The good, early: Jeffrey’s Grocery in the West Village, where we repaired (to use an underused verb) for a second course after popcorn at Film Forum during “Bill Cunningham New York” and where the experience was almost on the level of the documentary. It was barely dinnertime, so we got seats at the end of the tall communal table, which it took this old brain a while to comprehend were primo — side by side is so much better for talking, plus we each had views into the kitchen and out onto the sidewalk, where passers-by looked straight off the screen. The waiter was Fedora-level, even though he did come over to comment on my whipping out my camera to take digital notes and add that “my boyfriend’s father always takes pictures of his food, too” (great: now I’m not some sheeplish blogger but an old phart). Wines were pretty great: good pours, well-priced. But the food was so much better than you’d expect in a room with a kitchen so tiny. We split an outstanding special of scallop crudo/carpaccio/whatever laced with chile and lime and pork-fat julienne, then sat bedazzled by the almost quivering half-head of roasted cauliflower towering over Bob’s seared tuna teamed with lemon-infused baby artichokes and laid over watercress and radicchio. It tasted buttery from the inside out, and we’ve since replicated it at home (the second time with ghee). I normally resist all things salmon in restaurants, but the $22 special with white asparagus and haricots vert sounded so tantalizing I let down my sustainable guard and was rewarded with a beautifully seared fillet, also perfect from the inside out. WIGB? Absolutely (extra points for still providing matches), but only before the joint fills up. Every extra two bodies at that table elevated the sound level to the point that we might have missed noting that Rod Stewart is my generation’s Frank Sinatra. “Maggie May” took me right back to my few college days, but for the youngsters on the premises it might as well have been Benny Goodman. 172 Waverly Place, 212 398 7630.

The pretty good: Madangsui off Herald Square, where we headed on cursory Sietsema/internet advice on a Saturday when we both wanted Indian while shopping for Indian but had to resist because we were going to be cooking Indian. The JGold Wannabe review posted at the entrance gave me pause, as did the display of rubber/plastic entrees just inside, but we forged on and gave the unflappable waitresses yet another shot at indoctrinating the uninformed. And very shortly we were canceling our reflexive order for a salad and tucking into the eight pickled treats arrayed in front of us while the kitchen cooked our bulgogi (two people searing at the table seemed kinda sad at lunchtime, and two options on the menu forwent that). Both the meat and the kimchi pancake were outstanding. At least to our tastes. Which is why I can only say this was pretty good and not great. Bob’s eaten Korean in some tourist-catcher in Cambodia; I’ve only had it at a press lunch or two. WTF do we know the diff between one-star and a $25&Under? WIGB? Certainly, especially with someone looking for a novel experience. The staff gets A+ for equanimity. And that Biofeel bizarreness you get at the end reinforces the feeling you’re not in Manhattan anymore. 35 West 35th Street, 212 564 9333.