The not bad: Toro Blanco in the West Village, where I dragged my consort after he expressed an interest in better-than-that-place-across-the-park Mexican on the morning after the snow fell short. We had to pass on drinks because the sidewalks afterward would be so treacherous, which was too bad because the only seats were at the bar, and the very charming ’tender was mixing some great-looking concoctions nonstop. Busy as she was, she stayed attentive. We shared the “chorizo fundido,” which was not melted sausage but queso fundido with chorizo, bulked up with purple potatoes and topped with a good pico de gallo; it would have been better with corn tortillas rather than the CD-sized flour ones, not least because the cheese seemed to have been mixed with something to keep it creamy. My green corn tamal tasted, as Bob put it, as if it had been made with maple syrup; at least more good salsa and crema sorta cut through the one-noteness. I only had a bite of his goat tacos, the tender meat teamed with both drunken pintos and avocado, but agreed they could have used more acid somehow. As we left, though, it was easy to see why the only seats were at the bar. It’s not about the food — two guys next to us were eating both guacamole and churros with chocolate. WIGB? Probably not. I can’t eat a scene. And we could agree with the waiter we overheard: The oldies might be okay on first listen, but not on endless repeat.