New York minutes/Mid-November 2010

The good: Lyon in the old Cafe Bruxelles in the West Village, where we were lucky enough to arrive early when it had just opened and got a nice table in a quiet corner in the back and tried not to dwell on why we had been so underwhelmed by food in the real Lyon. There it’s belly-busting heavy, so I only ordered two appetizers: escargots in risotto, a nice idea, and quenelles, which someone should have warned me were not real — chicken is foul when you’re expecting fish — although the sauce with black trumpet mushrooms was excellent. My consort loved his lamb shank on a few white beans with spicy merguez, though. And wines are a deal (starting at $7 a glass), but they took forever to arrive. WIGB? Absolutely. Although no one will take the place for authentic because the waiters are too thin. 118 Greenwich Avenue.

The pretty good under the circumstances: Donatella in Chelsea, where four of us headed after “Long Story Short” in the hellhole that is the Theater District and where the din was definitely put in dinner but the food redeemed everything. The kitchen was slammed, maybe thanks to the great review in the Village Voice, so my consort and I should have known better than to try to order things we’d loved previously. A first go-round of the fried calamari with aioli spiked with bottarga lived up to memory, but the second looked over-browned and heavy. His spaghetti with sea urchin also seemed more sodden this time. Eggplant parmigiana, though, a tiny portion in an iron pot, was exceptional if dainty for $13. And my mushroom-and-smoked mozzarella pizza was soggier than I expected but had great flavor and ingredients; the Enzo, with sausage and broccoli rabe, probably qualified as true Neapolitan because it sagged at the center as well. Comped zeppoli made our friends who know from the Jersey Shore very happy. WIGB? Probably, if we’re near there. The waitress was a bit of a ditz, and someone really needs to teach the staff which wineglasses go with which wine, but the food and value (with both food and wine) make it far better than anything on that strip. Despite the din. 184 Eighth Avenue near 20th Street, 212 493 5150.

The surprising: City Winery in Tribeca, where I stayed to try the product while on another mission and was happy to find the chardonnay straight from the barrel in the cellar was a serious wine and the flatbread made with lees left from the winemaking was beyond respectable. The special that day was chorizo and padron peppers with Manchego, and it held up well despite the charred chiles. The waitress, once she kicked into gear, was also outstanding. WIGB? Definitely, especially after Film Forum, and absolutely for a concert. 155 Varick Street at Vandam, 212 608 0555.

New York minutes

The good, even though: Recipe, twice. The first time it was four of us, early, and we dutifully got into the Epago program, sharing the macaroni and cheese with corn, peas and bacon as an appetizer (good, not great) and a nice panna cotta for dessert, plus one bottle of wine, and happily going on our way. As always, the main courses were superb, both my halibut and The Consort’s huge pork chop. All in all, a perfect evening. So great that I came home and reserved for two nights later with a new guy in town, one who doesn’t understand that you only rent a table in this town, especially in a tiny, very good restaurant. Food and service were again superb (I had the duck, we shared a crab cake), but we were having such a great time discussing the sorry state of the world and America’s sorry part in it that we kept ordering more wine until finally the host had to come by and tell us people had been waiting 15 minutes for our table. Or, here’s the check and what’s your hurry? It was rather mortifying, even under Bob’s name. WIGB? Only for lunch for a while, I guess. It is the best restaurant in the neighborhood at that price point. 452 Amsterdam near 82d Street, 212 501 7755.

The improved: Cafe Luxembourg, where we met friends for an early dinner on Saturday and reveled in the best part of Manhattan in August — no assholes. Only afterward did they confess that they had preferred Compass because they had had rushed and un-fun experiences here. But this great waiter let us take our very long sweet time talking before ordering, so we could enjoy the great room and the mellow noise level. I never think of the food as brilliant, but my hanger steak was beautifully cooked and well matched with bearnaise, broccoli rabe and potatoes “confit,” and Bob’s good branzino came with baby leeks and a very spicy tomato compote. Dr. Bugs seemed happy with his lobster roll (we were with his fries), while Lady Bugs’s corn ravioli with truffles could have used more of the former. I also tasted the shared chocolate-coconut terrine, which was like stacked Almond Joys but better than that sounds. But the best thing that landed on the table was the mango gazpacho, tomato-free and very lively with cilantro oil. The food was so much better than I remembered that I actually tracked down the waiter to ask if the chef was new, and he seemed taken aback. WIGB? Absolutely. Not many places in this town are that reliable. 200 West 70th Street, 212 873 7411.

The right place on the right night: The Corner, the latest incarnation at 93d and Columbus, where we recharged our batteries the night we got home from Istanbul and then remembered to meet up with a young friend reeling from a sting by a Portuguese man o’war on her vacation in North Carolina. I thought she would get into the three-for-$10  “steak” sliders at happy hour at the bar, but she landed first and chose a sidewalk table; luckily her favorite things were available there, too (although they were pretty overcooked). I had the quite respectable gazpacho, a huge bowlful, while Bob ordered the crab cakes again. The salad with cheese and almonds that I had liked the first time must have needed dressing not on the side, though, because Pam didn’t seem to attack it with gusto. WIGB? Totally. It’s close by, the setting’s great and the food hasn’t disappointed. 680 Columbus Avenue, 212 280 4103.

The wrong place on the right night: Jimmy’s No. 43 in the East Village, where I have always wanted to go but where the food was too small-plates for the occasion, which was a chance to reconnect with a photographer friend in from New Hope who’s spending more time in front of the camera than behind it these days. He was happy with the amazing beer selection, we less so with the wines served in Chimay goblets (message: don’t go to a beer specialist for anything else). But I should have understood the food would come out as the cook got it together, and that portions would be tres petite. We shared the good fried sausage slices with mustard and the shisito peppers, then one Bob had the bratwurst sandwich and the other, not sure why, “The Piggery salami,” which was seriously good but decidedly dainty. I usually drag our friend to more high-end places than he would like, but I think I aimed too low this time. WIGB? Sure, if I were in the neighborhood, after a movie and looking for something little in a convivial room. And had cash on me. 43 East Seventh Street, 212 982 3006.

New York minutes/Early January 2010

The seriously good: Cafe 2 at MOMA, where (I forgot to mention) my consort and I fueled up between the great Bauhaus and whimsical Gabriel Orozco shows and the scrum that was the Tim Burton. The place is civilized, the staff is actually hospitable (even when a manager reclaimed a stool we’d unthinkingly pilfered from a reserved table, he did it graciously) and the food looked and tasted amazing. We split an $11 panino stuffed with prosciutto, cheese and arugula and a $12 wild mushroom-wilted greens tart dolloped with robiola; the former came with excellent pickled cauliflower and olives, the latter with a huge mound of mesclun and grape tomatoes. Both of us could only marvel at how far museum food has come over the last few years. Coffee, of course, was excellent. Maybe I should quit ragging on Saint Danny. He does do things right; it’s not his fault he’s the restaurateur who stares at goats — it’s the media’s for swooning at his every move. WIGB? Absolutely, next time I can get my nerve up to brave the hordes. It took me years to get this far (I’ve been to the Modern three times, I think, but this was my first venture inside the museum.)

The pretty good: Marseille and West Bank Cafe, also in Hell’s Kitchen. Five of us snared stools at the packed bar at the fully booked cafe on 42d Street after a Saturday matinee of Part 2 of Horton Foote’s “Orphan’s Home Cycle” (friends’ daughter is in all three parts), and the bartenders were great waiters when we ordered the (overpriced at $12) cheese plate, mushroom risotto balls and calamari with two good dipping sauces, plus a lemon mousse for the starlet. Sauvignon blanc was $10 a glass but came in a glass big enough to float a goldfish. Mom and Emily went back to the theater for the evening’s performance while Dad and my friend from Philadelphia headed to Marseille a few blocks away for more substantial fare; amazingly, we were able to walk right in and get seated, and the place stayed busy all evening, which of course resulted in very distracted service. I had forgotten my reading glasses but could sort of make out a frisee salad with blue cheese on the menu, and it was a huge thing, with almost dairy overkill along with too-vinegary slices of pears and lots of walnut halves. Both guys seemed to like their salmon main course, although they agreed the accouterments were almost better than the fish. They finished up with a huge bowl of berries and good whipped cream and a creme brulee. Best part of the meal, though, was the bread, which didn’t have a lot of sturdiness but was flecked with what I think were cumin seeds — outstanding. 630 Ninth Avenue at 44th Street, 212 333 2323.

The good by hearsay: Remi in Midtown, where I have twice sent old people who have sent back rave reviews of both food and, especially, hospitality. I may have to go back there myself someday. . .

The not bad: Market Cafe in Hell’s Kitchen, where four of us headed for proximity’s sake on a frigid night after “Avatar” at the spooky AMC on 34th Street and where the accommodating staff and decent food made up for my qualms about the bathrooms. The host uncomplainingly moved us to a warmer table after we stupidly tried one in the window, and the waiters were all efficient. My Caesar was pricey at $12, but it was perfectly made, with good dressing and just the right amount of croutons — and of radicchio, which I despite (two or three shreds, just to keep the menu description honest). One friend ordered the same thing, and she got all the stems of the Romaine, while I got the leafy tops. Kitchen oops. I didn’t try Bob’s chicken or Dr. Bugs’s skirt steak with pesto and fries (both deals at $19), but they seemed happy. Viognier was unobjectionable at $8 a glass. WIGB? Probably. It is a wasteland around there. 496 Ninth Avenue near 37th Street, 212 564 7350.

The forgettable, apparently: A Voce Madison, where an editor and I retreated when we agreed we shared zero tolerance for the attitude at The Breslin, which was swamped at 12:30. The cavatelli with tons of garlic, broccoli, toasted bread crumbs and ricotta was outstanding, although a ridiculously huge portion for a primi, but I would not have remembered eating there if I had not just gone back through my Tweets. Maybe I was blanking out the annoying hotel-lobby music. Or the annoying service — after turning down wine, we were asked at least twice whether we wanted soda or iced tea, and when we asked to have the food split to eat Italian-style, in courses, they just presented both entrees with small share plates. I had hoped trout, which always tastes like the grain it’s fed, would be redeemed by the anchovy vinaigrette, but the roasted potatoes with it were the best part of the dish. Chocolate budino was intense, though, with candied kumquats and ice cream. The room seemed unnervingly deserted — wonder how it does at dinnertime since all the buzz has shifted uptown. WIGB? Nope. I’d brave the din to the north first.

New York minutes/Latish December 2009

The good, yet again: Fairway upstairs, yet again, where we trotted after the underwhelming “Up in the Air” and where we were rewarded yet again with good food, cheap wine and WTH service. We shivered in just minutes before the kitchen closed, which made it all the more amazing that my (yes) Caesar was super-garlicky perfection and Bob’s chicken thighs with roasted butternut squash were juicy-exceptional. And consider the wine: NZ sauvignon blanc was a buck less than lame popcorn at the theater. 2127 Broadway near 74th Street, 212 595 1888.

The not bad: Qi after the Wednesday Greenmarket, where I stopped for a quick hoisin duck banh mi preceded by chive dumplings. The waiter remembered me, which was nice, although not enough to compensate for my sandwich, which was light on filling and heavy on bread. The dumplings were no better than last time either. WIGB? Sure — location, location, location. Plus the tab with tax and tip was only a little over $10, and now they have wine. 31 West 14th Street, 212 929 9917.

The adequate: Santa Clara Taqueria Mexicana in Inwood, where we settled after an expedition to buy Russian chocolate in graphically great packaging at Moscow on the Hudson on 181st Street. I discovered aerated chocolate last year and figured it would be a good gift for my in-law equivalent, and this shop had many more options than the one where I shopped for my consort. Thirty-four dollars and a heavy bag later, we set out to find the vintage Grunebaum’s bakery I had read about on a neighborhood blog, only to find its longtime space up for rent, and were ready for anything for lunch. The loud place is minuscule, with half the space taken up with beer promos (wonder what the vendors think about waitresses whose hats boast one brand and aprons another). And the prices are insane — we could have been eating in mellow luxury closer to home at El Paso Taqueria. But Bob was thrilled with his beef tongue and chorizo tacos, $2 apiece with superb green salsa. I was put off by $9.95 enchiladas on a street where gloves are $2, so I settled for a $5.50 torta, soft bread skimpily filled with decent chorizo, avocado, jalapeños and lettuce. With a Jarritos grapefruit soda, the damage was all of $11.50. WIGB? Nah. We passed no end of tantalizing alternatives on our walk to the subway at 145th and Broadway.

The almost: O’Neals near Lincoln Center, where we headed with another couple after the bad-acoustics Steve Earle concert down the block and where the hosts were smart enough to offer us a table just for drinks but the waiter was dumb enough to hustle us out. I had expected we would have to squeeze into the bar and yell, but once we were seated with linen and flatware and menus, salad and crab cakes and guacamole were being ordered to go with the $11-a-glass sauvignon blanc. I only tasted the guacamole, which was better than it had any right to be despite supermarket-level chips, but our friends seemed happy with their real food. And the roll I tasted outperformed, too. It was late, but it was Friday, so I was rather surprised no one seemed interested in selling us another glass or so. WIGB? Undoubtedly. Location trumps many flaws. 49 West 64th Street, 212 787 4663.

The bittersweet: reBar in Dumbo, where we joined MediaStorm & famille for a last holiday party and where we got to celebrate Bob going from panda to condor again — he’s leaving regular feeding times in the zoo to go back to flying freely — while acknowledging it would be the last time we partied with this crew in this way. The tables were covered in food by the time I got there (late), but I can vouch for the guacamole, the pico de gallo and the penne with artichokes. And the wine service was surprisingly attentive considering how busy it was on a Monday night. WIGB? If he still had to commute, maybe. 147 Front Street, Brooklyn, 718 677 9110.

New York minutes/Early October 2009

The fine: Cafe Luxembourg, where I met two great friends who treated me and their brilliant colleague to lunch and where it was hard to find much fault as a result. We got a nice quiet table near the window, seemingly sunny in the rain, and the waiter was efficient enough while on the run. Bread, butter, Gruner were all outstanding. And if the $18 cheeseburger was a letdown, I knew a certain cat would be very happy with the leftovers. Tucking into it made me realize, despite all my scorn for the trend, how far burgers have come in this city. Even two years ago CL’s would have induced bliss. Now it’s just average beef on a typical bun, nothing like the magic The New French and even Fairway manage. The fries were decent, though. And Wyl-E was beyond happy. WIGB? Of course, even if I’m paying — the room and energy are real New York. Although I have to say it was a surreal setting to be talking about the sun doing down on the USA — our credit cards are obsolete overseas, China and India are going to own us, this is the easiest country in the world right now to lay off workers etc. I obviously need to update my cellphone. 200 West 70th Street, 212 763 7411.

The better-than-it-has-any-right-to-be: Gus & Gabriel Gastropub, where my consort insisted we head with two friends after the excellent “Informant” (Meryl Streep could use a few lessons from Matt Damon on how to disappear into a role). Bob assumes Psilakis can do no wrong; the rest of us who keep up with reviews had our doubts. And the decor is truly a disaster, and the retro music sucks, especially when it’s so loud in a nearly empty room. But the waiter was superb, turning down the speaker nearest us, bringing tastes of beer as well as comping us a platter of the nose-to-tail menu items, of which the two chicken liver patés dazzled even this chicken spurner. (I can’t get my mind past sweetbreads or tongue, but the two guys raved about those.) We also split an order of good tater tots that were elevated by the spicy barbecue sauce with them, less so by the Cheddar fondue for dipping. And of course I had a Caesar, a rich and over-the-top Caesar, and snared a couple of bites of my consort’s burger with mozzarella, smoked tomato and garlic confit with good fries and top-shelf coleslaw. Len and Diane seemed happy with their burgers, too. I think my Torrontes was $5 or $6 a glass. WIGB? Probably. We got away for $50 a couple (cash only), and more adventurous ordering would probably pay off. 222 West 79th Street, 212 362 7470.

The I-have-only-myself-to-blame: H B Burger off Times Square, where I steered a friend after the ICP fashion opening down the block because the food is cheap and where we literally paid for my not remembering the wine is no bargain. We split a $33 bottle of mediocre Mirassou chardonnay, and even the good $5.50 small Caesar was not compensation. She had the Southwestern salad, which I didn’t try; we divvied up tater tots to indulge in “something disgusting” but had to beg for chipotle mayonnaise to dunk them in — otherwise they were tasteless. The waitress was pleasant but distracted-to-ditzy. And it was loud when we really wanted to talk. Especially about the woman we had just seen carrying what appeared to be a taxidermed Scottish terrier as a purse . . . WIGB? Unfortunately, yes. Location, location. What else is decent and affordable around there? 127 West 43d Street, 212 575 5848.

New York minutes/End o’ May 2009

The good: Boqueria in SoHo, where we headed with a Philadelphia friend in town for the book expo who expressed a preference for either Caribbean or Mediterranean, anything “light and sunny.” Sort of Spanish sort of fit the bill, although I admit I paused at the blackboard brunch sign out front when I realized how likely eggs were to dominate and how close we were to the Saturday fallback, Aquagrill, with its sidewalk terrace. But it was early, and we got a nice table overlooking the plancha, and the waiter was attentive and the food and wine were excellent even if the music deserved deportation and the bathroom looked worthy of a train, and not in tidy Spain. We just shared a few pricey but excellent tapas: tender octopus on skewers and toast with tomatoes and sugar snap peas in green olive vinaigrette; diver scallops with English peas etc. in bacon vinaigrette; three croquetas — suckling pig, mushroom and salt cod — with sauces, and padron peppers, which were good but not up to Lanzarote level because only one I got had any heat. Rosé and sangria were $9 and $8 a glass; with two each it came out to $38 a person with tax and tip. Not bad, but not the proven deal down the block. WIGB? Maybe. Just not on Egg Day. 17 Spring Street between Thompson and West Broadway, 212 343 4255.

The better than we had any right to hope: Le Petit Marché in Brooklyn Heights, where I met locals and my consort after his workday and with very low expectations, given the neighborhood and the Alouette evocation when I walked in the door on a drizzly gray night. But our food was pretty satisfying, much more so than the sullen-at-best service. I had eaten earlier so only ordered my idea of nibbles — an appetizer of crab-chickpea fritters with chipotle-smoked paprika aioli plus a side of truffle-Parmigiano fries — and was happy with both. My consort made me taste his very chewy but flavorful duck with date gastrique and sweet potato puree, and our friends seemed happy with a special pasta with sausage and summer squash and crab-corn chowder (on this gray evening) plus an off-the-menu pork chop with corn risotto. We split two bottles of red and I think got out for under $100 a couple. WIGB? Absolutely, were I to find myself in that neck of the far woods ever again. 46 Henry Street, 718 858 9605.

P.J. Clarke’s at Lincoln Center, where nine of us landed after the disappointing “Departures” at the little theater around the corner and where we had no reason to complain given the location, location, location coupled with the reasonable prices, decent cooking and showoff service. Our small mob was seated almost instantly at a few tables jammed together in a back corner where we could mostly hear ourselves talk, and the waiter was patient and mellow when some of us just ordered salads or side dishes and others ordered no booze. My Caesar was the same as it ever was, and my consort looked to have more goat cheese than he needed on his spinach salad. Friend to my left was blissful with her sliders if not the bizarre “bubble and squeak” that came with; friend to my right ate the latter with as few complaints as he had for his French onion soup once the kitchen omitted the cheese topping. WIGB? Absolutely. Even if we have to again fight our way through a bizarre horde trying to get into the bar at Center Cut next door. 44 West 63d Street, 212 957 9700.

New York minutes/Mid-May 2009

The not horrible: HB Burger in Times Square, where we stopped in after the dry Avedon opening in search primarily of cheap and where the bartender was smart enough to keep us glued to our stools for several glasses of $8.25 wine and a couple of normal-sized “side” salads for $4.50/$5.50. First he presented us each with a tiny mug of beer to try, one dark, the other light, then he set down a huge platter of potato chips and faintly blue cheesy dip, saying it was left over from happy hour. Who cared that neither element had much taste? We ordered a Caesar, topped with processed cheese, and an “Asian” salad of noodles, vegetables and glop and had no reason to complain when we knew exactly what we would get. WIGB? That big “nothing over $9” sign out front works. 127 West 43d Street, 212 575 5848.

New York minutes/Early April 2009

The pretty good: Anthos Upstairs, where one of the last editors with an expense account treated me to Recessionary Chic and where I wonder how happy the chef is that his downstairs regulars were so ready to try the cheap alternative. We split the better-than-Kefi fried cod, the exceptional dumplings with a surfeit of leeks, duck gyro (strange) and the beet-feta salad (great) and were comped the overwrought mussels and underwhelming red mullet. Each generous small plate was $12 or under, and you could get away with fewer dishes. The waiter seemed a good guide to the Greek wines by the glass, too. WIGB? I felt as if I was walking to a foreign country on leaving the subway, and I may not get a ticket there again soon. 36 West 52d Street, 212 582 6900.

The WTF was I thinking? Chez Lucienne in Harlem, where I dragged my long-suffering consort and the Bugses on a bitter night after I got a bug up my own restaurant notebook to try a nice chef’s latest outpost because it seemed so affordable. The host and the room were fine, very evocative of a French fantasy, but. . . The waiter was like a battering ram, repeatedly interrupting even though the place was pretty empty. And my consort spent half the long trek home bitching about the wine — the first bottle, a cabernet for $26, was so shiver-inducing he upgraded to the $32 St. Emilion for the second and felt twice as ripped off. As for the food, our shared endive-blue cheese salad was pretty sodden although the bit of our friends’ foie gras I tasted almost redeemed it. Lady Bugs and I both stupidly ordered the bavette, which was translated as skirt steak but was closer to hanger and really the worst of both cuts, chewy and sloppy. The potato gratin, while nothing to write home to Lydie Marshall about, was a saving grace, though. And certainly we did better than poor Bob with his cooked-to-winy-overkill coq au vin with noodles and Dr. Bugs with his beef daube (the polenta with it was fried, which seemed ill-matched). They split a “nougat glacé,” of which a forkful was plenty. It was $100 a couple, but Bob said he would always pay more for good. WIGB? Alouette is so much closer, if you catch my drift.

The adequate: The bar at PorterHouse in the dread TWC, where a friend and I hooked up before an outstanding evening of Jazz at Lincoln Center in the dread TWC. Pricey wines were strange (the Oregon pinot gris was as syrupy as they always are, and the Greek sauvignon blanc should have left the grape to New Zealand or Chile), but the bartender and his left-arm man were efficient enough to get us a bowl of $8 potato chips and a shared Caesar salad before we had to run to marvel at Wynton Marsalis et al in a performance broadcast live. Even with what seemed to be a huge meeting of Assholes Anonymous going on all around us, that whole experience was better than ducking into Blue Ribbon afterward, where the litter-covered floor looked like a tapas bar in Spain and wines by the glass were priced four times as high, and then Providence, where the eerie guy at the desk just inside, right out of “The Shining,” informed us there were no drinks to be had, and finally Kennedy’s, where the sauvignon blanc was just what you would expect in an every-day-is-March-17 kind of joint.

New York minutes/Early March 2009

The good: Cabrito in the West Village, where my consort and I wound up because it was geographically convenient when I was in peanut-reputation-rehabilitation wonderland and he was on his way home from Dumbo. I got there first and would have walked right back out if the bartender et al had not been so insistently pleasant — it was almost unsettling. The place looked cramped and crowded and potentially tequila-fueled loud, but the niceness was seductive. I chose to stand near the door to wait after being encouraged to walk through to see if Bob had arrived, but they laid out a menu and brought a glass of water and it was hard to say let’s move on when he did. My gills were bulging from all the peanut products earlier, so I only ordered rajas con crema with flour tortillas, which was just right. But his plate of carnitas was outstanding, crispy chunks of barnyardy heritage pork with good corn tortillas and salsa verde. I still hate the Barfry-holdover tumblers sentenced to serve as wineglasses because they make even good pinot blanc taste jug-like, but it was hard to complain with fine service to go with the food. WIGB? Absolutely. The huaraches with chorizo are calling my name. 50 Carmine Street between Bedford and Bleecker, 212 929 5050.

The pretty good: Klee in Chelsea, where we headed after the opening of the intense Jonathan Torgovnik show at Aperture on children born of rape in Rwanda. Luckily, all the stylish gallerygoers preening in front of the photos made it easier to transition to food and drink, but Red Cat was jammed and Company (as the sign says on the restaurant) looked even worse from a block away, so Klee it was. Bob just plunged in without checking the menu, and it turned out to be rather more ambitious than I imagined, with a tasting menu and a sommelier and other pretensions. The place was almost empty aside from a couple of tables in the back and one in the window, so we were happy enough with a table near the bar — at least until the hostess seated the Large Family exactly next to us, a braying woman with three other hearty eaters who made big noise as we tried to talk and eat. WTF? We shared the Liptauer, paprika-pungent with thin bread chips, then I just had the “Alsatian pizza,” which I ordered as tarte flambé and should have known was “Alsatian pizza” — the dough was like a flour tortilla. Flavors were right, though. Bob ordered $27 duck, a huge tender breast set over wheat berries, but I guess I need my glasses checked because I thought the plate was draped in kitchen twine used to hold the two halves of the slab together. He forked up a segment and I yelped, “Don’t eat that! It’s string!” And it was julienne of lemon zest. Not good when garnishes go bad. “Steal of the day” in wine was a nice enough verdicchio for $36, endorsed by the sommelier. WIGB? Maybe. The bar looks very accommodating, and we’re down there a lot. 200 Ninth Avenue near 22d Street, 212 633 8033.

The not bad: Grand Sichuan in the West Village, where Bob and I had lunch after a trip to the Greenmarket on which we bought exactly one apple. (It was us, not the season.) He wanted Asian and I remembered online and other positive vibes for this place; only when we finished did Bob confess he’d been skeptical because nothing on Seventh Avenue South is ever very good or lasts. The service was rather addled (they stuck us at a bare table and took their sweet time both setting it and delivering the food), and bad music was compounded by scary paintings. As for the food, scallion pancakes were cooked to a greasy crisp and close to flavor-free, while the $17 tea-smoked duck had great flavor and crunchy skin but geriatric flesh. Since he’s traveled so much in China, Bob is obsessed with “ma po to fu,” and for once he got a pretty sensational rendition, the silky curd in a super-spicy sauce with a lot of nuance. A full portion at $9 was more than enough for a second lunch the next day. WIGB? Maybe, but the duck is far superior at Wu Liang Ye on 48th. 15 Seventh Avenue South near Carmine, 212 645 0222.

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.