Slow train to Buffalo

Thanks to a sudden death in the family (11-year-old cat), we just had to make yet another trek to Buffalo (or, as the purists would have it, suburban Buffalo). And I wasn’t surprised my worst eating experiences were on the way there — I’m opting out of the cancer boxes and groping at the airport, so I had to brave Amtrak. Which was beyond great: I walked into Penn Station as the train was boarding and stepped off at the Depew station eight hours and 20 minutes later, about double the time it took my consort on the train to the plane, the Airtrain, in the miserable security line and on JetBlue. But my trip was mellow all the way, a beautiful ride up the icy Hudson and across snowy New York State. I read, I worked, I read some more. (There was no wifi, but I did have an outlet for my MacBook.) I didn’t leave enough time to pack or buy food, though, so I had to settle for the least scary things in the cafe car, first a sawdusty muffin and later a little frozen pizza that the sweet barman managed to nuke to rubber on one side while leaving the other side cold.

Fortunately, my grieving in-law equivalent was up for going out to dinner and even willing to brave SeaBar, despite the fact that she would eat duck’s blood soup before raw fish. Happily. She was the only one of us who knew to dress appropriately; Bob and I were chagrined to see all the other patrons in their Friday best in that very stylish room. The menu was almost overwhelming, but the chef himself stopped by to explain the specials, and Bob had to have the New Zealand salmon he was selling, with a chorizo and smoked paprika sauce swiped from Le Bernardin. The I-LE was sold on the pulled pork, which was pretty amazing, the tender meat crusted with panko, fried and served in blocks over a poblano puree and Chinese-style noodles, an absurdly huge (read: Buffalo-size) portion for $17. I was glad I went for the appetizer size of the sublime glazed duck breast with a corn pancake and mango salsa; it would be a generous full in Manhattan. The meat was beautifully cooked, and the corn cake soaked up the juice (which sounds so much better than blood).

As starters, we shared the bizarre-sounding, too-filling miso caramel crab roll, with cream cheese and mushrooms in tempura, at least half a dozen fat slices. And a seaweed salad, to introduce the I-LE to that sensation. And the great unagi BLT handroll, stuffed with avocado and tomato along with the eel and bacon. We overindulged and had to kitty-bag our main courses, so dessert was out of the question, but the waiter said we were getting after-dinner drinks on the house. Which is when I learned Bob had reserved in my name although I had checked in as Sacha. I’d recently used the chef for a magazine piece, and he knows I’m coming up to help judge the Nickel City Chef next spring. But he’d nicely said nothing until after we’d eaten.

A note about the alcohol: Of the many wonderful things about Buffalo (and, for the purists, its suburbs), you can always get a big pour for very little. I had two sauvignon blancs for $6.50 apiece. The comped late-harvest Riesling (which sounds so much better than ice wine) was excellent. And the teetotaling I-LE swore she got soused on her Bailey’s.

As a result, next day she was in no shape for brunch out, so we set off in search of anything but eggs, heading for Duff’s as a default after scouring the internets. She had suggested Marotto’s, so we swung by to find it closed but the Delaware just opened, the “gastropub” I had just read about, on Buffalo Spree.

We wanted to get to the Burchfield-Penney Art Center and almost fled after walking in and finding one table of three sitting unattended, with no host or waiter in sight, but the bartender laid menus out in front of each stool, so we took a look and a chance. And it was so worth it. The $8 pastrami sandwich was excellent there, but the second half was even better on the train ride home next mid-morning. (Buffalo does have great rye bread.) And this thickly cut meat was pretty sensational, as was the balance of cheese and sauerkraut and Russian dressing. The fries with it seemed sad, though, soggy and limp, but still less flaccid than the “thinly cut fries” mounded over Bob’s outstanding hanger steak — I mistook them for onion shoestrings gone greasily bad. The meat (for all of $14) was really tender and perfectly cooked, though. We also shared the $5.50 artichoke-Cheddar-Gouda rarebit, too, a gooey-good mess with rye toast points for dunking. The bartender was old school, attentive and chatty and very efficient. And it made for an out-of-Manhattan experience for sure: a football game on the big screen teevees with Sarah McLachlan on the sound system, and every other patron at the bar wearing the same North Face fleece. . .

Amtrak home was a gorgeous ride even though we were delayed an hour by a freight train in front of us and a single track near Utica, I think. But from Depew to Rochester I had an entire car to myself to watch the snowy countryside glide past, the ultimate in luxury. I’d take it again; the fare was $140 round trip, and there could not be a more soul-reviving way to travel. All those “real Americans” out in fly-over country should get behind some serious, China-level infrastructure investment — high-speed rail would open up their world to us “elitists.”

SeaBar, 475 Ellicott Street, Buffalo 716 332 2928
The Delaware, 3410 Delaware Avenue, Town of Tonawanda 716 874 0100

New York minute/Mid-December 2010

A whole week went by without one meal eaten away from our kitchen, but we did make it out to Greenpoint to the just-opened Eastern District cheese-and-beer shop, where we came away with good sandwiches on Tom Cat focaccia with Fra Mani turkey plus good cheese for all of $7. The proprietor also carries seriously local honey and other Brooklyn pantry staples like pickles and jams. And that stop was after our first pilgrimage to the Acme Smoked Fish factory for retail@wholesale Friday — we got two kinds of salmon, two whole smoked trout and a big container of smoked whitefish salad for $27. Or, I think, about the price of a pound of smoked salmon in one of the Manhattan stores the place supplies. Eastern District, 1053 Manhattan Avenue, 718 349 1432; Acme, 30 Gem Street, 718 383 8585

New York minutes/End of October 2010

The pretty good again: El Paso Taqueria on the Upper East Side, where my consort and I, in search of soothing/cheap food on a stressful Sunday, trekked with bulging Baggus from the Columbus Avenue Greenmarket and where our rewards were a plethora of overstuffed tacos and one great plate of three enchiladas with salsa verde, black beans and rice. I always want to write the place off, but the combination of location and value sucks me back in. My enchiladas were all of $9, and they were even better reheated next day to get them to Arizona-level meltiness. Bob’s tacos were $2.75 apiece, and two would have sufficed. WIGB? At least until a branch opens on our side of the park to beat down overpriced Cafe Frida and lame Noche Mexicana. 64 East 97th Street, 212 996 1739.

The not too bad: Little Giant on the Lower East Side, where three of us retreated after the outstanding Ed Kashi opening at Anastasia Photo (complete with good bar and great bartender). Our mission was to get far away fast to talk, so we passed up other places I was tempted by, and we got a table right away. The fact that we could not order a few apps first with wine was off-putting, but we did get to sit there for hours, sharing one bottle of red, some okay deviled eggs, some decent seared peppers, an over-cheesed kale salad and finally a pozole-esque concoction senza the dread cilantro. Too late, I remembered the place is all about the staff’s convenience. WIGB? Maybe. My cranial sieve is increasingly unreliable. 85 Orchard Street at Broome Street, 212 226 5047.

The tired: Aquagrill in SoHo, where I wound up with a great friend in from Veneto after finding my first old-reliable/quintessential-American choice has lost its chef to the wonderland of the West Coast. It was one of those gorgeous days when the outside tables were too tempting, but, as always, we would have been better off inside (and he might have gotten more of an impression of a Manhattan restaurant). The receptionist was nice enough to check his stack of books he was bearing to FedEx, though. I ordered my standby, the Aquagrill sandwich, after trying to explain what a crab cake is (“like a burger, but made with fish” — no sale), and he had the salmon BLT on my recommendation; apparently he scored. My choice was pretty heavily breaded, and the fries alongside seemed weary and meager (as did his). The breads to start also looked to be limping. We each had an inoffensive if not brilliant glass of white from Friuli, too, for $10. What was weirdest was the service. The waiter was flummoxed when I asked for tocai, which was all I absorbed from the description of the wine blend while Diego and I were intently catching up, so he brought the dessert menu to clarify. And then he never approached the table again for an hour and a half. How do you say WTF in Italian? This was a reprise of our last experience at the Red Cat, where a furriner also spooked the pro. WIGB? Hope not.

New York minutes/Middish October 2010

The somewhat good: Atlantic Grill, the new one across from Lincoln Center, where my consort and I wound up after a surreal photo opening at the Essex House, which had had finger food ambitious enough for us to want better than we normally settle for. It’s amazing how the Ginger Man was transformed so quickly, and it was even more amazing how packed it was right around showtime. We settled for a table out in the north forty, which at least was quieter although apparently farther from the kitchen, because the food took just short of forever. And when it came it was more strange than satisfying, particularly the weird maki (we ordered one with spicy tuna, eel and avocado but the bill shows one with scallop and crab salad, and it could have been either). The seared octopus had too many accouterments (smoked paprika, chickpeas, mint, harissa etc.), and the poor creature was either old or abused; either way, it was tough chewing. Even the salad, frisee with bacon, was more shopping list than satisfaction (green beans, mushrooms, pecorino etc.) Wines were only $10 a glass, though, which was good because we were on our second by the time the plates arrived. WIGB? Maybe. Location, location. And Bob liked the look of the place. 49 West 64th Street, 212 787 4663.

The fully reliable: Mermaid Inn uptown, where I made two poor friends meet me again because I was too stressed to think of anything more ambitious and where we were at least rewarded with the usual. My cod with mashed potatoes and crispy spinach was a little bland, but at least the portion was enough for my dinner, two tastes for them and lunch the next day for me and The Cat. I liked what I sampled of the pecan-crusted trout with sweet potatoes, too, and the skate looked good. Service was rather dismissive, I guess because I was the only one springing for wine. But we all left happy enough.

New York minute/Latish September 2010

The quite good: Marea, where a working friend treated me and a mutual other-coast friend to Friday lunch and where the cooking almost vanquished ghosts of the previous restaurant in that space. We did get a pretty crappy table — a sixtop with three chairs, so it was damn difficult to talk, especially butted up against a wine wall and service station — but at least we were not shoved back into the old bitch alcove where I suffered my last meal at San Domenico. The bread also earned points, especially the focaccia with big chunks of green olive. Aside from a couple of clunkers, the food was amazing, especially the crab with duck prosciutto and figs on puff pastry, the lettuce gazpacho topped with fried oysters and underlaid with trout roe and tiny pickled mushrooms and the spaghetti with crab and sea urchin. All three crudi also gave faith, each with layers of flavor and contrasting texture. And we all liked the smoked mackerel entree because the small fillet was so un-fishy and silky and paired so well with plum and fried capers, although I was the only one who thought the relatively huge mound of mache was a good matchup. Our second pasta — gnocchetti with shrimp — was the weakest link, sort of what two of us remembered as Fiamma fare. Desserts were good, not dazzling, at least to me: a semolina tart with poached local cherries and a little gianduja number of which the best element was the cocoa nibs. Our wine, a white from Puglia, was another great surprise. WIGB? Absolutely, and not necessarily when someone else is paying. 240 Central Park South, 212 582 5100.

New York minutes/Mid-September 2010

The pretty good: Choptank in the West Village, where my consort and I headed in search of seafood when Pearl was closed after the outstanding “Soul Kitchen” at IFC on Fashion Freaks Out Night on Bleecker. It was relatively early, so it was seductively quiet at first, and the reception could not have been warmer; they let us move tables twice. But the menu was a bit of a puzzler, equal parts straightforward and tantalizing. I wish Bob had seen the waiter’s face when he asked about the FLT (fish stick, lettuce, tomato) and followed up with: Is the fish frozen? (Maybe you have to see the movie.) No, he swore, “we make everything from scratch.” But he redeemed himself on bringing my second glass of good $9 rosé from Languedoc and insisting I finish the last tiny sip of the first. I had wanted fried oysters, but Bob talked me into the $9 shrimp tacos, which were exceptional: perfectly fried rock shrimp on blue corn tortillas with a cumin-lime slaw and a lively salsa. Then he tried to humor me by getting the $10 fried oysters, and they were fine little specimens in a good crust but unfortunately fried imperfectly, to doughiness. Not coincidentally, the place was getting busier. So his $22 skate with spaetzle, brown butter and caraway was flawed by the greasy frying; otherwise it was a beautifully balanced dish. And my $12 white gazpacho with Maine crab salad was not just inspired but impeccably executed. WIGB? Absolutely. Price, service and location are all right. 308-10 Bleecker Street off Seventh Avenue South, 212 675 2009.

The adequate: Spice, the one just off Union Square, where we ducked in on a rushed death march from the Greenmarket to Joe’s Dairy for smoked mozzarella for a picnic and where I felt a little guilty at bitching after I tucked into my “duck wrapped.” It’s pretty great considering the price (free at lunch with a main course), the spiffy room and the snappy service. You get a surprisingly generous amount of smoky-tasting duck chunks with vegetables to be wrapped into iceberg lettuce leaves with cracklings and dunked into a soy-sort of sauce. I didn’t even care that my green curry was mostly dull and hard-to-eat slivers of vegetables like green peppers and carrots. Bob was happy with his steamed dumplings and eggplant curry, too. And with tax & tip it was less than $20, I think. WIGB? Inevitably. Location, location, price. 39 East 13th Street, 212 982 3758.

New York minutes/Early September 2010

The pretty good: Mermaid Inn in our neighborhood, where I met my consort after his Columbia lecture gig on one of those miserable nights Al Gore warned us were coming, when we had to flee our sweltering kitchen yet again. After hearing the din inside, I chose an outside table, and the breeze made it bearable. As did an excellent waiter. And a glass of rosé right away. My soft-shell crab sandwich with avocado and bacon and a scattering of fries was more than decent, and Bob’s trout was cooked right and came with excellent potatoes. As a friend had reminded us, though, the place makes its profits on the wine — it’s marked up way more than the food. WIGB? Anytime. 568 Amsterdam Avenue near 88th Street, 212 799 4300.

The not bad: Land Thai, where we hooked up with friends on another night when our kitchens were furnaces and where we cooked up a plan as we waited on the sidewalk for a table — retreat to their place for more wine once we were ejected, as we inevitably would be. So we clipped through our meal, sharing a bottle of typically syrupy Torrontes plus excellent pea shoots with garlic and an entree of wok-charred squid with a superb spicy sauce (wisely racheted back to medium) plus a great rendition of pad see yew with beef, perfectly cooked duck and, unfortunately, pretty grim fried rice with salmon (it was like what you might whip up from a kitty bag with a bit of leftover fish). WIGB? Undoubtedly. It’s great value and a nice venue with a cheery staff and lively cooking. You just need a living room close by to retreat to for conversation. 450 Amsterdam near 82d Street, 212 501 8121.

The adequate: Papatzul in SoHo, where we stopped in while furniture shopping on a Sunday because we both remembered the price and a torta and were willing to forget Bob’s disappointing chilaquiles last time we were there. And that sandwich was pretty damn good once again, even though the cheese seemed more Oaxacan than Manchego; the balance of chorizo, avocado, beans and chipotle mayonnaise in crisp roll was nearly perfect. Bob, once again, got the corta end of the stick; his tacos with carnitas needed more something — salsa, vegetables? — to bring the huge mound of juicy (dare I say succulent?) meat into proportion with the four tortillas. We only drank water and signed up for the Tasting Mexico Passport on his iPhone to get 10 percent off the tab (plus a chance to win a trip to the land of the decapitated), so we walked out for less than $20 before tip. WIGB? Sure; the music was fabulous and the waiter was energetic and the price was right. 55 Grand Street near West Broadway, 212 274 8225.

The convenient: Canteen 82, where we headed for a quick lunch while rug mats were being cut at a store on Amsterdam. Although the place was nearly empty, cobwebs seemed to be forming on a couple with a baby in a stroller at another table, but our food came relatively fast, starting with a scallion pancake that was less incinerated than the one a friend and I shared last time. It didn’t taste much of scallion and the sauce didn’t taste like much of anything, but the latter did have a few shreds of ginger that we used to enliven the sesame noodles. Bob loves fried dumplings, so we had those instead of the soup kind, and I could only eat one; the filling was too porky for me. The salad, once again, saved the lunch, with mango, avocado, jicama and tiny tomatoes atop the greens. Even the dressing on that, like everything else, was surprisingly bland, and as yet another couple came in with a young kid, we realized why: It’s a cage for baby pork (as some restaurant in Spy once referred to holding pens for stroller rats). WIGB? I’d like to say no, but the room is much more appealing than any Chinese restaurant for miles. 467 Columbus Avenue near 82d Street, 212 595 4300.

The abysmal: Le Monde, where we met friends in from Chicago to drop off his baby at Columbia, where Bob was speaking late. The location and the idea of a sidewalk cafe had seemed ideal, but I guess our memories of the place were a little too misty-colored. We wound up sitting inside because it was so miserable outside, and our table was awkward, our waitress even more so (and neglectful to boot). Even worse, the food made me embarrassed for New York. I didn’t taste our friends’ entrees, but we all shared a salad made with anemic tomatoes (in August!) When was the last time you got butter pats in wrappers, all melted and chilled back together? My duck sausage was not cooked so much as fried into a chew toy (The Cat liked it fine next day), and the potatoes with it were an inch deep in salt (and I can eat salt straight). Bob’s steak was not-great chewy meat with oversalted sides, too. All of which would have been tolerable if we had maybe had a waitress whenever more wine was needed. WIGB? Bob will be up there constantly, but it’s dead to me. Surely there has to be somewhere decent to reconnoiter?

New York minutes, post-Istanbul

The seriously good: Recipe, again, where my consort and I headed shortly after he landed from his latest time-zone abuse, 10 days in North Carolina after at least that long in Istanbul and before that Phnom Penh and Ukraine. Our apartment is not only too hot to cook in, with half the windows plywooded over, but it always helps to reconnect on neutral ground. The great lunch prices also made it worth the short walk: $11.95 for my grilled calamari with two kinds of beans and cascading flavor, and a slab of sliced steak with potatoes, broccoli and green beans plus exceptional chimichurri (not just parsley and garlic but fresh oregano, cilantro, green peppers, celery and jalapeño Tabasco, the chef said when he stepped out of the kitchen and Bob grilled him). Bob scored just as well, with a little Nicoise-esque salad (olives, hard-cooked eggs, green beans, anchovies) followed by the roasted half-chicken with grain salad mixed with carrots and asparagus. WIGB? Anytime. Can’t believe it’s even in our neighborhood and not over in a certain borough. 452 Amsterdam Avenue near 82d Street, 212 501 7755.

The not bad: Mermaid Oyster Bar in the West Village, where three of us headed after the well-made but depressing “Restrepo” at Angelika on Saturday night and where we were lucky enough to snare the last bar table rather than wait two hours. The place was mobbed, but the staff was rolling with it — our glasses were kept filled with a Provencal rosé, and the busboy was quick to remove extra plates from the overcrowded table. Our food came too fast; my fries and the oysters in my otherwise fine $16 po’ boy could have been crisper. But everything tasted great (I didn’t try Pam’s fluke seviche with its “three-crab” sauce or Bob’s two kinds of raw oysters; Roy Blount Jr. and his “like swallowing a large baby” keep me away from those guys). The $20 crab cake was a big, meaty one with good tartar sauce, “whale” fries (potato slices), coleslaw and lettuce. WIGB? Probably, but only with a reservation. And an understanding that the huge markups on the wine underwrite the very affordable food. 79 MacDougal Street just above Houston, 212 260 0100.

The geographically correct: Canteen 82, where a friend in the neighborhood lured me on the one-week anniversary of my return to this tiny town from the mega-city on the Bosphorus. She loves it; other friends who live relatively close by love it. And it’s certainly better than any of the other dreary “Chinese” restaurants that don’t require braving the subway on a 95-degree Saturday. But the soup dumplings were underwhelming, and the Peking duck buns full of too-sweet meat (yes, she was right: ordering them was a mistake, but I was glad we didn’t get a dozen of the dumplings). The scallion pancake was crisp enough, and the green salad was a deal, for $6, with lots of vegetables and a paving of avocado slices over the top. But the service was ridiculously inattentive in a nearly empty room. And that breakfast/brunch menu of Western standards made me wonder if any kitchen could juggle hollandaise and special orders of slivered ginger without losing its way. WIGB? Probably. It is convenient, and Bob needs to taste for himself. But while it seemed like a deal, our lunch at Recipe was 35 times more satisfying for about the same amount of money. 467 Columbus near 82d Street, 212 595 4300.

The oops, I forgot: Stone Rose at JFK, where I ducked in to top off my tank after skipping lunch before getting trapped in the absurdly long security line at Delta (a whole fucking hour). I figured if I ate before boarding, I could sleep straight through to Istanbul, and that was exactly how it almost worked out, except the cheesy “steak flatbread” with pico de gallo seemed to expand in my stomach like a Houlihan’s special. Also, too, the portion was T.G.I.Friday’s outsized, and I ingested only a little and still suffered. I figured I would at least get a decent glass of wine from Rande’s cellars, but they were out of the NZ SV and I had to settle for chardonnay. WIGB? If I stupidly ever fly Delta ever again? All I can say is I was disappointed on heading to the gate to see I had missed a Chili’s. . . .

New York minutes/Early April 2010

The half-good: The Mermaid Inn uptown, yet again, where a friend and I settled after a special screening of “How to Live Forever” when we knew a pizza as enticing as the one we had just seen would be hard to find anywhere close by. We got a table in the back in the five minutes the hostess promised, and I stupidly didn’t insist we sit on the empty side of the room rather than between two big, loud groups (although it was still less deafening than in the front). I thought we’d had that waitress in the past, and she had been superb, but this night she was a trudging example of dazed and confused (although she did pour generously once she finally took our muscadet order). Joanne seemed happy with her huge grilled shrimp sandwich and fries, and I was amazed that my lobster bisque actually had chunks of meat in it — I don’t think I’ve ever experienced that; usually it’s flavor over substance. WIGB? Always. It’s a deal. 568 Amsterdam near 88th Street, 212 WHY DONT restaurants print phone numbers on receipts?

The good at the time: Aangan on the Upper West Side, where we met friends in from Chicago checking out Columbia before the vegetarian daughter decided on which of the six colleges she’s been accepted by. The place looks disturbingly swanky, especially for the neighborhood, which made the $9.95 veg thali that much more appealing. It might be the most elegant one in town, with salad presented first and then the tray holding little bowls of dal, curds, samosas, chutney, two curries and dessert ringing a mound of rice, then a basket of naan. That bread was easily the best I’ve had in New York, not at all greasy and perfectly pliable to use as a scoop. And the samosas were fascinating; if I had not ordered meatless I could have sworn they were chicken. Aside from the dal, though, everything else was tame, even tasted off a fork or spoon rather than bread alone. Our friend Paul seemed happy with his huge tandoori salmon, and my consort ate all his lamb/chicken thali. But afterward he said the flavors were too muted. And as we walked for the next hour and then settled back at our desks, both of us started feeling ready for the Macy’s parade, and not as spectators. I have no idea what was in the food, but it was painfully bloating. WIGB? I’m torn. That’s a great deal even for bland food, just not for the after-effects. And I didn’t even clean my tray. 2701 Broadway near 103d Street, 212 280 4100.

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.