The not bad: Jacob’s Pickles on the Upper West Side, where I suggested my consort and I meet for an earlyish dinner after yet another of his crazy-busy days rather than him having to politely eat another of my perfunctory meals and where the setting would compensate for almost anything. It was a perfect night and tables were open on the sidewalk, where we didn’t even mind the inauspicious beginning of hearing the woman eating a salad alone at the next table begging for a biscuit and winding up paying the tab to which it was added without ever seeing it (hire some help — taking it off is too little too late). Bob was so happy with his over-the-top burger with multiple garnishes that I neither made much of the fact that it was cooked to desired doneness without ever developing that essential hot crust, nor whined that my previously perfect “leek country sausage” had been cooked to shit. Both our proteins came with more (respectable) fries than anyone but Chris Christie would think rational (and they held up well once kittybagged). The overworked server was good, and the rosé from the tap was acceptable in a tumbler for $9 each pour. WIGB? Sure. At least the owner is now working the tables to be sure people leave happy.