New York minutes/Latish September 2008

The good: Wu Liang Ye in Midtown, where I dragged my consort with his queasy Stella stomach after the zooey opening at ICP and where we were both transported (I’ve only been to Hong Kong, and once; he’s been there and to China at least four times on extended trips). I thought of it after reading Ray Sokolov’s piece in the WSJournal, although I have long known Zarela raves about it. And just walking there felt authentic, with mega-cockroaches claiming right of way on the sidewalk and with the requisite stairs to the dining room one flight above street level. We got a table right away, surrounded by roughly 75 percent Asians, and when the buzz-cut waiter snarled at us for asking whether the Sichuan dumplings could be fried (“Fried? You can get fried anywhere!”), we knew we were in good cooks’ hands. The (boiled) pork dumplings were sleek and silky, in a sublimely spicy chile sauce, and the green beans with spiced sauce (pork? onion? both?) were absolutely worth the shocking $14.95. But the winner was the camphor-smoked half-duck, not as smoky-wonderful as one that still haunts me from Hong Kong but very succulent and flavorful and not at all fatty — plus the meat tasted fresh, which is far more remarkable than you might think. Big glasses of wine were around $7.50, and we walked out with enough leftovers for a huge lunch next day for a little over $50 before tip. WIGB? Can’t wait. 36 West 48th Street, 212 398 2308.

The reliable: Toloache, yet again, where we headed after “Burn After Reading” and had our usual satisfying experience at the oven-facing bar watching that amazing cook do her thing so efficiently. We split the huitlacoche quesadilla and the tacos de pastor and were totally happy with food, wine and service. The cat might be away with Yerba Buena etc., but the mice are not playing. WIGB? Over and over, obviously. 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818.

The geographically adequate: Stella Maris at the South Street Seaport, where three of us retreated after the scrum around the Murray’s Cheese table at the Edible Manhattan soiree and where we paid too much for too little but were happy to have a sidewalk table despite the racket from the dining room (if the Wall Street meltdown sobers assholes up, it might be worth the suffering). I had just come from a press event and had no interest in more food, but I tasted the tiniest bit of the sausage and the duck confit and was happy that was as far as I went when Bob woke up next morning feeling the room spin. And not from the overpriced wine. Remind me never to order torrontes again, though. That is a grape finding its way in the world. WIGB? Only if I could not crawl farther uptown.

New York minutes/Early September 2008

The good: Fairway’s cafe, again, where my consort and I met a new-to-New York couple for an affordable dinner in a quiet setting and had what we always have, satisfying food without gouging, although the service was a bit distracted (new faces). My pizza with prosciutto and arugula was fine, Bob’s game hen with fries was even better, and our friends seemed happy with their shared (misspelled) prix fixe menu of fig appetizer and lamb chop entree if not the creme brulee dessert (not enough crackling crust). The grilled pita on the table came with roasted or sauteed spicy zucchini that was excellent, to the point that I tried to duplicate it a couple of nights later, with only moderate success. That book needed more recipes. WIGB? Can’t beat the prices and the noise level. 2727 Broadway near 74th Street, 212 595 1888.

The unsurprising: Les Halles, where we went once again for a post-Greenmarket meat fix and where we walked out wishing only that we had shared the steak frites. Maybe that free chocolate ice cream was not such a good idea, because neither of us came close to cleaning our $17.50 plates. As it usually is, the meat was butchered right and cooked perfectly, the fries were copious and the salad was just enough. The ladies’ room was a bit neglected, but you can’t everything. Nothing crawled into all the bags we left under the table, and it certainly felt better than risking Primehouse with eggs down the street. WIGB? It is a good buy. 411 Park Avenue South near 28th Street, 212 679 4111.

The adequate: Cornelia Street Cafe, where we retreated after finding Pearl closed for vacation when we really needed uplifting after the thoroughly depressing “Trouble the Water” (how that literal son of a bitch lives with his narcissistic self when so many lives should be on his conscience mystifies me). We got a sidewalk table and the service was beyond attentive and the wine list was good and affordable, so who cared that the too-sweet pomegranate syrup drizzles made the hummus plate less than wonderful? The crab cake was made with that shreddy crab, but it was fried right and came over a nice cabbage salad. Four glasses of wine and two appetizers came to about what we would have spent at Pearl on food, so it was fine, especially given the setting — that street is one of the more magical on this island. But we trudged to the C train still depressed. 29 Cornelia Street near Bleecker Street, 212 989 9319.

New York minutes/Early August 2008

The predictably good: The New French, where my consort and I schlepped after buying way too much at Union Square and where our reward was food not dissimilar from what we could have made out of our many bags at home (aside from the fries) but where the whole experience was just self-indulgence with Provencal rose. I finally got my tuna sandwich with great fries; Bob had the Nicoise-inspired salad with salmon, with a great anchovy dressing. Half the pleasure of eating there is just appreciating the design, which is why lunch is so much more rewarding than dinner. You can see and hear. 522 Hudson Street, 212 807 7357.

The predictably abysmal: Hudson Beach Cafe in Riverside Park. Even in the dark, a salad cook should not think the proper proportion in a Caesar is 1 cup dressing to 1 1/2 cups Romaine. Gruesome would be an understatement. I didn’t dare brave a bite of Bob’s burger, but his fries were just what you would expect in a joint that exists solely to take advantage of people too un-enterprising to pack a picnic. Thirty-five bucks a head?

The adequate: Mermaid Inn uptown, where Bob and I headed in search of neutral territory after 2 1/2 weeks apart and where we were lucky enough to arrive so late we got a nice big table outside, away from the bedlam inside. The gazpacho with peeky-toe crab was much better this time and the calamari-frisee-feta salad was fine, plus he seemed happy with his special of seared octopus. Wine, service, “bread,” were all what they always are.

The more than adequate: Cafe du Soleil, where I wound up with a wise-beyond-her-years friend new to the neighborhood who had suggested a reprise of Sookk but decided she wanted something different once we got to the door. We scored a sidewalk table far from the nightmare of the mechanical rocking horse and survived a waiter who apparently pegged us as two non-tippers by gender alone. Pam lost her gazpacho virginity, only to have the experience ruint by the cilantro I had assured her would be nowhere near it (she has the Zest gene when it comes to that taste). But she was a good sport and just fished out all the offending greenery and picked at the side order of squash and eggplant we also ordered. I went for the endive salad with blue cheese and walnuts and couldn’t really complain. As always, busboys, olives, bread and wine were unobjectionable. Lots o’ new stuff opening in the neighborhood, though.

New York minutes/End o’ May 2008

The atmospherically good: The Sheep Meadow Cafe, where a friend and I connected for an early dinner and where the scenery is well worth eating at any price. We were the second table of the night, so the waiter was hyper-attentive even though we wanted to dawdle before ordering. And $8 sauvignon blanc in a small plastic cup turned out to be surprisingly easy to swallow. The bravely burger-free menu is heavy on meat, but Donna wisely chose the grilled trout with salsa verde when I stupidly ordered the grilled portobello (the $16 price would have put me off if I hadn’t bought four pounds for lasagne for my consort’s birthday party for $5 to $6 a pound just a few days earlier — not much of a markup there). At least my vegetarian steak was properly cooked; the mushrooms in the grilled vegetable medley that came with it were underdone. My fries were also superior to her potato salad, both included on the plate. WIGB? Eating in any park on a gorgeous evening is such a transporting experience that we could have been served rat burgers with roach frites. But here you can watch the young grill jockey in his crisp whites and shorts cook it clean. Central Park, just inside the 69th Street entrance on the west side, 212 396 4100.