The uplifting: Primo Pizza 84 on the Upper West Side, where I ducked in after a screening in Midtown after realizing I was hitting the dead zone between 84th Street and home at lunchtime on a crunch day. I only noticed the tiny place in the last few weeks, so I doubled back to try a slice. The guys who run it were so friendly, the display case so quirky (a salad slice was topped with “lettuce, tomatoes, onions, ranch dressing, American cheese, mozzarella — want me to keep going?”), and the plain slice that needed no reheating was impressive. As I ate it, on a stool at the tiny counter overlooking a bench on the sidewalk, I wondered if the joint could possibly survive, in that too-easy-to-miss location. But the guys who run it seemed to know all the schoolkids and yummy mummies eating on that bench. So as I left, I asked one of the guys how long they’d been open. “A year, a year and two months. We just got the space next door and are expanding, gonna serve wine and beer.” Message: I can pick out an apartment, but do not trust me on restaurant locations. (BTW: I can also recommend the fennel-Parmesan shortbread cookie from Petrossian’s cafe, which fueled me from 58th to 84th.)