The good, now that I’m over my snit: Crema in Chelsea, where my fried consort suggested we head after an exhausting morning at the Greenmarket on Union Square. I’d been boycotting it since a bad experience so long ago I can’t even remember, but his instincts were, as usual, dead-on. We got a table in the back right away and had superb service from one personable waiter; the $10 margarita was huge and perfectly blended, and the food dazzled. Bob’s chilaquiles easily outshone Hecho en Dumbo’s, which outshone El Paso Taqueria’s, but my chile relleno was a reinvention that could redeem the whole category of stuffed peppers. A roasted poblano was presented on a crispy flour tortilla alongside a little cylinder of good tomatillo salsa, with the pepper not battered or fried but slit open and loaded with eggs scrambled with chorizo and chipotle-flavored (I think) potatoes. The whole assemblage was presented on a schmear of black beans, so if you tackled correctly you got nearly everything in one bite. WIGB? Now, absolutely. 111 West 17th Street, 212 691 4497.

The aurally correct: Ditch Plains on the Upper West Side, again, where we wound up with friends after the underwhelming “Contagion” and where, once again, the deserted dining room was nearly half the allure. I didn’t taste the deviled eggs or fried calamari across the booth but can vouch for the plain Caesar and the spicy salad, again (shrimp or no shrimp, the heat redeems it). I did snare a bite of the Ditchbar ice cream sandwich, with mint flavoring, which was great. Three of us shared a good $38 bottle of Spanish red, and this time no one lost a molar to the saltwater taffy. WIGB? Definitely. 100 West 82d Street, 212 352 4815.