New York minutes/Mid-September

The really good: Locanda Verde in Tribeca, where my consort and I trekked after the New Amsterdam Market after finding Governor’s Island oversubscribed as a follow-up destination. We made it in just before the kitchen closed on Sunday brunch, and our food came faster than anything else but water, despite the fact that the staff had that punch-drunk, end-o’-brunch demeanor. Having overindulged in so much richness — porchetta to creamy yogurt to bacon peanut brittles — at The New Amsterdam market, I was thrilled with the crostini of the day, heaped with blue crab on a spicy base with jalapeno and cucumber. (For all of $7.) Bob was equally happy with his dainty portion of maltagliatti with sprightly pesto, broad beans and tomatoes, the sauce very light and the balance sublime. We each had a $10 glass of rosé and walked out happy. The space was perfect on a brilliantly sunny September day, too. WIGB? In a heartbeat. 377 Greenwich Street near Franklin, 212 925 3797.

The good yet again: The New French, where Bob and I headed after he saw “Inglorious Basterds” in the Village while I was working and where we both had a whole new experience, not just because we sat outside. Remembering the chef’s Tabla background, I ordered the vegetable curry, which was unsurprisingly sensational (although it made me realize I will never love bok choy), with an amazingly balanced sauce and gussied-up couscous on the side rather than the rice I find so dreary. The portion was huge enough that I got lunch and a midafternoon snack out of the kitty bag I took home (Wyl-E got nothin’). Bob had the chicken pho and polished it off despite whimpering that it was too rich. The waiter seemed distracted, but it was his first night on the sidewalk, so who would complain? 522 Hudson Street at 10th, 212 807 7357.

The good except for my food: Mermaid Inn uptown, where I landed with my Main Line friend when he chose seafood over new Greek for dinner within walking distance on a depressingly chilly night. We shared the calamari salad with feta, which was even better than usual with shiitakes tossed in with the frisee, and Don actually deemed his scallop special, with cauliflower tossed with capers, “exquisite.” The waitress was, no surprise, great, even topping off his glass of white for free (and correcting the $2 overcharge Don spotted on the special). But I was bummed by the skate, no longer a crispily seductive indulgence but a big wet slab still on the cartilage, under a watery cascade of sautéed mushrooms (regular and shiitake) with sliced garlic. And the cartilage was trouble; I started thinking I would have to dust off my restaurant-school Heimlich training when Don got a mouthful of slivers. Still, WIGB? Absolutely. Value/experience is outstanding. 568 Amsterdam Avenue near 88th Street, 212 799 7400.

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-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/Late December 2008

The newly good: Kefi, where my consort and I were able to walk in early on a Friday after several tries at reserving and where the mood and food could not be more vanquishing of the failed enterprises that languished in that space. We had just been on the East Side for the Eggleston show at the Whitney, and my poor consort had had to listen to my rant that diners charge way too much for crapola ($20.95 for mahi on the blackboard we passed on Madison). But was I ever vindicated: My $16.95 grilled branzino was two perfectly cooked fillets of very fresh fish laid over fingerling potatoes, caperberries, olives and seared grape tomatoes; I even ate the skin. Bob’s sheep’s milk dumplings with sausage and pine nuts put 95 percent of Italian “gnocchi” in this country to shame. The bread arrived warm with really green olive oil; the wine was $6 and $6.50 a glass; the service was tag-team perfect. And they take credit cards. (Of course nothing’s perfect — the bar was a stroller maze by the time we walked out.) WIGB? Probably constantly. It’s as Greek as your average diner anymore. 505 Columbus Avenue near 84th Street, 212 873 0200.

The good and good again: The West Branch, where we were lucky enough to get seats to eat at the bar one night and immediately reserved for the next — usually on Jesus Eve we go to a movie and stop in any bar that might be open and inevitably wind up drinking with Santa, but this time we dined with friends and hordes, on serious food. First night was vitello tonnato, clearly assembled by someone who has never had the Piemontese original with proportions of veal to mayo reversed, and fine Caesar; next night was $17 skate over tomato-cabbage risotto, seared cod with zucchini etc., haricot vert salad and shared gingerbread pudding. Dr. and Lady Bugs seemed underwhelmed after following our recommendations on the crispy quail and duck choucroute, but their choices looked good to me even though I was happy with new and different. Add in warm bread, cheap wine, attentive service and I can even forgive Bedlam-level sound and A-train-at-rush-hour seating. WIGB? Absolutely. It’s Ouest for the little people. 2178 Broadway at 77th Street, 212 777 6764.

The enlightening: The Smith in the East Village, where Bob and I stopped in rather than schlepping to Porchetta for perfection after the Greenmarket and a detour to Jams for more envelopes for New Year’s cards and where his sandwich and the place itself saved the day. Usually Bob bitches about non-specialty sandwiches, but I think the fries caught his eye, and what arrived was enough for two meals: ciabatta with big slab o’ chicken, tomatoes, greens, Cheddar, chipotle mayonnaise. It was good. My “Alsatian pizza,” not so much — I have no idea WTF I was doing ordering it in an NYU hangout, but I paid for my lack of due diligence. I had a tumbler of Argentine viognier, which helped, as did the nice hunk of chewy baguette, the free sparkling water and the snappy service. Also the room, which Bob instantly pegged as a knockoff Schiller’s (thank you, Richard Price). WIGB? Probably. I was curious to see what provoked a news story on its survival, and the answers are self-evident. 55 Third Avenue near 11th Street, 212 420 9800.

New York minutes/Mid-December 2008

The good again: Mermaid Inn, yet again, where I dragged my consort just after he landed after nine days in London and Berlin when I suddenly couldn’t face the three closer but lamer choices. Without a reservation, we had to wait a bit at the bar for a table, but they seated us soon enough in the back and not because we’re old — young faces were there, too. We split the good green salad with cheese, then Bob polished off the $21 salmon with lentils, which is always satisfying. For once there was an entree special — fried, fried and fried (fish with chips and corn fritters) — and it was great, especially for $18. Service, wine, “bread” were all faultless, too. WIGB? Absolutely. No wonder the Neptune Room has gone dark. 568 Amsterdam Avenue near 88th Street.

The holding-up: Fatty Crab, where we headed after my first subway ride and Union Square excursion in exactly six weeks and where I expected the worst on finding the room nearly empty and a new chef on view but where the ribs alone would have been worth the journey. They really are amazing and almost made up for the absence of that incredible fatty duck that successive cooks seemed to have such a hard time perfecting. We split the Malay fish fish fry, and as usual the crab-curry rice was better than the slightly muddy-tasting fillets (tilapia?) And the mango salad seemed slightly unbalanced, flavor-wise. But the gruner was still $9, and if the waitress was unfocused she was pleasant as hell. Even the music has been ratcheted back as Momofuku has lured the pork-and-Asian hordes east. WIGB? Undoubtedly. It is food you can’t get just anywhere, especially with gruner. 643 Hudson Street near 12th Street, 212 352 3590.

The not sickening: El Paso in the restaurant desert of the Upper East Side, where Bob and I wound up after a gallery opening on that miserable night the skies opened and would not close and where the one redeeming aspect was the tab — $40 with tip for two glasses of wine, four tacos and a half-assed quesadilla. I know I’d sworn off it, but where else are you doing to eat in a restaurant desert priced like Dubai? And see a waiter taking hair cues from “No Country for Old Men”? Of the overstuffed tacos, I tasted the outstanding chorizo and the perfunctory vegetable; Bob liked the chicken and couldn’t even attempt the pork. WIGB? Maybe, but it’s never a good sign when an old cook is slumped in the dining room and the bathroom gets grodier every visit. 64 East 97th Street between Madison and Park, 212 996 1739.

New York minutes/Late September 2008

The good again: Aquagrill in SoHo, where we headed after my consort woke up late on Saturday and announced he wanted a real meal after seven beyond-grueling days of teaching while resorting to fodder rather than good food. I took that to be code for “fish,” and Pearl hates us on Saturdays, so we dragged all our bags from the market at Union Square to Spring Street only to find the crab cake sandwich I like so much is not on the brunch menu. But excellent roasted Casco Bay cod with spinach, artichokes and caper beurre noisette was, so I quietly put aside my salmon reservations and had the excellent BLT with the Atlantic fish and good fries apportioned judiciously. My qualms about octopus were stifled as well to please him, which was a good thing because the huge salad was outstanding: warm, amazingly tender tentacles with roasted peppers and sweet onions. Because we sat outside, the service was pretty discombobulated, with us begging for bread, waiting forever for wine. But WIGB? Absolutely. 210 Spring Street at Sixth Avenue, 212 274 0505.

The adequate: La Rural, where I met tired and annoyed Bob for a late dinner and where the entraña (skirt steak) was tougher than usual, but where the service and salad and wine were fine. WIGB? It is very close to home. 768 Amsterdam Avenue near 98th Street, 212 865 2929.

New York minutes/Latish August 2008

The adequate: Atlantic Grill, where a friend and I landed after wandering in a daze after a potentially life-changing appointment. We needed somewhere quiet with wine to talk and were running out of restaurants I could think of on that side of town, so we settled on a too-small table half-in, half-out of the bar on a hot day. We both had the $13 crab cake appetizer, which was better than I expected, with a green sauce and a spicy corn salad. The waiter was over the top but mildly entertaining, although someone should teach him or the busboys to clear the table before bringing the check. WIGB? Probably inevitably. It had to be better than JG Melon, where we walked out when the “host” refused to give us either a table outside or a more comfortable one inside because he was holding it in case a party of four showed up late in lunch service. Good luck, buddy. 1341 Third Avenue near 77th Street, 212 988 9200.

New York minutes/Early August 2008

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

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

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

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

New York minutes/Late July 2008

The good: Both Fairway and Pearl. What’s left to say about a great cheap burger and a sublime fried skate sandwich? Well, maybe that you can tell a lot about an establishment by how stable the staffing is (same waiter I’ve had a dozen times at Fairway) and how well a bartender can juggle seating, serving and schmoozing (the regular babbling on the next stool at Pearl never noticed that the attention being paid her was less than total).

The not bad: Sookk, where I wound up with a friend who wanted Thai for Saturday lunch in the neighborhood. I’d been warned, so my expectations were low, but the room was surprisingly pleasant (although it does look like a fabric store), the service was fine and the sound level was reasonable. We both ordered from the lunch menu, so it was also hard to complain about tasteless spring rolls when they came on a platter with surprisingly good imitation duck with spicy noodles for all of $8. Pam seemed happy with both the steamed shrimp dumplings and a combination of five-spice beef in soupy noodles that she usually makes at home. WIGB? Sure. Even though they were running the AC with the front door criminally open. 2686 Broadway near 102d Street, 212 870 0253.

New York minutes/Latish July 2008

The pretty good: Mermaid Inn uptown, where my consort and I headed for neutral territory after a week apart and where we had a decent meal despite being seated in the old folks’ room in the back and being served by one of those waitresses who think the brim is the proper level to fill a wineglass. My gazpacho with peekytoe crab was heavy on olive oil and light on seasoning until Bob dumped in the leftover cocktail sauce from his shrimp appetizer, but my calamari salad with feta and mushrooms was surprisingly satisfying, not to mention copious; his skate with succotash and bacon was similarly so generous a portion he took home enough for lunch next day. The gone-too-fast bottle of rose priced like two glasses was also a deal. 568 Amsterdam near 88th Street, 212 799 7400.

The not awful: Citron, where we stopped in desperation for a snack after “Wall-E” and after remembering the options only look bleaker the farther north you go on Columbus. We got a booth to ourselves, which turned out to be a mixed blessing on a torrid night; no breeze from the open door and windows could get past the high backs. The house salad was rather tasteless despite the blue cheese gravel among the beets, walnuts and bits of haricots vert. Bob’s frisee salad with lardons was more meat than greens, and the poached egg on top was too cooked to ooze. But the waitress was charming, the wine pour was reasonable and the bread was warm. I guess it was worth nearly half a full meal at Mermaid. 473 Columbus Avenue near 83d Street, 212 400 9401.