New York minutes/December 2012

The always good: Momofuku Ssam, where my consort and I ate dinner after the fabulous-as-promised “Searching for Sugar Man” and where I met up with friends for lunch the next day because I knew it would be an entirely different restaurant. Bob and I snared seats at the bar as soon as we walked in and got advice on either side on what to choose: unfishy Spanish mackerel with a schmear of black garlic plus lotus root and airy-crisp chips made from lime peel, then a creamy, light Jerusalem artichoke soup with snails, bits of pork jowl and sliced jalapeño that was just killer, every bite with each element alone and then with all combined. After a very large popcorn, we couldn’t finish the great spicy pork sausage and rice cakes with Chinese broccoli and Sichuan peppercorns (the cakes were like crunchy gnocchi). The bartender let me taste the Greek white, and it, too, was so good I felt safe ordering a bottle the next afternoon for friends who drink sauvignon blanc and Sancerre. The roast duck breast was, as always, stunningly good, as were the spicy fingerlings served in the set, although the duck dumplings were a little more fried than usual. I thought we had under-ordered in sharing those two dishes and insisted we try the duck wings. Which were pleasant enough but outshone by both the tempura squash and the watercress-apple-pumpkinseed salad on the plate. Wally was horrified when she saw the cook in the kitchen right next to our table drench the latter in duck fat, but not when she tasted it.

The vaut le schlep: Lao Dong Bei in Flushing, where I met the eating-Asian group I’ve been so fortunate to be invited to explore with and to whom I am so happy to leave the ordering. I arrived as the chef/owner and our Taiwanese-speaking leader were deep in discussion of all we needed to try to get a sense of the food from that part of China, formerly known as Manchuria, and he was translating that we would get “skin jelly” on the house. That turned out to be a sort of aspic meant to be dunked in a soy sauce-vinegar-garlic-ginger sauce, and it was the one dish I couldn’t brave. I usually can’t stomach lamb, either, but the slab of ribs that soon landed was exceptional: the meat tender, the crust crusty with black and white sesame seeds, cumin seeds and chile. (Coal is the cooking fuel in Dong Bei, that region.) It was rivaled only by the spicy quail, a platter of legs that may have been a bit overcooked but had great flavor and spicing, especially with the onions alongside (a tablemate likened them to liver and onions, but the little birds had none of that funky flavor). We also had two meatless dishes, “tiger vegetable,” which was mostly cilantro stems and jalapeños, and something off the specials on the wall in Chinese that the table translated as bracken (and was pretty great). “Fried pork in orange sauce,” as the menu had it, turned out to be very tender slices in a crisp but delicate coating (“thinking man’s General Pso’s?”). The showstoppers were served in hotpots over Sterno lit by the waitress/wife: the richest, most intense broth with chicken, mushrooms and vermicelli, followed by a whole fish in another rich broth with fermented tofu and glass noodles, both dishes seriously well-spiced (star anise?) After all that, our 24 steamed dumplings landed, stuffed with pork and pickled cabbage and made for dunking in the sauce from the skin jelly. WIGB? Actually, I would even on my own with a new crew, not just because the food was so eye-opening but because the owners were so thrilled to have a bunch of non-Chinese in the restaurant. The chef was clearly invested in us loving everything we ate, and his wife could not have been more eager to keep the customers satisfied. 44-09 Kissena Blvd., Flushing, 718 539 4100.

The happy-making, twice in a row: Toloache on the Upper East Side, where Bob and I warmed up after the outstanding Ann Hamilton installation at the Park Avenue Armory and again after the bloody-great “Django Unchained.” We got a nice booth for a quiet lunch to share the best-ever tortilla soup and then carnitas/nopales tacos, which the waiter warned were bite-size but were actually handfuls, and the huarache, a light masa cake filled with black beans, surrounded with chunks of chorizo and sauce and topped with ultra-creamy scrambled eggs. Even early on Saturday night, though, we could only get seats at the bar after calling to reserve, but the bartenders were excellent. We had to have the tortilla soup again, then the quesadilla with huitlacoche and truffle and more tacos, these filled with Modelo-braised brisket with tomatillo salsa and horseradish crema. WIGB? Absolutely. It’s a beautiful place and much more comfortable than the one in the Theater District. (That tortilla soup did such a good job of vanquishing Bob’s serial-killer cold that he insisted we stop and try the new Spanish LeChurro shop we passed nearby, where the hot chocolate with chilies was perfection although the churros themselves were doughy.)

The good again: Parm in Nolita, where we wound up after an Illy-stockup at DiPalo (best price in town) even though I had had dumplings on the brain on that day after Christmas — after reading this scary story on the train on industrial pork, eggplant parmesan sounded so much more enticing. We were lucky and had to wait only 15 minutes for a table to tuck into three great little salads, the pickles being the least surprising. Buffalo cucumbers were as good as you’d expect: chunks in a blue cheese dressing spiked with hot sauce, and excellent, while chickpeas in ranch dressing with celery qualified as genius. We should have split a hero; a roll was messy to eat once cut in half, but that eggplant was pretty fabulous. And of course we had to have the ice cream cake that had just been written up; I must not get out enough because it didn’t strike me as anything extraordinary aside from the strawberry goo holding the three flavors of ice cream together. WIGB? Anytime. The staff’s attitude is so upbeat, and the music was all flashbacks from my childhood.

The better than its ingredients: Tortaria just south of Union Square, where Bob and I ducked in for a quick lunch after the Greenmarket when all the cool joints mostly had eggs and after he Yelped it up and remembered he’d had a good fast lunch there. You order at a counter and sit at a table you hope has been wiped down, but the window area is as nice as the people, and the guacamole is way above average — we asked for spicy, and it was perfectly balanced with heat and richness; the huge bag of chips was obviously freshly fried. We split two plates of tacos, one with beef and the other carnitas, and both blew Chipotle out of the agua. Table salsas only enhanced the intense flavors. WIGB? Definitely. The people are pleasant, and the price is right, too. (Although I know the tradeoff is less-than-Chipotle meat.)

The undeniably good but probably doomed: Forager’s Table in Chelsea, where we hooked up for geographic convenience with a food aficionado in from Denver after my consort spoke at the School of Visual Arts and where the food and service were so impressive the near-emptiness of the nicely designed room was mystifying. We were disappointed the menu was so tiny compared with the extensive bait online, so Bob and I wound up ordering only appetizers after a shared (and superb) eggplant dip with cumin and lavash. His fluke carpaccio looked stunning, coated with toasted poppy seeds, and tasted sublime, with lemon vinaigrette, and my duck liver paté was fatty-satisfying, with perfectly grilled bread (and, for once, plenty of it) plus cornichons and grainy mustard. We only tasted Matt’s beautifully cooked fish with root vegetables. With a couple of glasses of wine each and a beer for him, it was $51 a person with tax and tip. WIGB? Hope so . . . Wish it had opened in our neighborhood.

The “how do you say kinks en Español?”: Casa Pomona on the Upper West Side, where a Spain-besotted friend and I landed for a drink in the first days after it was open and where it was one stumble after another. The worst was that the bartender offered to split the one glass of white he had left from one of the three bottles on the list, but he charged us for two. And I didn’t realize it until I was walking home, wondering how the tab was so high for three glasses of wine and one shared tapa, the migas. I’ve never had that in Spain, but I’m assuming it is not always a well-cooked egg topped with a little bit of chorizo and some dried croutons. WIGB? Probably, so Bob can try it. But the wine choices were so limited, and that little gouge didn’t help.

The not bad: Kelso Dining in Brooklyn, where I took Bob for lunch to try a Panamanian carimañola for a recipe I needed to develop. As good as those meat-filled yuca tubes were, the real stars on the table were the drinks: sorrel and tamarind, big glasses filled with ice and sweet-sour brightness. Both were perfect counterpoints to the richness of the fried yuca I also insisted on ordering, and to both the stewed chicken and the superb salt fish with rice and peas on the $10 lunch plate. It was like eating in the Caribbean. The owner and waitress couldn’t have been friendlier, even sending us off with a “souvenir” of the housemade hot sauce. WIGB? If I were in the neighborhood.

The port in a storm: A.G. Kitchen on the Upper West Side, where we landed after getting shut out of two other places (Loi, you had to hold a Tony Danza private party?) after the way overhyped “Chasing Ice.” It’s just the latest incarnation of the space, but the menu is more energetic. The hostess happily gave us a booth, and the waiter was patient. I didn’t try the burger one friend appeared to enjoy, but I’ll vouch for the fries. My salad was quite good, with Bibb lettuce, bacon and Cabrales dressing, and it was all of $9. Even better was Bob’s “samba” chicken, well-marinated and cooked juicy; The Cat loved the leftovers. Extra points for decent New Zealand sauvignon blanc for a non-gougey $36, and for a low noise level. WIGB? Why not?

The price is right: Cocina Economica on the Upper West Side, where we snared a table after an early showing of the seriously good “Silver Linings Playbook” and where the only thing that would keep me from going back was the space — it’s great-looking, but too many tables are crammed in so tightly the waiters can barely navigate. Everything was so cheap I hoped the chefs know restaurant math, because it’s hard to see how they’ll make money on an $8 skirt steak salad with avocado, lettuce, poblanos, jicama and cotija when it’s mostly meat. Bob’s braised pork loin for $13 was a mega-portion/plate as well, with Swiss chard, corn, green beans and pumpkin seeds. Maybe they’ll clean up on the ill-conceived avocado corn bread, baked to desiccation in a corn husk and desperately needing the superb salsas that arrived with it.

And the good as always when we’re eating close to home: Mermaid Inn on Amsterdam, where we met up with friends in from Bucks County before a balloon party on Tryptophan Eve and where the service was especially ebullient and the food pretty much as reliable as always. We had a 6:30 reservation, so happy hour prices were in order; I got there last to find a mini fish taco was on its way for me and a full glass of the discounted wine was waiting. The other three shared oysters while I ate my three-bite tilapia with spicy mayo. I was trying to abstain and only had the lobster knuckles given escargot treatment, which certainly is a lovely way to get $14 for scraps. They were swimming in less butter than I expected, but they were certainly satisfying. I just tasted Bob’s good skate and watched our friends tear through the trout and the spaghetti topped with seafood salad. They were thrilled with the free chocolate dessert. And with the waiter, who recognized us from many Social Media Mondays and was fully engaged. We went back a couple of weeks later with one of Bob’s boyhood friends who now lives in Sweden, and he loved it, too.

New York minutes/November 2012

The good: Elizabeth’s near us, where my consort and I wound up after the amazing “Argo” when the Mermaid Inn had a 45-minute wait on Social Media Monday and where we were able to walk right in, sit right down and have a couple of glasses of wine and way-above-average food in relative quiet. Both of us had been wondering why we hadn’t been back, and it was so worth the revisit, not least because the place itself is so attractive. I just had the crab cake appetizer with apple-fennel salad as my main, and it was so generous I took home one of the two heavy-on-the-lumps for next day. Bob was thrilled with his roast chicken, juicy and flavorful and surrounded by watermelon radishes and fingerling potatoes in sauce. WIGB? More often, for sure. It’s not cheap for the neighborhood (the crab cakes were $15), but you definitely get what you pay for.

The good and cheap: Land Thai on the Upper West Side, where Bob treated me to lunch after we waited an hour and a half to vote and then my ballot was repeatedly rejected by the scanner. He suggested Seasons, but I figured we should keep walking south for far better food in a nicer room at a lower price. Nine bucks is quite a bargain for jungle curry and spring rolls even if the latter are a bit greasy. Bob was just as happy with his shrimp overkill: first soup, then pad Thai. WIGB? Anytime. Anxiously awaiting the new Mexican two doors north.

The not bad: Kefi on the Upper West Side, where I hooked up with a friend camping out on a couch across town after the hurricane when it made more sense for her to come to me than for me to ride the bus twice across the closed park. She seemed satisfied with her lamb burger although it looked rather cooked-to-grey to me, and we both loved the array of spreads. Best of all, the waitress was fine with us taking our time ordering our wine as she wrangled tables with moms and kiddles, nannies and kiddles, bizguys doing biz. WIGB? Definitely, especially now that I know the Health Department has made it clean up its act.

The port in a storm: Cafe Sabarsky at the Neue Galerie on the Upper East Side, where I suggested a friend in from Connecticut doing errands nearby meet me on a gray, gloomy and nasty-wet day when we could use a little transporting to Salzburg. Unfortunately, everyone else had the same idea, so we waited about 45 minutes for a table, but at least we got a good one with a park hint. I was quite impressed by my crepes with smoked trout, which had been rolled up like Austrian burritos, and Mary wasn’t complaining about her sausage; we both liked our gruner. WIGB? Not soon. The waiting was the hardest part, and so many other places have opened nearby for ladies who lunch.

The vaut le voyage: Phayul in Jackson Heights, where we met up with a few friends from our adventurous-eating group for Saturday lunch. Years ago I remember Bob making a date with a GQ writer with whom he’d worked and us meeting at a Tibetan place because at that point I “don’t eat Chinese.” He was baffled, but this proved there is a difference. One connection had eaten there before, so he knew to order two types of momo (dumplings), potato and beef, plus the “bread,” and everyone else chimed in on a chicken dish, a pork dish, a blood sausage dish, a tongue dish, a cucumber-peanut-chile salad, a soup with beef and radishes, and a potato dish with julienned strips stir-fried with ginger and chilies. Six of us did a pretty good job cleaning all those small plates for $17 a head. The servers could not have been nicer, although none of us thought to ask them to close the window that had half the table eating in coats. What mattered was the kitchen, and it was clearly cooking everything to order with serious care. WIGB? Probably not only because there are so many other places to explore — we passed three other Tibetan and/or Nepalese places as we wandered the neighborhood afterward.

The typically well-done: Eater’s awards party, this year at the Bowery Hotel where, again, both food and wine were so easy to access and the crowd was all worth engaging with (aside from the short real estate lech who cornered me). A nice touch was the check-in list on tablets, rather than those silly clipboards with 50 pages of teeny type the girls in their little dresses need to flip through. I had great buttermilk-fried quail and a short rib “meatloaf” but will have to note that some of the other dishes seemed straight out of Monty Python. Not sure what to think about a meat doughnut . . .

New York minutes/October 2012

The good: Swine in the West Village, where we met up with internet connections, which presented no end of issues — food, noise, tastes etc. And it was damned near perfect, probably partly because we went on a Monday night, when it was pretty empty. We got a boothette, so the noise level was bearable enough that four near-strangers could converse easily and share tastes and get away for about $80 a couple before tip. We split a salumi/charcuterie board that included pork rillettes, duck prosciutto and superb merguez, then a “toast” topped with smoked trout and celery root, outstanding sweet potato “fingerlings” in a blue cheese melt, very good deviled eggs and excellent mushroom-fava salad with pecorino and mint; we were also comped spicy duck fat cashews. Wines by the glass were better than from the tap. But the service was good even though we were all olds (and never so happy to be so aged as when we saw another server working his way around another table pouring hooch down a marrow bone into kiddles’ mouths; we at least did not have to rent our food). WIGB? Absolutely. It’s so much closer than Brooklyn.

The really good with the right people: C&L Imperial in Flushing, where I was lucky enough to be invited to join a smart lunch crowd for 11 Taiwanese tastes for all of $15 a head. The place is pretty bare-bones, but one in the group had been there so many times we got great treatment, plus a comped dish of outstanding braised cabbage. As always, I was super-happy to let others maneuver through the menu, especially when I saw much of it was untranslated and more was heavy on the intestine side (no duck, only guts and tongue). So we started with an fascinating oyster pancake, spicy noodles with pork and “rice tube pudding,” with meat and mushrooms tucked among the grains. We had crispy “three-cup tofu” (cooked in equal parts soy sauce, sesame oil and rice wine), weirdly good corn with beef off the specials posted on the wall, bitter melon and super-tender red-cooked pork ribs. Two of the best dishes sounded the funniest: “fly heads,” bits of minced meat mixed with chives and green peppers to resemble insects with eyes, and “putz” fish with little olive-like berries. Not one dish was a dud. WIGB? Can’t wait, with many other mouths. 59-14A Main Street.

The worth it: Tarallucci e Vino on the Upper West Side, where my consort and I wound up after the mind-expanding “Looper” after finding the new Casa Pomona still a long way from opening despite the NYT’s promise. It did cost a hundred bucks for a couple of glasses of wine each and three shared dishes, but the food was impressive even though we nearly had a breakup over the octopus. (I can’t eat it because it’s too human but figured I could just nibble my way around the “galette,” and of course it was three honkin’ chunks, so there was a bit of sad meltdown over why I didn’t remind him sooner.) Creamy mozzarella bruschetta with eggplant and tomato was just as good as the oozy mozzarella over roasted red peppers and grilled zucchini and eggplant (after you’ve eaten too much popcorn at the micey movies, there’s no such thing as too much mozzarella). Extra points for the bread basket, with at least three different varieties. WIGB? Sure, as long as Bob is paying.

The right place on the right night I: Murray’s Cheese Bar in the West Village, where we were able to walk right in after the gorgeous but snoozy “Detropia” and sit right down at the bar to explore that fever dream of a menu. The bartender did a great selling job, so we soon had enchiladas verde with mozzarella in tomatillo salsa, a Bibb lettuce salad with grilled nectarines, marcona almonds, Rogue’s smoky blue cheese and prosciutto crisps and a queso fundido made with three goat cheeses plus chorizo, to be scooped up with blue corn chips. Wines were made for cheese, and the bartender also brought us a taste of kombucha in case we leaned weird. WGIB? Absolutely. The best part is knowing you should order the “real” food and just go next door and buy the meats and cheeses for home.

The right place on the right night II: Mermaid Oyster Bar in the West Village, where we headed after a cookbook party close by that was light on the food if fulfilling on wine and company, and after passing up a couple of nearby new restaurants whose owners did not seem to have had any business training ($48 steak in a 12-seat cafe with no amenities?) It was early, so we were able to turn down a table next to the kitchen door in favor of two seats at the quiet bar, just in time for happy hour and discounted wine and snacks: shared crazy-hot shishito peppers, then avocado-shrimp slider and chicken wing “lollipops” with blue cheese for Bob and the always perfect wedge salad with blue cheese, bacon and tomato for me. WIGB: Sure — it’s always a solid choice in that neighborhood but especially at happy hour or on Social Media Monday.

The always good, not least for a show: Fairway’s cafe, where we met friends in from Seattle for one Sunday brunch and where we headed after the Greenmarket for another. At the first, they missed seeing a famous actress storm off and leave her husband the famous director alone with her barely touched omelet at the next table; at the second, a blowhard writer at the next table got so upset over his food being slow to arrive that he first berated the hard-running waitress, then jumped up, blustering at his glazed-eye companion: “I’m going to say something to Mitch. He knows who I am!” Maybe. But it didn’t look as if Mr. London cared. (Our cheeseburgers were great and actually landed faster than usual, BTW.)

New York minutes/Earlyish August 2012

The partly good: Porsena in the East Village, where my consort and I headed after standing outside the kitchen window at Yunnan Kitchen while he read off 100 other destinations on his phone after hearing the wait there was 45 minutes even though the cooks we were staring at were pretty much standing around doing nothing while the patrons boozed it up. (WITA? Not on a bet.) Both of us have good memories of the porchetta at Porchetta, so Bob acceded to my suggestion we support an excellent Tweeter, to the point that he didn’t even stop to read the menu before we bounded in, hungrily. He’d called for a reservation and been told there were no tables, but we got a high one in the bar instantly. And that was about all that happened fast. I’ll do the best news first: The wine list is tantalizing, with lots of unusual offerings, and the pours are generous. Now the frustrating. Jeebus, was it loud, for a tiny restaurant not fully full. Bob was disappointed that the pork options were so few, and we both realized we had chosen the wrong destination for dinner after lunch at home had been pasta perfection. Luckily for our relationship and my cred as a restaurant-chooser, half the food (all appetizers) was outstanding. We assumed the crostini with salami, anchovies and butter would arrive assembled, but we got the nicest little party plate and put the toasted bread together with the pickled red onions and the other elements, only asking the waiter later on if that was correct. (Damned if he knew.) The green bean salad with toasted almonds and fennel was also FTW. But our first taste, crostini with mozzarella and bottarga, was just sad. Maybe if the bread had been toasted? Maybe if the bottarga had been more generous (or fresher/more aged/something)? And while we were happy with the salt cod patties once they’d been kittybagged and recycled into scrambled eggs and, yes, more pasta, they seemed underwhelming at the table. Or maybe we were just cranky. WIGB? Sadly, no. We still regret not bailing and trotting back to Porchetta for a sandwich to eat in the little sidewalk cafe, wine or no wine.

The pretty lame: Liang’s Kitchen in Flushing, where I met up with my amazing food sharers for a Sunday lunch that confirmed my sinking feeling on walking in — that only losers eat in hotel restaurants. This was in the basement of a Best Western, and I was just glad I took a bathroom break and saw there were guest rooms right down the hall from the cacophony — at least I was only paying (almost nothing) for a meal; usually we get the worst lodging. As always, I was blissfully passive as others negotiated the menu; when you eat at a table of 14, you’re bound to find something you like. I was underwhelmed by the bitter melon pancake (omelettesque), the soup dumplings (skins too fragile to deliver the experience that matters more than the taste), the beef rolls (scary meat inside oily fried bread, flavor AWOL), the unsettling fish slices in red chile sauce. But I liked the pickled carrots and cabbage served free, the delicate wontons in incendiary chile oil, the lion’s head meatballs with their haunting spicing (star anise, we guessed), and the lavender-beautiful steamed eggplant was good enough. More dishes landed on that Lazy Susan, I know, and the waitress was amazingly patient, and, most important, all that cost me all of $15. Still, WIGB? Not even with earplugs. But then maybe it was just off-day in the better Chinatown — I headed to Hunan House right afterward to get a smoked duck for dinner for my consort stuck home editing, and that plus an order of “cake dumplings” took just short of forever to arrive and yielded the butt end of the bird, and not much of it at that.

The too-muchness: Chipotle, where we’ve been going more often since Time’s feature on the founder, which included such nuggets as the fact that the food will actually vary from outlet to outlet, intentionally. And it’s true. The only problem is the quantity. You can get too much of a good thing.

The better than we deserve: Mermaid Inn on the Upper West Side, where “social media Monday” lured us out again and where, as always, the food, service and whole experience were so unlike most places in the neighborhood. We split the surprisingly lively iceberg salad with bacon, tomato and blue cheese (or, rather, the kitchen helpfully split it for us) and I had the superb fried green tomatoes topped with crab again. Bob’s trout with corn, guanciale and mushrooms was spectacular, the crisp skin almost popcorny and the assemblage so complementary. (MI cooks are about the only ones who can actually make trout taste like something beyond the grain those fish feed on.) We split a bottle of nebbiolo rosé and had two glasses beyond, since the price was right at 20 percent off the whole bill. Both waiters were outstanding, too (although the new and almost too-friendly one spilled the wine while overpouring). And even though we’re now pegged as regulars, we still get the plastic fish fortune with the free chocolate pudding.

New York minutes/Early June 2012

The pretty good: Excellent Thai in Flushing, where we reconnected with a great eating group and probably had only our leaderless selves to blame for not ordering perfection. The tea leaves salad was as sensational if more heat-unbalanced than the first time we had it, and the steamed fish with lemon and chilies held up once we realized it needed to be apportioned in bowls, with its brodo. I was underwhelmed by the greens with shrimp paste we chose when sweet potato leaves were not available, the flat-tasting pork with fermented bamboo shoots and the spicy chicken, but then each of those was built on a protein pretty far down my ideal shopping list. “Crossing the bridge noodles” was also not my bowl of flavor. But I was pretty blown away by the Yunan yellow fried tofu, the texture of which one of the smart young palates around the Lazy Susan compared to fried marshmallows. WIGB? Maybe. It did come out to $18 a head, and the oranges at the end were so great they were, as Mom of SYP put it, “almost fake-tasting,” and the service is so enthusiastic. But the more we go to Flushing, the more we realize there is so, so much more to try. 36-50 Main Street, 718 886 8972.

The disappointing: Hunan House, also in Flushing, at least with carryout. Our new strategy is to eat anywhere, then pick up a smoked duck for dinner (then go have egg tarts at Tai Pan Bakery). And I don’t think it’s because the one from the cousins’ branch LINK in Manhattan was so good that we were so disappointed. When we opened up the leaking container, the scanty hunks were all weird (were there even three slices from the breast?) and the meat was both dried-out and unsmoky. Oh. Well. As I have long lamented, the impossible dream with restaurants is consistency. WIGB? Not for takeout.

The redeemed: Tangled Vine on the Upper West Side, where friends lured us out for a quick drink that turned into three and where I was happy to concede I was too harsh about our first outing. All three servers showed just the right balance of attentiveness and “oh, sit as long as you like”ness. A sidewalk table and gruner for $6 a nice glass are not to be underestimated, but I woke up next morning clear-headed and thinking more about the succession of little plates we split. Fried chickpeas and housemade potato chips were naturals (and we did make the poor waiter suffer finding out whether the former was made with canned or dried garbanzos; he said fresh and got us going on that possibility). Fava hummus was exceptional, with pecorino chips on top and a hint of mint plus a dusting of Aleppo pepper. And after a second glass, how can you not appreciate nicely done bacalao fritters or arrancini? WIGB? Happy Hour sounds so much better as HH.

New York minutes/Late April to early May 2012

The seriously good: Shanghai Asian Cuisine in Chinatown, where my consort and his studio manager and I took a lunch break on their run to the storage space down in the old NYPost building near the Seaport that would make a perfect setting for a remake of “The Shining.” I’d picked the tiny place from a Robert Sietsema rave, and the soup dumplings were everything he promised, perfectly made and with great flavor. As were the steamed dumplings filled with greens, very delicate texturally but intense-tasting. We all thought the mock duck was way above average, and the noodles with a kind of meat gravy were fine. But the fried pork dumplings turned out to be what we’ve all most craved ever since — they made me realize how rare those are when done to greaseless perfection. WIGB? Absolutely. Everything was in the $5 to $7 range, and the whole staff actually seemed happy to please us. 14A Elizabeth Street, 212 964 5640.

The not bad: Sezz Medi up near Columbia, where we trotted after a excellent morning seeing the Pete Souza Obama photo show at the Schomburg Center and touring Alexander Hamilton’s Grange before Bob had to be at school to coach aspiring journalists. We wanted fast and good, but sit-down, so we ordered without really thinking. Decent if a bit grease-sodden fried calamari and zucchini arrived in minutes, but my BLT took so long we had plenty of time to argue about why anyone would order such a thing in an Italianesque restaurant. It was okay, and came with fine fries with garlic, and really was a lot of food for $8. But I think six pizzas came out before one sandwich. WIGB? Maybe, if we found ourselves stranded in that neighborhood.

The great again: Hunan House in Flushing, where I met a few members of the best little eating group I’ve ever connected with and where we ate ourselves smart (I think with seven or nine dishes) for all of $20 a head. All I wanted was the smoked duck, but the group went for a different version, with dried turnips and white pepper (aka chilies), and I had no complaints. That kitchen is definitely not afraid of heat. The lazy Susan was spinning, with dan dan noodles and pumpkin cake and pickled Hunan cabbage flying by, but I was most impressed by the (comped) winter melon with black beans and chilies, the braised beef with chilies and black beans and especially with the Hunan mustard greens. A whole fish, though, just tasted muddy to me (you are what you eat, and grain doesn’t cut it). WIGB? Absolutely, but now I want to try its sister restaurant, without the hourlong ride. 718 353 1808.

The mostly good: Tertulia in the West Village, where I connected with friends in from Philadelphia after being warned on the phone that it would be tough to get in because it was Beard Eve but where we were instantly shown to a great table. I was a little worried by the grease/smoke smell hanging over the whole room, but the food was outstanding: eggs stuffed with smoked cod; mushrooms on toast with (allegedly) smoked ricotta and pine nuts; ham croquettes, and grilled asparagus with poached egg. I only tasted a bit of the chocolate-sea salt tart and the crema catalana. Service was a bit distracted, but it was Beard Eve . . . WIGB? Anytime. Despite the tumblers that always make wine taste as if it came from a hose. 359 Sixth Avenue near Waverly Place, 646 559 9909.

The worth-the-journey: Fort Defiance in Red Hook, where we landed with another couple on our little expedition to a different neighborhood that also involved Key lime pie (good but not life-changing), then excellent iced tea at Baked plus samples of just-distilled rum at an open house at Van Brunt Stillhouse. We had our maiden voyage through an Ikea beforehand, after the free Saturday ferry dumped us right there, and must have carried away some of the craziness that comes from too much choice, because we looked at every other eating option before heading back after leaving our names and being told the wait would be 15 minutes. So we walked in and sat right down, in a quiet table in the very back, and soon were being seduced by the cocktail list. My spritz was not bubbly enough but was the right choice to go with a huge fluffy biscuit flooded with sausage gravy alongside poached eggs that just needed Tabasco; the guys succumbed to excellent Ramos gin fizzes that didn’t play so well with either granola or Bob’s kick-ass grillades and (Anson) grits, with what must have been a very large calf’s cheek in lively sauce. Joanne’s omelet looked like an omelet, though. WIGB? If I lived closer, for sure. The room, the service, the mood were all just right. And while eggs out scare me, the menu promised safe sourcing. 365 Van Brunt Street, 347 453 6672.

The oy: Fairway, in what I call the flagship store, where we met friends who now have a 14-month-old for an early dinner on a Friday that I figured would last about an hour. I think we almost closed the place down, with very little of that time spent eating and drinking. Plus the pizza was the worst ever, just slopped out. The parents were smart, though: they brought mooshed-up fish and vegetables for the daughter. And she at least got to get up and walk around while waiting. And waiting.

The not-terrible: Osteria Cotta on the Upper West Side, where Bob and I landed after the very smart “We Have a Pope” and where a sidewalk table, even under scaffolding, made up for mediocre food and ditzy service. Caponata bruschetta suffered from the tasteless main ingredient; pizza verdure was soggy and wan, and the endive and watercress salad may or may not have had actual Gorgonzola in it. The best part was when the waitress brought my second glass of wine and it was half-full. “Oh, I guess I took it from the bartender too fast.” WIGB? Maybe. But not anytime soon.

The regrettable: Calexico’s taco cart, parked across from Madison Square in one of those Bloomberg triangles where I stumbled upon at least a dozen mobile vendors assembled in some sort of promotion through June 1. I’d walked by the cart before, but the line reminded me of our friend Leslie Wong’s memorable line about New Yorkers: “The more they get fucked, the more they like it.” On this Wednesday it was no shorter, but after checking out the other options I decided it was worth the wait even with Roberta’s right next “door.” Now can someone please explain to me why I thought carne asada was the filling to go for with mad cow loose in the land? Or what in hell the rubber chunks billed as skirt steak really were?

New York minutes/Early to mid-April 2012

The totally good: Perla in the West Village, in the space that was our great friend Rolando’s magical Bellavitae, where we headed after I met my consort post-”Jiro” at IFC and where the wait was worth it, not least because it’s such a great corner on which to cool heels, with Amy’s Bread and Murray’s Cheese just across Sixth Avenue. We came back with heels cooled and bags full to be seated at a lovely booth with the most attentive service. And awesome food. Even Mr. Sprat agreed our shared foie gras tramezzini with pistachios and cherry were exquisite. And we both scored with garganelli with tripe and guanciale and with cavatelli with pancetta, egg and pecorino; both the portion size and the balance of flavors were faithfully Italian. But what made this a resounding yes to WIGB? was the service. Superb. 24 Minetta Lane, 212 933 1824.

The pretty good: ABV Wine Bar on the Upper East Side, where I lured Bob on a night when we both needed a diversion and when the prospect of a walk in the park followed by interesting food paid off big time. The place, in a long-abandoned brownstone, is a bigger spinoff of a tiny bar that opened not so long ago on Park Avenue, and the whole experience was like eating in Brooklyn. We snared seats at the bar and soon had interesting wines and an explanation of the name: (A(cohol) B(y) V(olume). We split a basket of decent fried smelt with how-can-you-go-wrong sriracha-tobiko sauce to start, then quite good gnocchi with root vegetables and mushrooms and then two scallops buried in cauliflower cream with cremini. A salad of bitter greens with banana-walnut butter, oats and shallot vinaigrette coulda been dessert. WIGB? Absolutely, but only on the early side. I suspect it might get loud later. 1504 Lexington Avenue at 97th Street, 212 722 8959.

The good again: The second-floor cafe at MOMA, where we settled in after the kick-in-the-head Cindy Sherman show with a friend in from DC and where the food/service/setting again matched the museum quality. Kainaz and I were hungry earlier than the breakfaster who’d had oatmeat with egg, tofu and sriracha, but Bob indulged us, so we were able to beat the line and get a nice spot at the window counter. We split the excellent bruschetti (cauliflower, mozzarella with olives, hummus with prosciutto and arugula), then rigatoni with pork and fennel in a tomato cream sauce (needed salt), salad with bresaola, candied pecans, dried cranberries and blue cheese, and the always-good mushroom tart. It did add up ($77 with 10 percent tip), but the guy who paid agreed: It was worth it.

The great with an asterisk: Excellent Thai in Flushing, where a friend in an eating group lured us for a Sunday lunch meet-up and where I got a refresher course in the payoff in letting go. With 12 at our big table, I just sat back and let the leader lead; he was the one who lived in Taiwan and who had sussed out the owner’s Burmese roots and homed in on the unusual offerings on a menu encompassing Thai, Malaysian, Burmese and Yunnan. So it was one dazzlement after another: Yellow tofu salad (made from peas, not soybeans, and much richer-tasting) with a spicy sauce. Tea leaves salad, like nothing I have ever tasted, with both crunch and heat. Shredded pork with bamboo shoots, which the outstanding waitress said we could not like (the shoots were kinda funky, but in a great way). Sautéed sweet potato leaf, which could have been anything but was perfectly done anything. Green beans, crunchy okra and baby eggplant Belaran, in a rich curry sauce. Beef with ginger and scallion, though, was perfectly cooked and greaseless but tasted like something you could get anywhere. The fins-down winner, though, was the whole fish steamed in chile-lemon sauce. It had flavor down to its essence — Le Bernardin would have a hard time improving on it. All that came to about $28 a head with tax and tip. WIGB? No, for only two reasons — without a guide through the menu, lunch might be pretty ordinary, and then there is the little issue of Hunan House being just a couple of blocks away. (Compromise: Eat elsewhere and pick up a smoked duck to take home.) 3650 Main Street, 718 886 8972.

The half-goods: The Tangled Vine and Ditch Plains on the Upper West Side on a Friday early evening, where and when we shared wine with a friend who knows her way around a happy hour but had never been to the kiddle kraziness uptown. She was worried we would be turned off by the B rating at the first stop, but I have to say that was the least of my worries heading in and heading out — when I would have awarded an F to the “servers.” Gruner for $6 a generous pour, a table overlooking the sidewalk and pretty great chickpea fritters otherwise added up to a WIGB: Yep, but only at happy hour. As for the second stop, a place I’d sworn off since an abysmal experience at Landmarc in the dread TWC, I’ll say I don’t regret the revisit. The place was overrun with human larvae, but we were sort of shielded in a booth, and the food was distracting (bland deviled eggs jazzed up with sauces from Buffalo chicken wings). WIGB? Oh, why not?

The dispiriting: The newish Jackson Diner on University Place, where Bob and I headed for lunch after the accountant near the Wednesday Greenmarket and where I knew on walking in the door how I would feel on exiting. But I also knew he needed to eat, and fast, so I shut up and loaded my plate with poorly fried pakora and bland “curries” and then sat and waited for (pretty good) naan to eat it all with. Tandoori vegetables tasted better than I expected, if sweet and gloppy, but the whole experience was just unsatisfying. I have never once gone back for seconds at the buffet at Chola, where the room is not papered with “don’t waste food” and other warnings. But here I debased myself, desperately seeking satisfaction. Then both of us hit the intestinal inflation wall at the exact same minute. Even though the people were so nice, and the room so pleasant (we two got a booth for four), WIGB? How do you say “emphatically no” in Hindi?

New York minutes/Early March 2012

The good: Northern Spy Food Co. in the East Village, where my consort and I finally made our way after contemplating it many times for Saturday lunch but always being dissuaded by the brunch focus (AKA eggs). This was early Monday dinner, so we were able to walk in and get a table in the cramped dining room; it filled up fast. I was worried the food would be too much like eating at home, since we both source from the same Greenmarket, but the menu had lots of twists. We started with $7 bluefish rillettes that, luckily, did not taste too much of bluefish and came with great garlic toasts plus pickled onions to cut the richness. Then both of us just had outsized starters, of which only the $12 kale salad was underwhelming; as Bob said, it was a bit of a slog, with nothing to break up the greens but bits of sweet potato, almonds, Cheddar and pecorino. File it under negative calories. A little acid would have helped. But the $12 farro and egg, with rye, sunchokes and cured lamb belly, was clever, and the $14 crispy potato gnocchi with sage and brown butter was superb, even though I don’t care if I ever eat a Brussels sprout again. We also split an order of duck-fat fries with malted spiced yogurt, and they were amazing, big wedges with no funky duck flavor and great baked-potato-type texture inside. We almost never order dessert, but we felt on such a roll we forged on with the $7 honey mousse with parsnip cake and poached pear. And it was okay but maybe not intended for the tastes of recovering Catholics. Wines by the glass came in tumblers, which I generally hate, but at least they paired perfectly with the food. WIGB? Absolutely. It’s like Brooklyn without crossing the water.

The great: Hunan House in Flushing, where three of us with smoked duck on the brain headed for St. Patrick’s Day lunch on a shopping outing and where the whole experience was worth braving the drunken O’Snookis on the train there and back. Everything we ordered was perfect if you don’t count the soup dumplings mistakenly delivered to the table next to us, where a bunch of young guys were obviously inhaling their lunch mindlessly. The smoked duck was as spectacular as we remembered, very tender and flavorful, with just enough crispiness to the skin. Fresh tofu with scallion sauce came in cubes as a cooling counterpoint to the mustard greens Hunan style, with slivered garlic and chilies, and especially to the platter of blue crabs in super-spicy sauce, which our friend spotted as a photo on the menu, with only Chinese characters and a price listed. Each dish had nuance and intensity and no greasiness. Aside from the dumpling glitch, the service was great (the waiter made it clear we should not try the “stinky tofu” but stick with the fresh). And the whole place is so pleasant, so very different from Chinatown. WIGB? We could become regulars. With tax and tip, the tab was all of $60. 137-40 Northern Boulevard, 718 353 1808.

New York minutes/Late November 2011

The really good: Tacos Morelos in Queens, where four of us were steered by a DM to the Village Voice’s expert after our excursion to the totally awesome Louis Armstrong House/Museum in Corona. The neighborhood is lined with funky little taquerias and steam tables of all Central American persuasion, so my hopes were low. But this place was bright and cheery, with a full bar to boot (where the friendly owner spent part of our meal hanging Santas on poles and trapezes). The (free) salty chips tasted freshly fried and came with outstanding salsa. The chile relleno taco was even better than promised by the VV, a cheese-stuffed poblano that had been perfectly battered and fried and then laid onto orange rice in a good-size corn tortilla, with pickled jalapeño and onion for acidic heat. I didn’t brave my consort’s lengua and goat tacos, or our other friend’s roasted pork taco, or the third friend’s vegetarian tacos, but I liked the nopales salad well enough, mostly for the other elements: ripe avocado, sliced sweet peppers, mixed greens, lime juice. We did share guacamole that our friend just back from Mexico said was better than he had there. But the standout dish was my gordita, easily the best ever this far north of El Paso: crisp masa dough sandwiched with lettuce, cheese and crema, with green and red salsas for jazziness. Margaritas were fine, especially for $5 each, and the mojito was surprisingly decent as well. WIGB? I would spend more than an hour to get there to try some more of the less familiar options. That gordita haunts me. 94-13 37th Avenue, 347 332 91

The not great: Cascabel Taqueria on the Upper West Side, where we decided to brave Saturday brunch to avoid the cacophony we’d been warned of and where the room, service, prices etc. delivered everything the highly touted food did not. Queso fundido came in a Lilliputian cast-iron skillet with little evidence of rajas and even less of chorizo but with an abundance of bitter char on the cheese. (Lesson: Order it only at Rosa Mexicano, which does it so much better and larger [although I don’t care about the latter] for the same price.) Bob was baffled why the kitchen could not mix and match taco fillings as every other restaurant does, so he was stuck with two overloaded carnitas that were decidedly out of balance and totally underwhelming. Halfway through he asked: WIGB? And we agreed — not in any rush. It wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t good enough to keep us from walking up Broadway and into Chipotle to compare prices and options. Our few $ woulda been better dropped there.

The geographically perfect: Donatella in Chelsea, where we headed with four friends after a screening at the SVA theater and where at least my consort’s and my orders were outstanding (Enzo pizza with sausage, pecorino, smoked mozzarella and broccoli rabe plus a really good arugula salad with grilled zucchini and a bit of ricotta salata). Good service and wine, but the soggy/sad margarita pizza was a serious reflection of the distracted owner. 184 Eighth Avenue near 19th Street, 212 493 5150

The increasingly reliable: Elizabeth’s on the Upper West Side, for the third time, where I hooked up with Bob on a rainy/cold early evening and where we had the place almost to ourselves, with none of the threatened hoarseness on screaming through dinner. Fish and chips was even better, not to mention more copious, than the first time I had it (how often does that happen?) and the wings I stupidly advised him to order were at least artfully executed despite the too-sweet coating. Our shared salad rated an A, not least for the anything-but-ordinary radishes. WIGB? Always and forever. Can’t believe the same owners inflicted Gabriela’s on the neighborhood. 680 Columbus Avenue at 93d Street, 212 280 6500.

New York minutes/Early November 2011

The good: Loi, next door to Cafe Luxembourg, where attention-paying friends suggested we meet before the snooze-inducing “Ides of March” nearby and where the only off notes were the beginning and the end. Those first: I walked in, gave our friends’ name, the “hostess” said they had already arrived . . . and then picked up the phone for a protracted call. (One thing I learned while working as a shoe dog in my downtime as a bookkeeper was that the customer in front of you always takes precedence.) And although our desserts were comped, none of them impressed us. But everything else did, especially grilled calamari with parsley-pistachio sauce, the “meat” in thin, tender twirls; a green salad with a great smoked cheese, and amazingly delicate moussaka. Service was top-level, the sound level low. WIGB? Absolutely. The celeb chef herself came by to answer questions (like how she got the eggplant so light: soaked it in milk first) and say we would be getting desserts. The curse of Compass may finally be vanquished. 208 West 70th Street, 212 875 8600.

The impressive: The Foundry in Long Island City, where I schlepped for an event I stupidly assumed was promoting salmon but was really about saving Bristol Bay in Alaska from greedy mining polluters. (As one of several excellent speakers said: “You can’t eat gold.”) I know the owners and had been to a private party there, but by car; like several other guests, I almost didn’t go because it seemed kinda scary to walk to alone from the subway. But it was not at all unnerving, and what a perfect space, with plenty of room for the bar, a separate room for the chefs’ stations, an ideal noise level etc. etc. The next organizer thinking of cramming a promo party into a Manhattan shoebox should consider crossing the water. I had a third glass of wine to soak up all the salmon and good hors d’, knowing I would be fine getting home.