.

The good: Toloache yet again, where we stopped in after the excellent “Juno” for a snack and a little wine. We got our usual seats at the bar facing the oven where the woman chef who works like a machine turns out quesadillas etc. and split one with huitlacoche (superb as always) plus the tacos de pastor and de cabeza (with braised veal cheeks). WIGB? Anytime; the servers are good even when they screw up a wine order. 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818.

The bad: Nice Matin, where I stupidly retreated for a late lunch and found myself surrounded by fixed Upper East Siders, so I should not have been surprised that the prices are up and the quality is down. The crab salad, which was always borderline exquisite, arrived this time as a big mound of mayonnaise-drenched lump crab topped with half a sliced avocado on a few greens with asparagus sliced the long way and a few little nubbins of raw vegetables. The waitress was overwhelmed, no bread was ever served and the whole experience felt like a diner with scarier patrons (we need an immigration wall through Central Park). WIGB? Fool me one last time. . . .

The overpriced: Buceo 95, where we met a friend just to try something new and where it might have been a little too new — the smell of varnish was still so fresh it overwhelmed the wine. Which was no small consideration given that the quartino of Quincy from the Loire was $13 (and why does wine portioned that way inevitably feel like a rip?) The kitchen also seemed to be finding its way: The bacalao in cucumber cups ($12!) was undersoaked and so very chewy, while both the chopped Mediterranean salad and the albondigas were mediocre at best. Only the slow-roasted pork with potatoes on what looked like little soft nacho chips (billed as a mini-wrap) was anything special, and that only by comparison. The olives and oil served with the bread were lively enough, though. As for the sound system blaring techno music, it seemed to be tuned into a hair salon. WIGB? For the hospitality and to try the cheese plate, maybe. It’s slim pickings up this way. 201 West 95th Street, 212 662 7010.

The slightly off: Chola, where I met a friend for a long winy birthday lunch and where the usual mob seemed to be taking an unusual toll. We never got vegetable fritters to start; I had to ask for bread (and it was not as good as it normally is). But we had a great table and easy access to all that wine, and the buffet was outstanding as always if a little too familiar from my last visit. WIGB? Not on a Thursday for a while. 232 East 58th Street, 212 212 688 4619.

The surprising: The cafe at the Cooper-Hewitt, where we only had restorative caffeine between the great Gus Powell show at the Museum of the City of New York and the spectacular Ingo Maurer lighting show upstairs from our table overlooking the garden. I didn’t try my consort’s tea, but my huge cappuccino was, amazingly, perfect (for $3.85). The salads, sandwiches and wines by the glass also looked worth a return visit for whatever exhibition comes next.

The painful: BXL Cafe, where we ducked in for a drink after a totally pretentious ICP opening down the block and where the din was at CIA torture level. We only split an order of seriously slopped-out calamari before fleeing. WIGB? Never after dark.