New York minutes/End of November 2009

The pretty good: Safran, where my consort and I headed after the rather deserted Greenmarket on the Saturday after Thanksgiving when I remembered reading about it in the Wednesday Chef’s “goodbye to all that” roundup. We weren’t slaves to her pho advice, though. Overwhelmed by all the special choices, I ordered the Peking duck summer roll off the regular menu ($10 appetizer, and worth it, with just-right dipping sauces), while Bob finally decided on the $8.95 lunch box with surprisingly tender lemonglass-glazed pork chop, noodles with peanuts, rice, vegetable summer roll and mixed green salad with excellent creamy dressing. The place is rather elegant for that strip of Seventh Avenue (although the upholstery is getting grubby), and the European waitress could not have been more welcoming or attentive. WIGB? Definitely. For a real lunch. 88 Seventh Avenue near 15th Street, 212 929 1778.

The really bad: Palacio Azteca, which I passed on leaving the Hospital for Special Surgery in my usual state of elation (one-year followup visit on a “home run” thanks to Dr. Douglas Padgett) with a hankering for something Mexican and self-indulgent. I should have known York Avenue would be all white bread (even Bloomberg won’t eat around there), but I was still amazed at how lame this little dive was. The watery salsa tasted like dish soap, and not from cilantro. The $8.95 nachos were mostly bland beans and chunks of burned chorizo (allegedly; it had no discernible flavor). And the waitress was equal parts surly and inefficient (I had to ask for both flatware and a napkin after waiting forever for even a menu in a nearly empty little room). I guess I deserved everything I got for not being smart enough to flee immediately, though. I still can’t run, but I could have walked out.

The reliable: Fairway’s cafe, where four of us retreated after “Broken Embraces” when the “hostess” at Ed’s Chowder House across from the theater was so fuck-youish on learning we did not have a reservation and wanted to try the bar menu. Cheap wine is always the tipping point, and so we shared a bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc for virtually nothing. All their food was fine: Bob’s leg of lamb, the two huge crab cakes and the short ribs. But my Caesar (of course) was the best I’ve had there. The service was a little distracted, and beer-clueless, but WIGB? Absolutely. It’s even quiet enough to talk about what a provocative movie you’ve just seen. 2127 Broadway near 74th Street, 212 595 1888.

New York minutes/Late October 2009

The always good: The Mermaid Inn uptown, where my consort and I hooked up with a friend in from out of town and another friend from way uptown after Kefi proved to be horologically undesirable on a Friday night. We sat in the old folks’ pen, which at least provided quiet enough to make our DC friend realize we had traded energy from the front room. As always, the food at the price point was pretty much faultless, although I did suffer serious remorse on seeing the latest incarnation of the skate land before our DC friend and realizing it was about as lame was last time I braved it. Cartilage is trouble. My salmon with lentils and turnips was sublime (at least then — kittybag included only the fish, not the accouterments, for next day). Our shared salad of calamari with cheese and frisee was better than it had any right to be. And of course the newbies to the place were thrilled with the free chocolate pudding and fish fortuneteller. Bob and I split a bottle of Chilean Jimenez sauvignon blanc that we probably would not order again, but what the hell — it was the right place at the right time. 568 Amsterdam Avenue near 88th Street, 212 799 7400.

The newly good: Roberta’s in Bushwick, where I accepted my payoff for nattering on Heritage Radio Network, in the backyard of Hipster Central a long way from the closest subway stop on a weekend when the transit gods were crazy. I followed emailed instructions and waited at the bar even after arriving late and was ready to head back out into the rain when it occurred to me to ask if my hosts had noticed I was on the premises. While waiting to be retrieved, I did have a fair amount of time to study the menu and wonder why wine prices were so high in a neighborhood young friends fled a year ago as too desolate. But all that was forgotten once we took off our headphones and headed to a table. The co-host’s recommendation of a shared Bibb lettuce salad with Gorgonzola and dried cherry vinaigrette plus walnuts was brilliant, and our Crispy Glover pizza with guanciale, egg and mozzarella needed only salt to reign as best pizza of the three I’ve had lately. The price was also right (HRN guests get a food credit), and the company and conversation were beyond worth the journey. WIGB? Absolutely, if I’m ever out that way again and carrying cash. 261 Moore Street, Brooklyn, 718 417 1118.

The surprisingly good: West Bank Cafe, where Bob and I headed in search of cheap/decent after paying $5 extra a ticket for misreading the schedule for “Where the Wild Things Are” on 42d Street and winding up in the Imax theater. The din was deafening as we walked in, but the hostess led us to a table in a glassed-off section too close to the bar, and the waiter and busboy took it from there. I regretted ordering my usual Caesar once all the appetizer options sank in, but Bob shared his excellent chicken with Robuchon-wannabe potatoes plus seasonally appropriate vegetables. The olives and bean spread with bread also took a serious edge off. Two glasses each of wine pumped up the bill, but it was still a serious deal. 407 West 42d Street near Ninth Avenue, 212 695 6909.

The trippy: El Parador, where we wound up after sticker-price and aural shock at all the other possibilities between a photography opening at SVA and the C train home from Penn Station. Lines out the door from Bar Milano north made me nervous until I remembered a friend loved this time-warp, and both of us were astonished at the scene when we entered under a tired awning so far east toward the river: It was packed with young people. The host said it would be a 20-minute-plus wait for a table, so we settled in at the bar and ordered on the cheap side: mushroom quesadilla, sautéed chorizo, shrimp seviche. The salsa was remorse foretold, almost sweet and hinting of Cincinnati chili, but the chips and and bartender compensated. And our “mains” were outstanding. The best part was scanning the reviews posted on the wall on the way out, ranging from the Herald-Tribune to NYPress (by Panchito’s successor). WIGB? Sure. 325 East 34th, 212 679 6812.

And the vaut the voyage: The New Amsterdam Market at the South Street Seaport, once again, where I ate and loved Marlow’s chili, Porchetta’s porchetta sandwich, Dickson’s sausage, Saltie’s eccles cake, Hot Bread Kitchen’s freshly made corn tortilla, plus assorted cheeses. I was not so crazy about Bklyn Larder’s fennel sausage with undercooked beans, and I didn’t brave the longest line, for Luke’s lobster and crab rolls. We also bought a habanero chile from the Queens County Farm Museum and a slab of extraordinary Vermont cheese from Anne Saxelby and Liddabit Sweets’s salted chocolate caramels (Tootsie Rolls gone wild), plus olive bread at a bargain $5 from Sullivan Street Bakery. This market is an amazing addition to the city, and I think it works because it’s neither a free free-for-all nor a gougefest but an ideal blend of sampling and selling. All it needs is a wine-by-the-glass section. Or at least beer. Next market is November 22.

New York minutes/Mid-October 2009

The believe-the-hype: Zero Otto Nove Trattoria, where my consort and I headed after his photo shoot with an exhibit designer at the Bronx Zoo and after the press contact who gave us a lift to the closest gate in his little zippered train raved about it. Good thing it was so great, because Bob was schlepping a heavy bag with tripod and light bank plus his camera bag and we did some walking: 10 blocks to the restaurant, with a stop at Borgatti for some hand-cut pasta and a box of ricotta ravioli and stops afterward for Milan-level espresso at a cafe down the street and the cheapest Illy espresso in town at Teitel Brothers. When I did my Arthur Avenue piece for the NYTimes seven years ago, I tried enough restaurants to know the neighborhood is a shopping, not eating, destination; our lunch at Roberto’s was underwhelming. But the owner of that place has done everything right here — the design is more LA than NYC, and the pizza is so much better than you will ever eat in Italy, land of the sodden crust. Hospitality in the sit-down joints up there is always wanting as well, so we did not storm out when the bartender idly watching one of the two big-screen teevees acknowledged us by saying, “It will be a few minutes for a table.” Pressed on how many minutes, he persuaded us to take stools at the bar. And it felt like seconds later that we were tucking into a perfect arugula salad topped with shaved Parmigiano and an individual pizza topped with the weirdest combination on the long menu: potatoes, sausage and smoked mozzarella. The crust was very different from Co(mpany’s) but still kicked that overpriced effeteness’s ass. (Extra points for coal oven, and speed with which the thing arrives and is still cooked through.) WIGB? Can’t wait, but never for dinner. If there’s that much attitude and wait time at lunch in a place that takes no reservations, I can’t imagine what it’s like when the working world flocks in. 2357 Arthur Avenue, 718 220 1027.

The pretty good: Recipe, where I met a friend I have been neglecting through this long annus horribilus because it was her choice and where the food and service were so much better than early reports had threatened. Plus it was a deal: $9.95 for appetizer and sandwich or $11.95 for appetizer and main course — so I had the former (dainty duck confit spanakopita [singular] set over spicy foie gras oil with exactly one leaf of arugula, an olive and I think a grape tomato, followed by an attempted cheese steak sandwich with potato chips that tasted too much of duck fat, whether they were or were not fried in that easily funked medium). Nicki did even better with the special heirloom tomato salad followed by the crispy duck confit with assorted vegetables. I was kicking myself in my own leg for not ordering that. WIGB? Yep. But again, not for dinner. This place makes Land Thai look like Tavern on the Green, space-wise. 452 Amsterdam Avenue near 82d Street, 212 501 7755.

The overwrought: Nios, in the Muse Hotel off Times Square, where four of us headed after a book signing at ICP in search of a quiet corner and imaginative food. (I’d read Patricia Williams conceived the menu, and her cooking is always worth checking out.) It was just before curtain, so we had the place nearly to ourselves, which may be why the service was so herky-jerky (emphasis on the latter half of that description). We split three slivers of cheese at 5 bucks a pop plus a plate of jambon to start, and those should have been a warning that no one in the kitchen knew where the brake was — each sliver came with a mound of sweet accent, while the ham that should stand alone was teamed with cornichons, pickled peppers and (excellent) creamy horseradish. The bread basket was just as copious. And my sheep’s milk gnocchi ($12 appetizer as main course) were doing valiant battle to be heard over asparagus, toasted hazelnuts, arugula, peas etc. Bob ordered the bison-bacon meatloaf, also excellent if overkill, although the sides of whole shiitakes and potatoes deserved their place on the plate. I didn’t try the fresh pasta or the arugula salad (with green goddess dressing) or the smoked mozzarella sandwich (which came with a salad of its own, a fact the waiter could have pointed out), but they looked good. We shared a bottle of a biodynamic Spanish red that took the waiter some time to find, and when it was finished he just reached in and grabbed glasses as we kept eating (did I mention we had the place nearly to ourselves?) And it all would have been great if not for the music. On my way to the bathroom I saw the receptionist in the hotel lobby had a tiny dog with her, and I wondered if it goes nuts listening to that incessant, mindless techno-thump all night . . . WIGB? Probably — it’s one of the few places in the wasteland where you can talk even with the crap music. 130 West 46th Street, 212 485 2999.

The promising: The new cafe at El Museo del Barrio, where I was rewarded for listening to an hour of congratulatory speeches about the dramatic renovation of the museum with the best tamal I have had in burro’s years. This was everything tamales rarely are: light but dense, flavorful, nicely balanced between cheese filling and masa, teamed with excellent if mild salsa (made for the cafe by the farm that grows the tomatoes). The promised duck chimichurri empanadas that had lured me to this press event were replaced by rather leaden ones filled with chicken molé, though. But I confess that I went back twice for more of the salsas, both green and red, served with tortilla and plantain chips. The Great Performances honcha I was introduced to noted that her chefs are largely Hispanic and were especially excited about this cafe; the one who was serving the tamales deserved to be proud. WIGB? Definitely. Not only does the new cafe have courtyard seating right across from Central Park but the menu looks enticing and the exhibits in the museum itself are superb. They’re less about Latinos and more about a universal love affair with New York. Fifth Avenue at 104th Street.

New York minutes/Latish August 2009

The good: Joseph Leonard in the West Village, where my consort and I headed after the seriously hilarious but profoundly sad “In the Loop” at IFC and where the experience was nearly as good as the movie, odd as that sounds. We got a table in the window on walking in when it was half-empty, and if the width of the table coupled with the brayers next to us made talking a bit of a strain, that was a small complaint in a place so small and so new. They got about everything else right, right down to the Molton Brown in the rustic bathroom with the typo-ridden ode to writing over the toilet. Veltliner and Rioja were $7 a glass, with a taste pour to start. Bread was a choice of onion brioche and sourdough. Waitress was excellent, and her constant smile did not look forced. We split the $8 peach salad (with arugula, Cheddar, croutons and sunflower seeds), which we both liked but wondered if riper fruit would have balanced the acidic dressing better. Bob had very tender lamb T-bones with cauliflower gratin (for $20); that meat turns my stomach but this was worth braving a taste. But I really scored with the $11 duck rillettes, easily the best I’ve had in this country, not least because they were served at the right temperature (not fat-cold) with three huge slices of toasted bread (why does everyone else skimp?) and pungent Dijon mustard. And they packed up the half I left over to take home for a sublime breakfast next morning. WIGB? If we can get in. (No reservations.) 170 Waverly Place at Grove Street, 646 429 8383.

The sad: Resto in Murray Hill, where I stupidly suggested we head after the Greenmarket when the humidity was so thick it was like swimming up Park Avenue while dodging all the goddamn kamikaze bikes that have so quickly overrun the car-free lanes. Fat guy at the front jumped up to seat us from whatever he was doing at a table with another couple, but I wish the waiter heading our way had arrived first, because the couple just behind us got a four-top away from the hyenas in the back corner while we were wedged at a deuce in the din, with no AC aiming my dripping way. Which would have been okay, but the waitress was dumber than a post. I sickened myself by uttering the words “egg sammy,” but it turned out to be pretty good, once I got past the fact that the “souffléed eggs” bore a striking resemblance to the firm square an Au Bon Pain guy once waggled in my face at LaGuardia when I ordered a breakfast sandwich. How can you go wrong with hollandaise, guanciale, Gruyere and a superb English muffin, for $8? Poor Bob was not so lucky, even though I gave him my half-dressed greens. Shrimp and grits was a lot of fuss and very little food for $15: four shrimp, maybe half a cup of Anson Mills with a poolette of sauce and two slices of fried green tomatoes that could have been fried green anything. An hour later he was hitting the peanut butter. WIGB? Unlikely. He had to wave his card wildly for the check, twice. And neither the fat guy nor anyone else said a word as we walked dejectedly out.

The oy: La Carbonara on the Chelsea-Village border, where I will have to take the shit hit for suggesting 10 of us meet for a very young friend’s birthday. Insisting on a table in the back room where my consort had had a great experience with a similar-sized crowd was one mistake after not updating a reservation made for 8, which meant we were crammed in with another big and rowdy table. Which would have been tolerable if the waitstaff had not been justifiably pissed. The food was decent, although none of it lived up to the promise of the seasoned ricotta served with the good bread. My carbonara was spaghetti in a blizzard of cheese and eggs when a dusting would have sufficed, and the “pancetta” looked much scarier next day when I served it to The Cat WCTLWAFW, who of course scarfed it right down. I didn’t try Bob’s chicken cacciatore, but his mozzarella appetizer was quite good. Tiramisu did not exactly vanquish my hospital memories of “tiralisu” in Turin, no matter how happy everyone else was. I also didn’t keep a good eye on the wine ordered or would have been more adamant we stick to the low end, particularly with the Italian whites. As it was, jaws dropped when the check came out to $47 a head. In a joint chosen for $9.95 pasta. WIGB? I hope not.

The adequate: Pacifico in Brooklyn, where we settled with a mini Winston Churchill in tow on a brutally hot night and where the faintly Key Westian ambiance compensated for pretty lame food. The hostess let us sit outside with the verboten stroller, which was above and beyond and halfway compensated for one among us getting her hands besmirched trying to stabilize the picnic table. I had the most expensive thing on the menu, “crabcakes with chile relleño,” and all you need to know about the quality of the star in that sad show is that the whole thing cost $14 (with [allegedly green chile] rice, green beans and pico de gallo). Rosé was $6 a glass, which seemed great till we got home and remembered a whole bottle of the same Spanish wine is $6.99 from PJ’s. Bob’s margarita was pretty good, though, and we did get to sit outside. Overall, we were much happier to be there than at the “pop-up” restaurant we passed coming and going where a bunch of people who had schlepped from “as far away as the Upper West Side” were paying big bucks to eat froufrou food inside, away from the starlit sky.

New York minutes/Late May 2009

The really good: Aldea, where I lured my consort for his birthday because he wanted someplace relaxed with good seafood and where he knew instantly that the “arroz de pato” was why we were there. Even though rice is one of my least favorite foods (fodder as a kid), the enhancements listed on the menu — duck confit, chorizo, olive, duck cracklings — had to make it splendiferous, and it truly was, with very tender slices of breast to boot. We got off to an awkward start first when Bob saw his surname was F’ed up on the reservation screen and then when the hostess tried to seat us in the empty upstairs while the open kitchen was glowing like a lamp for us moths. After gently objecting, she did let us take two stools at the counter facing into the glow, and it was perfect. The chef plating apps was close enough for Bob to ask what the little puffy white things were with the sardines (along with Madeira raisins and citrus) and close enough for him to go get a green almond, cut it open and show what he had extracted to soak in milk. Boss came over to watch, too, said hello and then comped us each a huge, beautifully cooked scallop set over farro risotto with cucumber and orange. The scallops had been scored so that they got really crusty on the plancha, and the combination of hot grain and cold accents was revelatory with them. Nothing will convert me to sardines, so I swapped Bob for his ramps with crisped pig’s ear, apple and cumin yogurt and while chewing still thought I came out ahead. His main course of monkfish was better than we could have made at home, with crab and sausage in the brodo. We split a bottle of light Portuguese white for $28 and each had an albariño for $7.50, all fine with the food. The servers were that rare mixture of friendly and competent, too. Best of all: $126 before what I realize was too small a tip. WIGB? Absolutely. That “duck rice” was $20. 31 West 17th Street between Fifth and Sixth, 212 675 7223.

The pretty good: Gradisca, where two friends lured us to meet his Italian cooking teacher and where I was relieved she had the same verdict on the mamma-made pasta so that I can report with no qualms. Bob and I had had lunch there years ago and remembered the ravioli being spectacular but very expensive, so the $26 on the menu was not shocking. And if the gems had been cooked just 30 seconds longer, they would have been perfect; the filling was sublime, only the edges were doughy. Bob and I split little artichoke “meatballs” that were nice enough plus one wedge of Anna Teresa’s piadina, which almost wiped out my memory of the one we’d had at another restaurant that was about as supple as a Communion host. And I snared a bite of our host’s excellent fresh mozzarella (with anemic tomato). Bob’s main course of cavatelli with eggplant and ricotta salata was faultless, as was the farro lasagne my friend shared. (I think — should have stolen the menu for notes because nothing is current online.) I was glad we were there early; by the time we left it was getting very loud in the back dining room, and the food was already slow to arrive. WIGB? Maybe, if someone else was paying again. As good as the food was, it was very removed from the matter-of-factness in Italy. 126 West 13th Street between Sixth and Seventh, 212 691 4886.

The always good: The New French. Yet again. Running out of descriptives, but there is no better burger. Spanish rosé was perfect with it and the salmon salad.

The expedient: Hecho en Dumbo, where 500 of us descended just before the kitchen closed after the amazing “Driftless” screening at Galapagos and where the service was surprisingly proficient. My “picaditas” with chorizo, though, were topped mostly with potato, a complaint the friend to my left had about the chorizo filling in his “burritas.” More demerits for the din, the cash-only policy and the one bathroom, which by the end of the night looked Hecho en Mexico. WIGB, though? Probably. Location, location, location. 111 Front Street, Brooklyn, 718 855 5288.

New York minutes/Mid-April 2009

The really good: Fatty Crab uptown on second try, where my consort and I snagged seats at the bar away from the din and where we scored with food, service and lagniappe. It was a choice between a crappy table right inside the door or a 20-minute wait, so we settled for the latter and stayed put once we saw what people around us were eating. The bartender was patient and solicitous, too, pouring glasses of Grüner to try before filling them and doing a serious selling job on the special chicken-and-oyster banh mi, endorsed by the guy to my right. I had gone in wanting only wine but agreed to the green mango salad to go with the Fatty Dog Bob ordered; we were halfway through it when the touted banh mi landed. The bartender admitted he had gotten so distracted selling it that he had put it through as an order, so he said we should take it for free while he got the right dish. And it was all he said it would be, as was the dog, actually XO-flavored sausage in a soft bun. Best news: The mango salad is back in proper proportion. WIGB? Absolutely; the kitchen has hit its stride. 2170 Broadway near 77th Street, 212 496 2722.

The pretty bad: Cabrito, where we settled after schlepping around the West Village after the Greenmarket, finding the new Vietnamese place in Time Out a long way from open and the menu at Centro Vinoteca a little unpromising. I should have known not to enter any restaurant with exactly two customers at prime brunchtime, and we paid more than the $12 price of the entrees: The arepa “biscuits” under the fried eggs and chorizo gravy on my plate were sawdusty-dry and too thick by half; if the eggs had not been cooked so hard oozy yolks might have helped, and I hate oozy yolks. Worse, the “gravy” separated out into fat and chunks, to the point that it will be a while before I brave chorizo again. Bob shelled out $7 extra for goat, and it was certainly better than my food, big chunks of the meat with three fresh tortillas, chopped onions, cilantro, salsa borracha and crema. Guacamole was not bad, either. But both of us nearly fell asleep on the subway home, and both of us needed naps before heading out to a dinner party. Does goat have tryptophan? WIGB? Nope. Second time was the turnoff.

The promising: Dhaba in Curry Hill, where I stopped for fortification before getting all but thrown out of a shop for taking out a notebook and pen. The buffet lunch is $9.95, and if it was not Chola-level it was redeemed by the naan, far superior to what I have had anywhere else in town. I prefer veg over non-veg and was happy enough with the potatoes, spinach, peas and dal on offer, but people who eat lamb and chicken would do better here. Two tandoori drumsticks arrived with a little plate of limp fried potatoes and other vegetables as an appetizer, and they were actually pretty good. The carrot dessert was also surprisingly satisfying, and I have no sweet tooth. I missed the raita and the mango pickle. Service qualified as discombobulated at best, but WIGB? For sure, for lunch. 108 Lexington Avenue near 28th Street, 212 679 1284.

The gruesome: Nha Trang One, where I stupidly wasted my one jury-duty lunch thanks to a notebook jotting about it being a favorite of an admirable chef and where the F&W tout posted in the window should have been a warning. I studied both lunch and dinner menus for a long time, realizing as I slowly turned the pages that I knew way too little to be even trying to navigate the cryptic descriptions, before randomly pointing at something in the beef section starred as spicy. Five seconds later a mound of gray meat and white rice with big nasty hunks of onion arrived, and it was so profoundly disappointing I called the waiter over to ask for spring rolls — grease absolves many sins. But these, which arrived in all of 10 seconds, were even nastier, more wrapper than filling with no discernible flavor. The people were nice, and the bathroom was wild (black fixtures), and the $4 wine was a big gobletful. But WIGB? Not a Chinatown chance in hell.

New York minutes/Early April 2009

The pretty good: West Branch, where we met friends in search of an affordable dinner on the one night we were confident you could easily go anywhere on the Upper West Side. Even then, it was swamped and loud, but we survived close to three hours with one bottle and two glasses of pinot blanc. I wanted nothing more than the respectable Caesar salad but took satisfying tastes of my consort’s celeri remoulade with ham and his squash tortelli. The burger across the table also looked worth the $16. WIGB? Why not? 2178 Broadway at 77th Street, 212 777 6764.

The not awful: Comida, where we resorted after finding Cesare’s joint fully committed even at 9:30 on a Monday night and where we at least got a bar table immediately and good-sized glasses of okay red and white wine for $8 each in a far-from-full room. Not sure what came over Bob after popcorn at disappointing “Duplicity,” but he ordered nachos, which were not great but hugely filling. I wanted the house salad with Romaine, olives, roasted chilies and queso fresco and was presented a mound of baby spinach with accouterments instead — a restaurant open mere days had run out of the right lettuce. The least they could have done was knock the $2 surcharge for avocado off the check. WIGB? Probably. We live in a notorious wasteland, and the waiter and half-empty room were nice enough. Plus one thing that has killed everything in that space has been hostility to people who only want a drink and a snack after a movie. 461 Columbus at 82d Street, 212 696 3000.

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/Mid-February 2009

The good: Salumeria Rosi, where a friend offered to treat me to a birthday drink and snack and where we wound up staggering from Cesare’s beneficence. I got there first for a 5:30 connection, and the hostess seated me with a warning that the table was needed back by 7 or 7:30, so I ordered a glass of $9 tocai and as the waiter was explaining the menu an “Italian spritzer” landed — prosecco with Aperol. Another followed for Donna when she arrived, so we huddled over the menu choosing small plates. They all actually turned out to be the most satisfying tastes of the night, but it was hard to complain about the succession of indulgences sent from the kitchen: prosciutto bread; a beyond-generous platter of salumi; squash risotto with pumpkinseeds; caponata and heirloom-bean salad; salt cod, and Gorgonzola with candied almonds. We were more taken with the beyond-tender heirloom pork rib, the culatello, the green of the day (Swiss chard) and especially the lasagne, a small square of totally tender pasta layered with just enough ragu, cheese and sauce. Through all that, we somehow found room for three desserts, of which the date toffee cake was the most amazing. WIGB? Early for sure, and maybe with a bag over my head. 283 Amsterdam Avenue near 74th Street, 212 877 4800.

The not bad: Fairway Cafe yet again, where we retreated with Dr. and Lady Bugs after the beyond-abysmal “Wrestler” and where the cheap wine compensated for the soup sold as pizza and the rathah scary bathrooms (Dr. B lived in India for a month on a pittance and still decided he could count on his camel bladder to get him home to Brooklyn before he would brave a backed-up toilet as employees were voiding). We were there late on a Sunday night, and so the real amazement was that the branzino was not totally geriatric. I didn’t try our just-back-from-Argentina friends’ huge steaks (hanger, strip), or the shrimp chowder starter one got on the prix fixe, but their fries were good. The free flatbread was half-baked, though. We had a new, great waitress with serious personality, and the wine was all we wanted: cheap. For the first time, though, Bob left saying it was depressing. I reminded him the food is usually great. Plus the wine is extraordinarily cheap. And no fingers were excised in slicers like in the crapflick.

The transporting: Yakitori Totto, where seven of us hooked up for a little orgy of skewers etc. and where we learned to let the regular do the ordering — get greedy and you wind up with Vienna sausages made of chicken. Gyoza were exceptional, probably the best I’ve had in New York. But she also suggested good chicken and tofu and pork and indulged us with the asparagus wrapped in bacon; what’s great is that you can order by the $3 piece as you so rarely can with other cuisines. We didn’t try the dessert she was lusting after (and I didn’t steal a menu), but the green tea ice cream dusted with matcha was a good ending. The service was quite good, too; we’ve never been eased out so gracefully with people lined up for our table in a little front room. 251 West 55th Street, 212 245 4555.

The worth notice even though I am dispirited: Sookk delivered decent Thai for a Saturday lunch, El Paso came through with great enchiladas for me if not satisfaction for my two escorts and the Mermaid Inn was the right place to head for an early dinner after our kick-in-the-gut loss (Bob let me order clam chowder and french fries as my dinner — you take your balm where you find it).

New York minutes/Mid-January 2009

The good: Hecho en Dumbo, where I met my consort after an excellent afternoon with a fellow language junkie over in Brooklyn Heights and where the food and prices were worth the oily after-effects (you’ll leave there smelling as if you just ate at Ugglesich’s in New Orleans). I also suspect the place might be brutal, noisewise, later in the evening, but around 7 on a Monday night it was superb. We split the best guacamole in eons — what looked like a mingy portion was actually ample with the warm chips — and then outstanding sopes topped with crab and with chorizo etc. Wines and service were also better than I would expect. WIGB? Undoubtedly, given that the prices are right and the place is right around the corner from Bob’s underheated office. 111 Front Street, Brookyn, 718 855 5288.

The also-good: Zoma, where a table right next to the arctic-breezing door was the one downside to dinner for four of us with one injera spread with mounds of well-spiced vegetables and another with lamb, chicken and sirloin. The price was certainly right — I got there first and ordered a $7 glass of sauvignon blanc to keep me company in the cold, and then we split a bottle of red and it all came out to all of $25 a person. The place looks great, and the staff is surprisingly attentive and efficient. I don’t know enough about Ethiopian cooking to be critical, but I liked most of what we ate, particularly the red lentils, which could pass for Indian. WIGB? The price is right. (Cash only, though, and reservations are respected.) 2084 FDBlvd (Eighth/CPW) at 113th Street, 212 662 0620.

The adequate: Metro Marche in the Port Authority Bus Terminal, where we headed for proximity’s sake after an opening at ICP and an encounter with NYC’s nastiest outside a Hillary event (pedestrians forced to walk in the street? no problem!) The place was the busiest I think I’d ever seen it, but the bouncer/manager was doing a better job than the cops; when three girls tried to use the same bathroom, his shoulders stepped in. Wine, service, my pizzette were all fine, but Bob’s frisee salad looked as if it had walked in from Weehawken: tired, overdressed greens mixed with soggy lardons and weary walnuts. It didn’t matter, though, because the subway entrance was mere steps away on that brutally cold night. WIGB? Inevitably. The crap going in across the street at the shrine to Pinch’s ego doesn’t look much better. 625 Eighth Avenue near 41st Street, 212 239 1010.

The unsettling: Pearl, where I was so disoriented by the emptiness at lunch that I must have set myself up for disappointment. When I got there exactly no one was at the bar and two tables were occupied in the “dining room,” but that didn’t stop the bartender from pushing around a couple of foreigners who did not understand why they had to wait for a complete party to be seated and who were told to “take any stool on the wall” when one went to the bar to sit down while the other was on the phone; the surliness even after one ordered a bottle of “Champagne” almost made me embarrassed to be a New Yorker. It’s the first time I ever thought about how one letter separates “rule” from “rude.” (Or maybe I’ve just been kicked around too much in countries where I don’t speak the language.) As for the food, I got my usual fish sandwich, and the bread was so huge I ate quite a while on one half before finding the cod in all the sauce and lettuce. I guess it was what it always is, but for the first time it struck me as almost gross. Fries and muscadet were fine, though. And the bartender/enforcer was certainly efficient with my order. WIGB? Yep. Any place can have an off day, with or without extenuating circumstances. 18 Cornelia Street.

The cheap and cheerful: Cafetasia, where we ducked in after freezing our bones and metal off on Union Square and where my crab Rangoon and Thai-eggplant-loaded green curry together cost about the same as the pound and a half of organic stew meat we had to buy at Whole Foods because the Greenmarket only had goat and pork. For the same $7.50, Bob had gyoza (lame) and udon (respectable). The place was packed, but the staff was outstanding (we got a table immediately in a room designed for communal eating). I just wish I had been two tables away with the male couple who were on their second bottle of wine at 12:30 on Saturday. WIGB? Probably. The green curry sauce was much gutsier than Spice’s, and the price was tres right. 38 East Eighth Street, 212 529 2363.

The painful: Ninth Street Espresso in the Chelsea Market, where I met a friend for our once-a-year coffee and where I can’t remember when I have felt more bilked (and she bought the $3.50 cherry scone at Amy’s afterward). The Camorra have killed for a less muddy cappuccino. For $4 at that.