The pretty good despite the MIA waitress: Bubby’s in Dumbo, where we took AC refuge for lunch after broasting at the outstanding Photoville in the Brooklyn Bridge Park. We got in just before a wedding party closed down the joint, so I guess I shouldn’t bitch that my consort had to go fetch water and then ketchup for us because the ditz of a waitress was nowhere to be found even at tip time. My BLT was about 90 percent B and came with good fries, while Bob’s chicken club with avocado plus salad made him extremely happy. The lime “press” turned out to be worth 7 bucks as inspiration alone, both for blogging and emulating. WIGB? Definitely, although the more we walked afterward the more I realized I need to do more homework before we cross the water. Just by wandering, we were able to experience overpriced, underwhelming cookies at One Girl Cookies and buy outstanding croissants and baguette at Almondine before checking out Forager’s and coming home with a wild cut of lamb shoulder from a butcher who trained himself to carve by book-learnin’.
The not bad despite the MIA waitress: Kefi on the Upper West Side, where we met up with photo-star friends in from Chicago plus his daughter and her boyfriend down from Columbia and where I was dreading the experience after a G-reader recently reported on a dinner in hell among the stroller brigade. But we were seated downstairs (next to the service area, unfortunately), and it was quiet enough to talk as we shared the reliably superb spreads and a bottle of Greek white. My macaroni and cheese was soupier than usual but had great flavor, even reheated next day, and everyone else seemed happy with fish, pasta, burger. WIGB? Not soon but inevitably. As we trudged there, we agreed we’ve stayed away because we’ve eaten the whole menu too often, and because Loi is so stellar. But there’s are reasons it’s constantly packed. Plus Momofuku Milk Bar is just up the avenue for the dessert you didn’t have.
The never-disappointing: Barrio Chino on the Lower East Side, where we stopped for lunch on a brutally hot Sunday between Illy stocking-up at Di Palo and photo-gallerying at Anastasia (typically great show, by Paolo Pellizzari and his Noblex). My sincronizada with chorizo, avocado and super-spicy salsa verde was perfection, and Bob was surprisingly happy with his sopesitas, three of them, topped with chorizo, steak and nopales and paired with superb salsas. Our order took just short of forever (well, 40 minutes), but WIGB? Absolutely. Each dish was 10 bucks, the room is so nice and the drinks are so tantalizing unless it’s 100 degrees outside and you have miles to walk before you nap.
The time-warpy: Henry’s End in Brooklyn Heights, where friends from the neighborhood ushered us after the frustrating “Safety Not Guaranteed” down the block even though I was curious about the shiny new joint in a space one of those friends warned is a death sentence for restaurants. My crab-corn cakes (appetizer as entree) were surprisingly satisfying, and the Shinn rosé was a good deal at $32. We all shared tuna tartare and ribs to start; I got a taste of the special duck (seemed as if one old bird is designed to fit all sauces), and Bob took home his happy-making fried chicken. The waitress was a total trip, a Republican dream of happily working till you drop. WIGB? Probably not, pleasant as it was, even as we were seated next to the toilettes. It was like eating in the Hudson Valley in 1988. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, aside from the fact that it is 2012.