gastropoda/trails

The good again: Left Bank in the Far West Village, where we met up with a genius friend in from Northwestern in hopes of quiet and were actually happy to see the place fill up and reverberate by the time we left — maybe it will make it. And it certainly deserves to, considering the prices, quality and hospitality. I ordered the $21 duck confit half-heartedly, expecting the usual dried-out little leg with some overwrought accompaniment, but this was actually about a quarter of a meaty bird, cooked juicy-crisp and teamed with both a Meyer lemon salsa and a sort of fruit chutney, plus great chunky mashed rutabaga. Zach was flummoxed by the amount of fat on the huge pork chop for $26, but the meat once he got to it was tender and heritage-tasting. And I’d say the only problem with my consort’s house-made orecchiette with venison ragu was the sauce (I can’t stomach deer meat, having had it shoved down my gullet too often as a kid). The $19 portion, however, did seem a little dainty compared with the other  trencherman’s plates. We all shared the outstanding brandade with spicy olives again, and we each got a taste of the affogato, which I would fault only for being a little too heavy on the drowning espresso. The same waiter as last time was just as attentive, and we were spared Whitney wailing on endless loop. WIGB? Soon, I suspect. 117 Perry Street at Greenwich, 212 727 1170.

The reliable I: Fairway’s cafe on Broadway, again, where we headed after leaving Zach’s presentation at MOMA and realizing the ribs I had bought for dinner would take too long to cook but venturing into Holy Foods at the dread TWC for an alternative would take even longer. Mr. London was in fine form at that early hour, ushering us to a table at the window, and the waiters were running hard even with big tables of families, so we were soon tucking into a whole grilled branzino with roasted fennel plus my usual arugula-and-prosciutto pizza, plus glasses of the $8 wines. The fish tasted of what it ate (mush, apparently), but the flatbread with herbed olive oil made a perfect starter, as always. As a bonus, we got “Streetcar Named Desire” on the triple screens with subtitles, although neither of us grasped it any better than the first time we saw it.

The reliable II: Luke’s yet again, where we ducked in after the Sunday Greenmarket and where the main/Maine attraction was just as perfectly executed as the  first 15 times we’ve indulged. We enjoyed ours while marveling that neither of us ever gave a claw about lobster until this place opened. You do get your $15 worth (or your $17, if you go for the combo and get chips, soda and a pickle spear). Long may it run. 426 Amsterdam Avenue near 80th Street, 212 877 8800.

The seriously good again: Momofuku Ssam in the East Village, where my consort and I met another food-obsessed couple via the Twitter for a Sunday lunch that was even more invigorating than my two previous weekday indulgences. We were there before the door opened at 11:30 so of course got a nice table (and, I learned later, a waiter who Tweets, too). The four of us shared everything, which meant I tasted excellent sweetbreads I normally would spurn (prep them once or twice and you will, too) and the spicy sausage and rice-cake dish, as well as lively pickled vegetables and a pear sorbet brilliantly accessorized with pumpkin, cornflakes and blue cheese. All the duck — rotisserie, dumplings, pulled sandwich — was of course perfect. The only letdown was apple kimchi with bacon and maple labne, which amounted to ingredients talking past each other. WIGB? Can’t wait. 207 Second Avenue at 13th Street, 212 212 254 3500. (BTW: We all went down the avenue afterward to Vandaag for the exceptional coffee in that rigorously designed room; the cappuccino was one of the best I’ve ever had on this continent.)

The transporting: Il Buco Alimentari in Nebulousnabe, where we fortified ourselves with  Saturday lunch before a time trip through the amazing Merchant’s House Museum nearby and where the history was nearly as palpable (wood from the way-back machine). Seeing a whole porchetta on the rotisserie in the theatrical open kitchen made the panino irresistible, and it was a juicy/crunchy/tender marvel on just the right bun; pickled vegetables on the side only made it seem more of a deal at $16 (Porchetta’s is of course sublime and much cheaper but without the creature comforts). We shared the $14 insalata di cicoria despite my resistance to Scalia anchovies for their name alone, and it turned out to be one of the rare enjoyable bitter salads, with almost sweet Treviso radicchio tossed in and crunchy fine bread crumbs over the top. And $14 grilled sausage over Umbrian lentils had real nuance; fried sage leaves and sweet onions were grace notes. As the server warned, the coffee needs work; even with way more than a cloud on the macchiato it was bitter. (We stopped by Colombe later just to compare and now suspect, though, that taste is not what’s cutting into business; it’s probably more the scene.) The market in the front is quite nice, too, although we managed to get out without buying anything. WIGB? Absolutely, at least for serene lunch. I’d guess it might get loud at dinner, with all those hard surfaces. 53 Great Jones Street, 212 212 837 2622.

The satisfying, again: La Mangeoire in Midtown East, where we landed after being warned of a 45-minute wait at the Smith after an opening of New York in Color with a friend’s work at the Howard Greenberg Gallery on 57th Street. The $38 white from the Languedoc matched well with both Bob’s intense coq au vin with mushroom-bacon sauce and my pork roast (first time I’ve ever ordered that, and my reward was super-tender thanks to the server actually asking what temperature I wanted). And the anchoiade, olives and oil with the bread basket were just gravy. I’ll admit it was a little sad to see Christian Delouvrier and think back on Ruth’s bedazzled  review in his $30 soup days, but his cooking has lost only the flash and price tag, not the style and substance. WIGB? We may never make it to the Smith. Add in no din and the option of downsized main courses and it’s definitely worth the journey. 1008 Second Avenue near 53d Street, 212 759 7086.

The over-the-top: RedFarm in the West Village, where we left my name and of course got a perfect little table and no end of comped food from gregarious Eddie Schoenfeld; we only had to wait as long as it took to pick out three new salts at the Meadow down the street. Thank allah we kept a receipt, because it really was more dishes than any cranial sieve could retain (he at least did the smart thing and said: “Take a taste and take it home”). We chose good shu mai shooters (two for $7.50), huge and slightly overwrought crab and duck dumplings (four for $12), exquisite vegetable and chive steamed dumplings (four for $8), noodles with both Dungeness and rock crab ($27) and sublime okra and eggplant yellow curry ($17 and enough to keep me from succumbing to mediocre Thai again for a long, long time — this had at least six kinds of vegetables in addition to the excellent stars, and the sauce was all nuanced flavor). Forced upon us were killer soup dumplings with truffles; strange but irresistible eggplant “bruschetta” topped with smoked salmon and caviar; mushroom spring rolls; amazing barbecued Berkshire pork belly; the $39 like-buttah Creekstone prime rib steak with the best baby bok choy I’ve ever stuck an implement into, and two desserts: chocolate pudding and a “fruit plate.” The kittybag was damned heavy on the way back to the C train, and we ate from it for three days. We also shared a $32 bottle and two $16 glasses of an ideal wine for Joe Ng’s style of cooking, S.A. Prum “Blue” Mosel riesling (Joshua Wesson did the list). WIGB? Can’t wait, although I may sneak in with a bag over my head. But that might mean missing out on Eddie’s entertaining tales. 529 Hudson Street, 212 792 9700.

The “good luck to them”: Left Bank in the far West Village, where we met one of our favorite people, in from Veneto, for a great long, long Sunday dinner. We reserved at 6:30 to try out the “happy hour,” which sounded so much more respectable than “early bird,” but were only able to take advantage of the half-price, half-assed Aperol spritz ($6) because Diego didn’t get there by 7 for the three courses for $20. Dinner was still a steal: I had outstanding potato gnocchi with pumpkin, black pepper and pecorino, almost like spaetzle, for $17; the guys both had the superb juicy-crisp roast half-chicken with capers, cornichons and dill for $21. (Usual sneakiness: Sides are sold separately.) We also shared a pretty great rendition of brandade with warm toast and olives for $10 and a lively bottle of grillo from Diego’s second home of Sicily for $36. Service and the room were both fine, too. (Even though we got the worst table in the house, right under the speaker with nothing but #RIPWhitney — by the end of the night I was starting to realize why she needed drugs.) WIGB? No question, if it lasts. I know we’ve eaten there before . . . 117 Perry Street at Greenwich, 212 727 1170.

The dispiriting despite the design: Cafe Centro in Hell’s Kitchen, where we ducked in just for cheap sustenance at a sunlit table on our way to the must-see Loving and Weegee shows at ICP. Warm, salty chips and decent salsa were too easy to fill up on, which was lucky because the rice and beans with my lukewarm cheese enchiladas merited no more than one bite each. Bob ordered tacos with carnitas cooked in Coke and we were both glad he had resisted the mahi ones; these were overfilled and hyper-sweet, but things coulda been worse. WIGB? Why do restaurants get better on Ninth as you head south?

The very close to perfect: Momofuku Ssam, where I met a friend for lunch on my birthday and where everything from attitude to kittybag was done right. The rotisserie duck was easily the best nonsmoked duck I have ever eaten, and I have eaten a lot of duck in my many years — you’d almost think it was sous vide from the tenderness and concentrated flavor, but my consort and I watched one roast on the spit on our last visit, so that can’t be true. I didn’t even get into the rice and watercress the slices came with, but I did like wrapping them up in the pancake with all the accoutrements. The $20 weekday set comes with a side, and the spiced fingerlings were pretty amazing. Fried duck dumplings with pickled red cabbage were exquisite yet again, too. Wines by the glass are a better deal in the front room, BTW. WIGB? Any day now. The best part was hearing my friend recall how scary that very corner was back in the Eighties, when another good friend was mugged right outside where we were indulging. 207 Second Avenue at 13th Street.

The superb: Aldea, where Bob and I headed for my birthday the night he got in from 10 days in Costa Rica and where seats at the chef’s counter made the perfect perches as neutral territory for reentry. His sardines were a little mushy, the skin chips in my duck rice a little fatigued, but otherwise the whole experience was sensational. I was pretty taken with the sea urchin laid over cauliflower puree on a toast as a starter, and my entree had almost too much duck breast and chorizo. Bob had to order the suckling pig after seeing it plated: a slab of almost terrine-like deconstructed/reconstructed pork seared and teamed with both kohlrabi and “crispy potato” that was like the world’s longest strip/chip. (Best part of sitting at the counter: You can ask how they do everything, and this was by mandoline.) We should have listened to the sommelier on the Basque white; as he hinted, it was pretty acidic and watery, but our shared glass of sherry overcompensated, especially with the excellent mignardises. WIGB? Absolutely. Great value, great experience. 31 West 17th Street, 212 675 7723.

The good, and good deal: Mermaid Inn in the West Village, where I led us after the dazzling “Pina” at IFC and where the waitress’s tout for Blackboard Eats made me remember the Twitter secret and where 20 percent off made a great experience even better. We split a $35 bottle of decent verdicchio with the trout over kale and the outstanding crab cake appetizer ($15 but enough to kittybag). It was before 8, so the noise level was tolerable in the old-folks back room, too. The server and hosts could not have been more hospitable. But someone needs to sit the busboy down to a free dinner and show him how it feels to have someone invade your space with a git-’er-done roughness. He’s super-efficient, but he’s working too fast and definitely too hard. Still, WIGB? Of course. 79 Macdougal Street, 212 260 0100.

The surprisingly not bad: Plein Sud in Tribeca, where we wound up after the outstanding opening of the revitalized South Street Seaport Museum and after finding our destination across the street — Nam — was in the midst of morphing into some new destination. I’ll admit I trudged to the table with dread dragging me down, because I’d read in the WSJ that the chef was mostly known for being one of those lower-end Tin Chefs, and had worked in other not-great restaurants. The place was packed, but we got a good table, and the food/service/wine all delivered. Bob ordered a not-promising $11 tarte flambee as soon as we sat down, and I would have called it quits at that, but he insisted I order something else, and the $12 beet “tartare” with Fourme d’Ambert, pine nuts and chives almost changed my mind about the sugar veg. His $21 skate with capers turned out to be even more satisfying. WIGB? Surprisingly, yes. Everyone was so nice when we were so old by comparison with the rest of the room. 85 West Broadway at Reade Street, 212 504 5555.

The very close to perfect: Boulud Sud, the bar at, where I dragged my consort after the excellent opening of Luceo Images around the corner at @25CPW and where we left feeling quite smug on contemplating what the little people were eating that night across the street at the overpriced/underperforming Atlantic Grill. We did have to bribe a guy drinking alone to scoot over one stool by offering to buy him the beer the bartender generally would have, but from there on it was the right place/right time. We only had appetizers, and all were faultless — I woke up next morning thinking about the green-with-herbs falafel on the $15 chickpea/eggplant tray, with its baba ganoush and hummus flavored and colored with red pepper. Neither of us is a soup person, but the perfectly executed $17 soupe de poisson with garlic rouille was, as I anticipated, a mini-meal. And I was very happy the $16 rabbit “porchetta” delivered as more of a paté so both the rodent lover and I could enjoy it. Add in $9 picpoul and not-cheap but affordable reds, and it was one of those experiences that make you not just happy to live in NYC but appreciative of how brilliant the Big Homme was in opening these canteens to the banksters while making them welcoming to the 99 percent. WIGB? Anytime. The bar is so great I would consider an actual table again despite the whiff of God’s waiting room. 20 West 64th Street, 212 595 1313.

The why-the-hell not?: El Paso Taqueria on the Upper East Side, where of course I swore I would never go back over at least a year ago but of course where I have succumbed many times simply because no place closer to home does Mexican anywhere near as good. A friend and I had just been through the “Manhattan before the grid” show at the Museum of the City of New York, followed by the Cecil Beaton sensory overload, and he had a train to catch and I had a post to post, so we went for location, location. We both had enchiladas, and they took longer than usual to arrive, which for once was a sign of a kitchen not losing it but putting some muscle into the food; the tomatillo sauce and beans were much jazzier than usual, and they’re never less than satisfying. He had a Dos Equis, I had a white wine, and I think it was $20 apiece with tax and tip. (Warning, though: As great and longtime friends, we split the tab, and I noticed both halves were charged to his card. They fixed it, but beware.) 64 East 97th Street, 212 996 1739.

The good I: Tre Otto on the Upper East Side, where, for proximity’s sake, we trotted on an unusually frigid night after the awesome Maurizo Cattelan at the Guggenheim and where it was hard to find fault with much in the warmth. We passed on a table in the enclosed garden and braved the dining room for the first time, but luckily it was mostly empty so we could spread out and tuck into fine polenta and mushrooms heavy on the truffle oil, plus penne with sausage and peas in cream. Both the olive oil with the two kinds of bread and the $8 whites by the glass had character. And the staff, from hostess to busboy, actually seemed to have the hospitality gene. WIGB? Anytime. 1408 Madison Avenue near 97th Street, 212 860 8880.

The good II: Gajumaru, also on the Upper East Side, where we were lucky enough to be both treated by friends and guided through the menu, because what I don’t know about Japanese would fill half of Tokyo — I think I’ve eaten the non-sushi version three times in 30 years here. So the fresh tofu was just as they promised (if not quite on the level of freshly made at Morimoto) and the steamed char siu dumplings with crab just as satisfying. Pork cutlet seemed a bit dry, and I made a mess of the tempura by combining the brodo with the rice. But tons o’ sake also helped. WIGB? With friends, of course. Because I think Japanese is, like Indian or Chinese, best experienced at its origin. And that doesn’t mean on a layover at Narita on the way to Hong Kong. 1659  First Avenue near 86th Street, 212 348 2878.

The good III: Settepani in Harlem, again, where we met three other couples for Saturday dinner that would have been deafening misery almost anywhere else and where the cooking, service, setting and prices vanquished my fears over luring mostly out-of-towners to what could be taken for a location/location destination. It is a 20-minute walk for us, which was “schlepping to Harlem” for everyone else, but it really was the most enjoyable evening in a crazy crowd in a long time — we could hear each other snark, share each other’s food. I think I scored best with the mushroom lasagne, which this time was heavier on the filling and needed no kittybagging and reheating to become sensational. My consort’s osso buco could have been more collapsing-off-the-bone tender, but the flavor and accompanying polenta put it up in Milanese territory. I am not a sardine aficionada but was happy to see the friend who never orders an entree tucking happily into the pasta with it, and I didn’t need to try her husband’s “Montreal ragu” over couscous because he also was tucking in happily to the goose, veal etc. sauce. We all split good fried calamari, too-sweet/under-fried zucca and excellent leek-and-artichoke bruschetti to start and panna cotta for dessert. Plus the puff pastry sticks with pesto served at the bar were outstanding. And the wine prices were so amazing (a good Arneis at 100 percent markup rather than 500 percent) we kept ordering more, and, again, the staff let us sit there for hours as if we were in a private dining room. WIGB? No doubt. And not even in a mob. 196 Lenox Avenue at 122d Street, 917 492 4806.

The pretty bad: Wong in the West Village, where we stumbled in on spotting it on our way to Pearl (after a free screening of the underwhelming “It’s About You” at IFC) and where we stumbled out to next-day queasiness after a long night at the chef’s counter watching inexperienced cooks muck up almost all the few things we ate — it was like being back in restaurant school in 1983 when tentativeness ruled. And maybe we’d eaten too recently at Momofuku Ssam (although not that same day), but the contrast between the two was literally painful. Maybe there’s a reason one lists the provenance of its duck on the menu? Those birds rank among my top two favorite proteins, but I had to force myself to eat more of the duck bun with its insipid, soupy meat in the fried dough (Iowa State Fair on Cornelia Street). And we waited so long for the special duck meatball that I took only a tiny bite and Bob ate only one or two, but it will be a long time before he looks at a meatball of any protein persuasion. Something was off. We also shared a good if weird salad that tasted like a shopping list on a plate (dinnerware, BTW, is also a problem, with so much futziness and weird shapes). The house bread is a brilliant concept clumsily executed: naan-like with curry sauce, but the former was doughy and the latter silly with mint leaves served separately to be torn into it. Service was competent at least. But WIGB? I won’t quite give it negative two stars and still . . . not on a bet. It’s the kind of trying-too-hard restaurant a third-tier town would be thrilled to have.

My in-law equivalent refuses to learn how to navigate the wonderful series of tubes, so I can be quite frank in reporting I prodded my consort to do the right thing and head home for xmas only because I knew I would get a few good meals out of it. Along with a lovely ride up the Hudson and along the Erie Canal on Amtrak, now with real WiFi.

Lunch at Sea Bar downtown was totally vaut le voyage, not least because we got so much food for so little money. I had the BBQ and smoked salmon rolls in a bento special for all of $9.95: miso soup, sesame noodles and cucumber salad plus nine rolls (enhanced with avocado and spicy sauce). Bob was pretty blown away by his sashimi special, with no salad but five types of fish and otherwise the same accoutrements plus tea. We split a mega-pour of white and walked out with a tab not much more than two glasses of wine go for at Fatty Crab.

That night we followed a chorus of advice for dinner, with Bob driving through a wet and dark night to Lewiston to try Carmelo’s. This old bitch was the happiest of the three of us at table, because the menu hit all the right notes, but it was hard getting the other two excited, Gloria because unfamiliar is intimidating, Bob because he was still gut-shocked from a bad meatball back in the center of the universe. We happily shared the superb crispy squid salad with house-cured coppa over arugula with roasted peanuts and chile-lime vinaigrette as an appetizer and also the dessert with maple-bacon ice cream (more texture than taste). But Bob’s potato gnocchi with pork ragu and citrus-herb mascarpone needed something to pull all those elements into coherence, and G’s pork chop was well-flavored but too huge both for her to slice with arthritic hands and for us to appreciate the accompanying and overwhelmed roasted spaghetti squash, apple chutney and “spicy balsamic gastrique.” My “grilled bavette steak with roasted mushrooms, creamed artichoke, shallot puree and natural jus,” though, was just what we wanted to divide in half and tuck into DiCamillo’s (substandard) bread for our Amtrak ride home next day.

I’ll give big points for the huge wine pours and take none off for the ditzy service everyone retroactively warned us about. (Well, maybe one point off for “artesian” where “artisanal” was meant on the menu.) Carmelo’s is a fine restaurant, and its heart is in the right locavore place despite the jet-lagged barramundi. But is it Buffalo’s second coming? J’doubt it. As Bob said, the cooking starts with big flavors and finishes small.

Our other dinner, at Trattoria Aroma again, after a matinee of “Hugo,” turned out to be a travesty and a triumph. Just after we ordered, and Bob’s and my glasses of good/well-priced wine landed, the I-LE realized she was missing her wedding rings, the ones she has not taken off in 56 years. At one point we had three servers under the table searching, with their phones as flashlights, before I took the waiter’s suggestion to have the food wrapped to go while we sped back to the theater to comb the ladies’ room. As I anticipated, we were thwarted there and walked into her living room to see the diamonds glittering right by the chair where she’d been sitting with gloves on to keep warm earlier in the day. While she took Tylenol and reveled in recounting the drama to her sister by phone, Bob and I uncorked a bottle from Premier and marveled at how carefully the kitchen had packed our food so that everything was very nearly as good as it would have been on-site. Both the sausage on polenta and the special pizzette with soppressata and caramelized onion were nicely balanced, and my special gnocchi with peas and mushrooms rated A for both lightness in texture and richness in flavor. Even our salad held up. Plus the kitchen threw in a container of the excellent bread, regular and rosemary. I don’t know that I’ve ever had such a sense that a restaurant cared so much, not just about keeping the customer satisfied but showing pride in its food. And, obviously, it was a hard act to follow . . .

The old-style good: Tertulia in the West Village, where a Spain-obsessed friend lured my consort and me for brunch after we’d already gorged at the New Amsterdam Market and where you could almost imagine the ghost of La Palapa had been vanquished unless you wound up in a quarrel over how restaurants do tend to start fine but go to hell in this town. Our table was perfect aside from the bathroom in my sight line, and the ebullient waitress held her own when challenged after spouting silliness about sobrassada being an Italian sausage or a puree of some sort (I checked out at that point). I was most impressed by the marinated mushrooms with smoked ricotta on toast as an appetizer, which were super-flavorful and mostly made me wonder how the place could pull off the dish for only $9 with pine nuts included. I also liked my $14 coca, topped with the sausage in question plus caramelized onions, Mahon and done-right quail eggs (runny but not liquid). I’m no lamb lover, but the other two at the table were wowed by the ragout over creamy polenta with an egg as well, with cheese-slathered toasts on the side. And the garbanzos with romesco sauce baked with eggs and mustard greens were also nicely done. House wine, on tap, was only $8 a tumbler but also very house-y; the Basque wine for nearly twice as much would have been sent back by our mutual friend who lives on the France-Spain border. WIGB? Absolutely. Great room, nice people, a lot of energy, plus we got out for $40 a head with tax and good tip. 359 Sixth Avenue at Washington Place,  646 559 9909.

The new-style good: Parm in Nolita, where Bob and I headed on our expedition to the Lee Friedlander xmas photo show and where our timing was perfect — he left his mobile number, we went through the gallery and two others in the same building and we got the call just as we were done. So we walked straight to a table in the back (next to a double for Megan in “Bridesmaids”). As with Chang joints, and Torrisi’s the original, this place is all about the food, not the frippery (paper placemats, napkins etc). Spicy broccoli rabe was as garlicky/fiery as at Torrisi’s, while “B&G poppers” — peppers stuffed with cheese and teamed with spicy dip — were addictive. Our one quibble with the pickled vegetables (cauliflower, celery, carrot, etc.) was simply that they would have been even better if the kitchen had held off on to serve them as a counterpoint to our shared main, an $11 meatball parm hero, the meat cooked soft, nicely seasoned and tomatoed right. WIGB? Absolutely, even though it made me laugh to think that what we were eating is standard fare in Bob’s boyhood home, where they would freak at $25 veal parm for dinner. 248 Mulberry Street between Prince and Spring, 212 993 7189.

The nearly perfect: Momofuku Ssam, where my consort suggested we head for lunch on a good friend’s advice after our neighborhood Greenmarket diverted us to Union Square in search of turkey nether regions and where we could only wish for an uptown branch, ideally slightly north of the Milk Bar. As directed, we ordered at the back counter and chose seats at the elevated communal tables facing the rotisserie; while Bob was washing his hands and I was back ordering a glass of wine, our first three choices landed: sublime pulled-pork buns with smoky mayonnaise; broccoli crunchy with smoked bluefish vinaigrette, and perfectly fried duck dumplings laid over pickled red cabbage teamed with sriracha mayonnaise for dipping. Our duck sandwich (banh mi, the menu did not say) was just as sensational, the filling like sliced duck sausage. Every single staffer was professional but engaged, too. WIGB? Can’t wait — especially after watching a duck spin on a spit and everyone around us tuck into rotisserie duck on rice, with or without chive pancakes. 207 Second Avenue at 13th Street.

The seriously good: Osteria Morini in SoHo, where we were able to meet Jersey friends dying to try it because we reserved (online) on a Monday night. We under-ordered, but I at least felt full after tasting three pastas and a bit of two mains (seafood in brodo, mixed grill). The pastas were Italy-worthy, particularly the garganelle with radicchio, cream, prosciutto and truffle butter and the stracci (“pasta rags”) with mushrooms. One friend also knew to ask for the off-the-menu chocolate dessert, essentially a big bowl of melted chocolate. Service was relaxed but superb, and the noise level was bearable. But the wine list tilted toward downtown; the cheapest still red was $46 (at least it was as singular as promised). WIGB? Definitely, although we may try another White joint first. 218 Lafayette Street near Spring, 212 965 8777.

The pretty good: Sookk on the Upper West Side, where we met up with Dr. Bugs before his appointment with our landline and where the food/space were so much better than you would expect in this glasian wasteland. I realize lunch in is a whole other experience from delivery, but I’d rate it at least a B. The room is tiny but nicely designed, even if the textile rolls on the walls do invoke a fabric store, and the staff is super-accommodating. The deal is $7/8 for sublime soup plus appetizer of choice plus main course (w/ or w/out rice) plus coconut ice cream. No wonder none of us cared that our curry/pad see euw/rama dishes were just adequate — fresh hot sauce helped. The good shiitake spring rolls only needed to be dunked into the fried chicken dumplings’ sauce to sing, and the dessert was as finely wrought as the soup. WIGB? Can’t wait, especially with vegetarian friends who are still wasting time/calories at Aangan close by. 2686 Broadway between 102d and 103d, 212 870 0253.

And the abysmal: Landmarc in the dread TWC, where I am mortified to admit that I led five others after the too-long, too self-congratulatory “Artist” in overpriced-restaurantland  and where everything was one step above a diner. I asked the hostess for a quiet spot, and after letting us the reserved cool our heels in the crowded entrance while walk-ins were seated she led us to a back dining room with interrogation-room lighting where two huge tables were sitting, un-set. And we took it because she promised “privacy.” And it went downhill from there. We split the chewy, gummy fried calamari, and it arrived before our wine. (If the waiter had put in the app order later, he might have sold a second bottle.) The busboy cleared away bread plates sloppily before our “mains” arrived, one of which, the calves liver, looked like a fried-hard abortion. (Sunday special of spaghetti and meatballs looked emptied from a can by that good old chef, Boyardee.) And my Caesar looked as if someone had flicked something from a nostril onto rusty-edged romaine; I sent it back while audibly hoping no one spit on it (the replacement was okay). The waiter went AWOL, the busboy crudely cleared everyone’s plates while one person was still eating and we had to beg for water refills. At least it wasn’t deafening, but by the end we had all noticed the sound went up whenever a song started and then down again. We spent too much time after the table was cleared thinking of where we should have gone (consensus: Loi). Thank allah someone thought to check whether service had been added before we surrendered credit cards: Yes, it was 20 percent on the taxed total. WIGB? That AWOL waiter resurfaced to toss out a jaunty “see you later” as we were leaving, and it was all I could do not to respond: “Not on a fucking bet.” I’m even having severe reservations about ever going to Ditch Plains again. I ruined five people’s evening.

The really good: Tacos Morelos in Queens, where four of us were steered by a DM to the Village Voice’s expert after our excursion to the totally awesome Louis Armstrong House/Museum in Corona. The neighborhood is lined with funky little taquerias and steam tables of all Central American persuasion, so my hopes were low. But this place was bright and cheery, with a full bar to boot (where the friendly owner spent part of our meal hanging Santas on poles and trapezes). The (free) salty chips tasted freshly fried and came with outstanding salsa. The chile relleno taco was even better than promised by the VV, a cheese-stuffed poblano that had been perfectly battered and fried and then laid onto orange rice in a good-size corn tortilla, with pickled jalapeño and onion for acidic heat. I didn’t brave my consort’s lengua and goat tacos, or our other friend’s roasted pork taco, or the third friend’s vegetarian tacos, but I liked the nopales salad well enough, mostly for the other elements: ripe avocado, sliced sweet peppers, mixed greens, lime juice. We did share guacamole that our friend just back from Mexico said was better than he had there. But the standout dish was my gordita, easily the best ever this far north of El Paso: crisp masa dough sandwiched with lettuce, cheese and crema, with green and red salsas for jazziness. Margaritas were fine, especially for $5 each, and the mojito was surprisingly decent as well. WIGB? I would spend more than an hour to get there to try some more of the less familiar options. That gordita haunts me. 94-13 37th Avenue, 347 332 91

The not great: Cascabel Taqueria on the Upper West Side, where we decided to brave Saturday brunch to avoid the cacophony we’d been warned of and where the room, service, prices etc. delivered everything the highly touted food did not. Queso fundido came in a Lilliputian cast-iron skillet with little evidence of rajas and even less of chorizo but with an abundance of bitter char on the cheese. (Lesson: Order it only at Rosa Mexicano, which does it so much better and larger [although I don’t care about the latter] for the same price.) Bob was baffled why the kitchen could not mix and match taco fillings as every other restaurant does, so he was stuck with two overloaded carnitas that were decidedly out of balance and totally underwhelming. Halfway through he asked: WIGB? And we agreed — not in any rush. It wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t good enough to keep us from walking up Broadway and into Chipotle to compare prices and options. Our few $ woulda been better dropped there.

The geographically perfect: Donatella in Chelsea, where we headed with four friends after a screening at the SVA theater and where at least my consort’s and my orders were outstanding (Enzo pizza with sausage, pecorino, smoked mozzarella and broccoli rabe plus a really good arugula salad with grilled zucchini and a bit of ricotta salata). Good service and wine, but the soggy/sad margarita pizza was a serious reflection of the distracted owner. 184 Eighth Avenue near 19th Street, 212 493 5150

The increasingly reliable: Elizabeth’s on the Upper West Side, for the third time, where I hooked up with Bob on a rainy/cold early evening and where we had the place almost to ourselves, with none of the threatened hoarseness on screaming through dinner. Fish and chips was even better, not to mention more copious, than the first time I had it (how often does that happen?) and the wings I stupidly advised him to order were at least artfully executed despite the too-sweet coating. Our shared salad rated an A, not least for the anything-but-ordinary radishes. WIGB? Always and forever. Can’t believe the same owners inflicted Gabriela’s on the neighborhood. 680 Columbus Avenue at 93d Street, 212 280 6500.

The seriously good: Settepani in Harlem, where we met friends who had wanted to brave Red Rooster but heeded our NFW for dinner. Not only could we walk there and back, but everything about the sleek place was ideal even though a large family was celebrating a young birthday near our table. Which was in the front, near the window, where two of us could watch the street and all of us could hear easily. The waiter gets an A, not least for his advice on the wine and food (why do we think employees have ever eaten what they’re asked to recommend?) And that wine and food were both reasonably priced and supremely satisfying, but we all woke up the next morning most appreciative of how serene the experience had been, and how the whole attitude was like being in either of our living rooms; there was no sense of being rushed. As for the food, everything seemed cooked to order, starting with our shared appetizer of very creamy polenta topped with sausage. Spaghetti with shellfish baked in parchment tasted lively and fresh, and we’ll all still be digesting the osso buco with polenta at Christmas (which is high praise for authenticity). My mushroom lasagne was a too-big-to-finish slab topped with good bechamel that I wished had been baked longer; the kittybagged portion was even better reheated next day. But the most impressive entree was the special duck, with none of the tired/reheated aspect you usually suffer with  either breast or leg. Cabbage with it was dazzling as well (and when does cabbage ever merit that adjective?) We all split one panna cotta, billed as fruits of the forest but described as including blood orange, with a couple of biscotti plus a strawberry and whipped cream. One more indicator of Italian authenticity: The sweet was an afterthought. WIGB? I’m amazed the place is not mobbed by my own neighbors, given how good and how accessible it is. Even the panhandler on the walk home who called me and one friend “crackers” for not giving him money made it vaut le voyage. 196 Lenox Avenue near 120th Street, 917 492 4806

The good again: Loi, where my consort and I went back twice in a week for atmosphere, service and, especially, food. (Fairway: Step up your game!) The first time we went with a friend who wanted a real meal while we were just looking to top off “Into the Abyss” popcorn with eggplant and salad. Her scallops were kinda strange, but the portion was huge and everything else was outstanding: an amuse of mini-stuffed grape leaves plus Greekesque crostini, great bread with peppery olive oil, good white wine, free desserts. The second time we got snappier service but food just as great. The Greek salad by another name was a really satisfying mixture of tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, onions and olives with a paving stone of mild cheese over the top and a dusting of anything-but-dusty oregano. The moussaka was just as marvelous as the first time, the vegetable almost melting into the meat. I didn’t try one friend’s honking-huge slab of salmon, but we all agreed the grilled calamari with pistachio and parsley sauce was outstanding. Best of all: We arrived with no reservation at a fully committed restaurant and were able not just to score a good table but were in and out for a dance performance even with the usual free desserts afterward. WIGB? Early and often, despite the crowd (sometimes “Sex & the City” raucous, other times God’s waiting room). 208 West 70th Street, 212 875 8600.