New York minutes/Early April 2008

The not very good: The Smith, where I headed for lunch in despair of finding anything interesting to the west of the Greenmarket on a Wednesday and where my reward was a seriously sorry fish sandwich after a very long wait. I ordered it because the fries across the room looked great, and they were. But the fish was soggy, the bun pathetic (cotton balls are sturdier) and the promised romaine looked as anemic as iceberg. Whatever the promised sauce was proved to be equally undistinguished (well, indistinguishable, actually). And I only found that out after the woman at the next table who was ordering when I sat down was completely finished. I think the cook had to go out and catch the disappearing cod. But the tumbler of viognier was actually seriously good (and $8), and the waiter was excellent. WIGB? Maybe. Not everyone can shop and fry like Pearl. 55 Third Avenue near 11th Street, 212 420 9800.

The not awful: Le Monde, where I made the mistake of stopping during brunch service and the bigger mistake of ordering something besides eggs and home fries and where I left wondering why I go out for lunch instead of cooking what I really want at home. The grilled vegetable sandwich had not a trace of the olive mayonnaise mentioned on the menu, and if that was mozzarella it had been put through a prosciutto slicer. The fries with it were limp, greasy and lukewarm. Why didn’t I send it back? Because it took so long to get in the first place. The waiter was hustling, though, and the place always has a good vibe. WIGB? Eventually. There’s not much competition. 2885 Broadway near 112th Street, 212 531 3939.

The understaffed: Gallo Nero, where three of us headed after an ill-fated presentation at ICP (shut up and show, someone should have yelled to the moderator). The busboy was super-efficient, so we had water, crusty rolls and bean spread almost immediately, but the one waitress was overwhelmed, and not just by the tightness of the tables. I tasted the octopus, which was tender but still creepy, but took my share of the mushrooms on crispy baguette, romaine salad with roasted pepper and avocado (overdressed but still good) and arugula salad with apples and goat cheese. We also split a plate of roasted peppers, prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella, which I hope was domestic. I ordered the same white twice and got two completely different tastes, but it was hard enough to get them that I just shut up and drank. WIGB? Probably. The prices are great, the room is really pleasant and the bathrooms are a train trip. 402 West 44th Street off Ninth Avenue, 212 265 6660.

New York minutes/Late March/beginning of April 2008

The good: Gallo Nero, where I met a friend for lunch after finding a promo card in our doggie bag from Film Center Cafe. The place was so new you could smell the wood, but the kitchen was clearly settled in. We split only small plates: fine meatballs in pesto (where has that combination been all my life?), sauteed mushrooms on crisp toast with melted cheese, and beautifully fried calamari, zucchini slices and shrimp. The one letdown was our own damn fault — when the engaging Albanian waiter came back to say the kitchen had no buffalo mozzarella for the platter with prosciutto and roasted peppers, we insisted on substituting grana padano. Close but no mozzarella, and the peppers were pallid. But the warm roll was satisfyingly crusty and came with a nice bean puree, and the wines from an extensive list were poured by the quartino, and the waiter knew them all well. Also, the room is charming, the low-slung chairs so comfortable I wasn’t hobbling when I stood up and the bathroom as cozy as one on a train. WIGB? Soon, I hope. 402 West 44th Street west of Ninth Avenue, 212 265 6660

The not awful: Zamba, where my consort and I wound up for lunch after our usual Saturday morning run to the Greenmarket and Chelsea Market and after I had done a quick run through Menupages to see what might be escaping my notice in a neighborhood where I almost spend more time than I do around home. We snared two seats at the bar and had plenty of time to study the very cool design — you could imagine yourself in Torino if not for the crowd, which Bob immediately sized up as “Upper East Side but younger” — because the bartender’s efficiency seemed to be hobbled by his struggle to keep his low-slung pants from falling off his underpants. If not for my outstanding $10 glass of grillo, we could have been eating in a diner, though. My shiitake, taleggio and arugula sandwich with truffle oil was so rich it was almost queasy-making, even for this Mrs. Sprat, while Bob’s grilled eggplant with mozzarella and arugula was only redeemed by the tapenade spread on the focaccia in which it was grilled. Both came with a surprisingly lively little chickpea salad. WIGB? Maybe. Not much affordable around there, and the chalkboard wine list is long and enticing. 306 West 13th Street west of Eighth Avenue, 212 205 0601.

The well-situated: Chop Suey, where I lured Bob after his class at ICP both for proximity’s sake and because I remained curious after rejecting it for lunch with a fussy friend, and where we both didn’t really care about not-great food at inflated prices simply because the view of Times Square actually makes the middle-American armpit of New York look alluring. It was just after 8, so we got a great four-top looking in three directions, including toward several tables of “Sex and the City” wannabes. The less-than-wonderful scallion cakes were redeemed by an Asian pear mostarda, while the char siew roast pork was leathery and mostly noodles. Easily the best choice was the tofu hot pot, which had great flavor and sublime texture. Wine is served by the quartino, and we each nursed ours at $13-14 apiece. WIGB? When I hit the lottery, maybe. The bill with tip was $92 for three appetizers, two glasses. Renaissance Hotel, 47th and Seventh Avenue, 212 765 7676.

The transporting: Buzina Pop, where Bob and I took refuge after bailing on a free dinner with potentially boring strangers in the same neighborhood and where we found ourselves feeling far, far from Upper East Side stuffiness. He’s been to Brazil, I haven’t, but he said it felt very familiar to him; the stools at the booths across from us were made from tin cans, the curtains had boots imprinted in the design, a little shop in the corner of the second-floor dining room sold crafty things. We got there at the magic hour, just before it filled up (by about half Brazilians) and got loud, but at our little table by the window it was easy to talk if not read the menu (larger print or much bigger candles, please). While we were deciding, two rounds of salt cod fritters were laid on the table, followed by excellent warm bread with superb herbed olive oil. We split an order of exceptional crispy calamari set over arugula in tomato sauce, then a salad of arugula, endive and grana padana and an order of manioc gnocchi that were like eating flavored air. The very charming waiter kept our glasses refilled at $9 a pop, and we were out before the human larva toted in by the Carrie wannabe could start to howl. WIGB? If I found myself in the vicinity with a flashlight, absolutely. As we realized, it reflects a neighborhood changing as foreigners invest. And that is all to the good. 1022a Lexington Avenue near 74th Street, 212 879 6190.

The reliable: Pearl (even when the chowder is a little salty and the clams a little MIA, lunch there is an antidepressant, especially with a friend willing to share a Caesar, a fried oyster roll and those great fries) and Rosa Mexicano on 18th (even when I order the wrong enchiladas and get essentially wet vegetable tacos).

New York minutes/Late March 2008

The surprisingly good: Madaleine Mae, where my consort wanted to go on a rainy night for the novelty factor and where the food seemed to have come from a new kitchen. The spinach salad I warned him against was actually nicely balanced and perfectly dressed, although we agreed that baby spinach is no substitute for the full-grown thing. And the arctic char with dirty rice was shocking: fresh fish cooked juicy over really rich and flavorful rice (one of my least favorite starches). Even the biscuits were almost right. The waitress recognized me from my last visit, the hostesses could not have been more charming (they found an umbrella in the back for diner who lost his) and the noise level was perfect, maybe because the place was two-thirds empty on the night it was reviewed favorably. WIGB? Happily now. 461 Columbus Avenue at 82d Street, 212 496 3000.

The unsurprisingly good: Pearl Oyster Bar, where we were able to get a table fast on a Monday night when I couldn’t face dishes, and a table in the quiet back, and where everything was as perfect as always. The striped bass special came with brussels sprouts and bacon, and my superb crab cake appetizer-as-entree was big enough for leftovers after we split a Caesar. I am surprised I never noticed wine is priced the same by the glass and by the bottle, which makes life easier for everyone, especially a couple usually split between red and white. WIGB? Anytime, even though I had sworn off dinner. 18 Cornelia Street, 212 691 8211.

The adequate: Film Center Cafe, where six of us headed in search of relatively cheap food and relative quiet after a little stint in the bitter wind in Times Square watching my consort’s amazing handiwork briefly showcased on the sides of two buildings. We got a big table in the back that wasn’t too noisy but was too easy for the waitress to forget, but at least she was efficient when she did swing by. I had crab cakes again, and they were redeemed by their sauce although the ratio of crab to potato filler was about one to six. Not realizing they came with a nice little salad, I ordered a big mixed salad that we wound up taking home along with Bob’s leftover Caesar with salmon. With three bottles of wine, we got away for $75 a couple. Pretty sad when that seems reasonable. WIGB? Maybe, although there have to be better choices on Ninth these days. 635 Ninth Avenue near 44th Street, 212 262 2525.

The invitation-only: The Core Club in Midtown, where Bob and I were among a dozen guests for a friend’s evening of birthday debauchery, courtesy of her newish consort. Apparently people pay $75,000 just to join, $20 for a drink. But they do get truffle oil on their popcorn and great seasoning on their bar nuts in a rather dramatic space, with huge chunks of modern art hung all about and a long hallway lined with lavish bathroom stalls the size of studio apartments. Given the rowdiness of our crowd, and all the bottles of chardonnay and pinot noir, the private dining room was crucial. As for the set meal, the chef started out working at Union Square Cafe and was hired on by Tom Colicchio, and it showed. Our amuse was a nice little quenelle of smoked salmon tartare, then we had a choice of beet salad, tuna carpaccio or crabmeat “croquettas.” I chose those, and they tasted great, although the oozy center was a little odd — imagine Jean-Georges’ molten chocolate cake made with seafood. Or don’t. The carpaccio was a roll the size of a pony penis — some incorrigible guest said, with editing — but the winner looked to be the salad: a gorgeous composition with goat cheese, blood orange and candied pecans. I picked the pan-roasted wild striped bass for my entree, a great slab of perfectly cooked fish laid over braised brussels sprout leaves with pancetta and hazelnuts, and my consort made me taste his excellent crispy, juicy square of roasted suckling pig. The birthday cake looked and tasted homemade. I’m not sure if that was intentional — Champagne was involved. WIGB? I couldn’t afford to. Plus we may be banned for life.

New York minutes/Middish March 2008

The not awful: Zipper Tavern, where we retreated in the sheeting rain after an excellent Camera Club opening upstairs of really evocative work by one of my consort’s students from Piemonte. The food was mostly just okay — a decent if odd salad of beets, peas, mizuna, hard-cooked eggs and corn offset by flavor-light empanadas filled with alleged duck confit — but the wineglasses were well-filled for $7 each (albarino, tempranillo). The waitress was harried but attentive, the noise level was less than abusive and it was the right place at the right time. The decor, however, reminded me of Grandma’s Place in Tallinn, where the owner admitted every theatrical detail was bogus. WIGB? It’s cheap, it’s convenient. 336 West 37th Street, 212 695 4600.

The fading fast: Madaleine Mae, where it was hard to believe a kitchen could descend to slopping out food in so few weeks. I went alone for an early dinner while Bob was chained to his high-tech work station yet again, and it was light enough to read, quiet enough to think. The hostesses were certainly friendly, the busboys were solicitous, the waitress was not a ’tron and the room was as charming as always. I was even wishing I’d ordered real food after finding the biscuit was improved if not perfect — it had the desired flakiness if not the airiness. But both my appetizers were huge letdowns. The thin johnnycake was overlaid with lots of smoked salmon, but the stingy schmear of creme fraiche or sour cream or whatever under it had melted away to grease. And the spinach salad came drenched in oily dressing, with a few flecks of bacon and only a handful of tiny roasted mushrooms to redeem it. I don’t know why I was surprised when a friend told me P.J. Clarke’s is behind the joint despite the Waxman connection. (I guess I gotta start trying to untangle the knotty prose crammed into DI/DO’s restaurant “column.”) WIGB? Maybe. It’s in the neighborhood, and said friend had a great time at the bar. But it says it all that the hand-dryer in the bathroom didn’t even work, and the staff must have known it because there was a pile of paper towels under it. One month and the place is falling apart?

The transporting: “The Grocer’s Son” at the Walter Reade Theater at Lincoln Center. I went to the God’s-waiting-room showing at 3:15 and got to hear the filmmaker speak before and after (one question from the audience: “Since it’s a French film, why does it take the couple so long to get into bed?”) He did his research by making three documentaries on mobile epiceries, and he really recreated a small world. Of course what I liked best was buying popcorn beforehand and asking the counter clerk what was in the plastic bag lying on top of the kernels under the heat lamp. “Brioche. They taste like nothing unless you heat them.” Leached plastic notwithstanding, the popcorn was as satisfying as the movie. It opens in America in May.

New York minutes/Early February 2008

The good: Toloache, yet again, where eight of us and a 6 1/2-pound frog wedged into a tight table to run up a big bill with grasshopper tacos, ceviches, quesadillas and more after our friend Dr. Bugs’ taping on Stephen Colbert. Proximity to the studio was the main appeal, but the food and service came through, too. When we got there, after the car had delivered the two stars and the wrangler of one, the staff had already dealt with the weirdness and soon the wine, margaritas and food were flowing. I just had my usual huitlacoache quesadilla and some good (allegedly) spicy guacamole, but my consort ordered an amazing duck special in a green chile sauce, beautifully cooked and perfectly balanced. It’s a far cry from El Paso on 97th Street, where I had excellent chilaquiles with tomatillo sauce the day before, but it’s satisfying in much the same way. WIGB? Constantly, it seems. 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818.

The not bad: Regional, where my consort treated me to dinner on yet another night when I wasn’t up to eating let alone cooking and where he got what he deserved given that he was paying. My special of grilled eggplant, tomato and mozzarella was just what I should have expected in February, with undercooked eggplant and pathetic tomato, and my cod-fritter appetizer was fried to less than perfection although the fish itself was great. But Bob’s salad of arugula and plum tomatoes was the same satisfaction it always is, and his pasta with lamb ragu had so much of the latter that he had enough to make a work lunch with rice next day. The service was good, the bread and bean spread excellent as always and the noise level — fortunately for us, not so good for a restaurant trying to stay afloat — painless. WIGB? Why not? 2607 Broadway near 99th Street, 212 666 1915.

The dinery: French Roast, where I stopped after getting my stitches yanked and my jaw set free and where I was so ready for a great breakfast I would have been happy with three bites of anything painless. I wanted toast, bacon, eggs and home fries after a week of nibbling and gumming, but I settled for a huge omelet overstuffed with crisp bacon strips and soggy tomatoes and a little Gruyere plus a basket of baguette slices and butter and a few honkin’ huge potato chunks with ketchup. Walking from 86th and CPW to 85th and B’way just brought home how the Upper West Side is being eaten away by greed, though. Diners are disappearing as fast as bodegas as the banks and drugstores and nail parlors proliferate, but maybe this is the new template: Open 24 hours, cheaper than Artie’s, not as industrial and synthetic-feeling as the Greek places that manage to hang on, and with nicotine-free waiters to boot. WIGB? There may soon be no choice. . . . 2340 Broadway at 85th Street, 212 799 1533.

New York minute/Late January 2008

The seriously good: Maze by Gordon Ramsay at The London, where my consort treated me on my birthday and where, by the end, we were both glad to have turned down a reservation in the “real” restaurant. I got there latish to find Bob ensconced at a quiet back table next to the door leading to the inner sanctum, and every time it opened we got a whiff of the dark side — stuffy and rich and coffin-ready. We had silverware excess enough, thank you very much. The whole experience was like being in a baby bistro in France. The sommelier happily steered us through the shoals of the wine list to a gruner for around $50 (“steely,” and he was right), and the waiter could not have been more engaging and encouraging. Even the crowd, heavy (literally) on Brits, acted mellow. We split six small plates at $12 to $16, and only one was a dud, the confit hamachi. The best was the apple-cured duck breast, sliced buttery thin and topped with frisee and crispy duck tongues on one side and a cube of over-the-top smoked foie gras with crunchy amaranth to prolong the flavor on the other. White onion veloute with duck ragout and shaved truffle was also obscenely good, as was the cod crusted with Iberian ham and set over a fricassee of artichokes, chorizo and mussels. Scallops with cauliflower puree and beignets were just as I pictured them, although beets with ricotta and pine nuts looked gorgeous but seemed a little too cheesy even for me. The bread tasted more like focaccia and did not need the excellent butter sprinkled with coarse salt. We passed on dessert but tried the truffles and peanut brittle that arrived with the beyond-reasonable check. I’m glad I ate the former last; the latter had been made with rancid legumes. WIGB? Without even waiting for an occasion. All the way home in the cab we talked about how we had talked all the way home in the cab about birthday dinners at twice or three times the price that were less than half as good. 151 West 54th Street, 212 468 8889.

New York minutes/Mid-January 2008

The good: Toloache yet again, where we stopped in after the excellent “Juno” for a snack and a little wine. We got our usual seats at the bar facing the oven where the woman chef who works like a machine turns out quesadillas etc. and split one with huitlacoche (superb as always) plus the tacos de pastor and de cabeza (with braised veal cheeks). WIGB? Anytime; the servers are good even when they screw up a wine order. 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818.

The bad: Nice Matin, where I stupidly retreated for a late lunch and found myself surrounded by fixed Upper East Siders, so I should not have been surprised that the prices are up and the quality is down. The crab salad, which was always borderline exquisite, arrived this time as a big mound of mayonnaise-drenched lump crab topped with half a sliced avocado on a few greens with asparagus sliced the long way and a few little nubbins of raw vegetables. The waitress was overwhelmed, no bread was ever served and the whole experience felt like a diner with scarier patrons (we need an immigration wall through Central Park). WIGB? Fool me one last time. . . .

The overpriced: Buceo 95, where we met a friend just to try something new and where it might have been a little too new — the smell of varnish was still so fresh it overwhelmed the wine. Which was no small consideration given that the quartino of Quincy from the Loire was $13 (and why does wine portioned that way inevitably feel like a rip?) The kitchen also seemed to be finding its way: The bacalao in cucumber cups ($12!) was undersoaked and so very chewy, while both the chopped Mediterranean salad and the albondigas were mediocre at best. Only the slow-roasted pork with potatoes on what looked like little soft nacho chips (billed as a mini-wrap) was anything special, and that only by comparison. The olives and oil served with the bread were lively enough, though. As for the sound system blaring techno music, it seemed to be tuned into a hair salon. WIGB? For the hospitality and to try the cheese plate, maybe. It’s slim pickings up this way. 201 West 95th Street, 212 662 7010.

The slightly off: Chola, where I met a friend for a long winy birthday lunch and where the usual mob seemed to be taking an unusual toll. We never got vegetable fritters to start; I had to ask for bread (and it was not as good as it normally is). But we had a great table and easy access to all that wine, and the buffet was outstanding as always if a little too familiar from my last visit. WIGB? Not on a Thursday for a while. 232 East 58th Street, 212 212 688 4619.

The surprising: The cafe at the Cooper-Hewitt, where we only had restorative caffeine between the great Gus Powell show at the Museum of the City of New York and the spectacular Ingo Maurer lighting show upstairs from our table overlooking the garden. I didn’t try my consort’s tea, but my huge cappuccino was, amazingly, perfect (for $3.85). The salads, sandwiches and wines by the glass also looked worth a return visit for whatever exhibition comes next.

The painful: BXL Cafe, where we ducked in for a drink after a totally pretentious ICP opening down the block and where the din was at CIA torture level. We only split an order of seriously slopped-out calamari before fleeing. WIGB? Never after dark.

New York minutes/Early November 2007

The perfect, at least at quiet lunchtime: Toloache, where I schlepped in despair all the way from the East Side after PT, passing one overpriced, mediocre restaurant after another gougy, bad restaurant. I walked in, the hostess instantly gave me a choice of a table or a seat at the guacamole bar, and I had a glass of wine in minutes and, shortly afterward, a superb huitlacoche quesadilla cooked in the wood oven right in front of me. It was $13, but it came with a heap of excellent rice and a schmear of great beans. The vibe in the place was also lovely — the owner was eating tacos at the bar after working the room, and everyone seemed relaxed and as mellow as the music. WIGB? Very shortly. 251 West 50th Street near Eighth Avenue, 212 581 1818.

The promising: Community Food & Juice up by Columbia, where I met an e-pal for lunch on a sunny afternoon so early on that the check was discounted 15 percent. I ordered what Scott Adams thinks no one would: a BELT (bacon, lettuce and tomato with an egg layered in), and while the T was pallid, the B and E were top quality. It came with “carrot hash” that reminded me of the mashed potatoes we fry up after Thanksgiving, but it was discounted 15 percent. The burger across the table looked good, too, although I noticed the woman down the banquette immediately scraped the mound of fried onions off hers. The supersize waitress was working hard, too. WIGB? Undoubtedly. Along with a juice bar, it does have wine and sunlight. 2893 Broadway near 112th Street, 212 665 2800.

The pleasant: Regional, where a longtime friend up from Bucks County took me and three whippersnappers and where we got two of the three things she wanted (proximity and relative quiet). We arrived so early on Saturday night that the staff was still listening to the chef teach them the specials, but they showed us to a nice booth-like table anyway. My bigoli with duck ragu seemed to have been rushed — the sauce had chunks of carrot and big slices of duck, while the noodles were so far ahead of al dente they were gummy — so I didn’t share to try the other pastas: pesto; ravioli with beets; ravioli with sheep’s milk cheese, and cavatelli with sausage and broccoli rabe (although the sausage in the latter looked out of proportion to the dish). The waitress and runners stayed upbeat, and one who agreed to take a photo of us all was a digital pro. Most encouraging? When I came out of the bathroom (after a cook, I might add), I told a hostess seating another table that the toilet was starting to look delayed-flight scary and she immediately got a manager to deal with the mess. WIGB? It’s close, it’s cheap, it’s pleasant, why not? 2607 Broadway near 99th Street, 212 666 1915.

The fey: Belcourt in the ridiculous East Village, where I met another e-pal and his wife for lunch on a gray day and where the brightly gorgeous room could still not compensate for the over-conceptualized, under-performing menu. I ordered “salt cod hash with poached eggs, Harissa and grilled flat bread,” and the first adjective was more discernible than the first noun. The Cod himself got skunked by choosing “boudin blanc dogs” — what read like a litter materialized as only a single runt, and in a poorly engineered “bun” at that. The Gascon and Provencal wines were hefty pours for $7 and $8, respectively, and the waitress was charming if not especially proficient. But it’s not good when portions are so dainty you leave wondering if a stop at a David Chang pork palace might be immediately in order. WIGB? Nah, I rate it a Kleenex; once was enough.

New York minutes/End of October 2007

The really good: Kefi, where I have to confess we got slyly preferential treatment and a comped appetizer but where I would happily wait for a table and overtip to eat so well for so little. The place deserves to be jammed all night long with such good ingredients treated so well in kitchen: The branzino was two perfectly fresh, perfectly grilled fillets laid over roasted fingerlings with olives, while the swordfish was actually juicy on its bed of cauliflower, favas and olives. We also ordered the cuttlefish despite the waiter’s attempt to steer us toward the more tender octopus (it’s too human for me to eat anymore), and it was superb, paired with halloumi, zucchini and olives. As always, the four spreads (the freebie) were spectacular with nicely charred warm pita. Most of the Greek wines are all of $6 a generous glass, so we could each choose our color for less than a bottle goes for anywhere else. WIGB? Anytime my wallet is stocked with cash. 222 West 79th Street, 212 873 0200.

The pretty bad: Nizza in Hell’s Kitchen, where we headed after getting shut out of the movies on 42d Street on Friday night and where the throng around us appeared not to notice lame cooking and off wines — and they weren’t the usual clueless pre-theater crowd. The service was great, and the place looks cool, although my consort was troubled by the idea of using wine bottles as a design element since it meant displaying them so close to the ceiling, where, of course, they bake. Maybe that’s why the quartino of Ceretto arneis that I sent back as corked on my first try still tasted over the hill on the second (it was geriatric by Italian white wine standards, though: 2004). Bob, who did better with his red choices, also liked the socca better than I did, but then I remember that wonderful street food as being less dry and crumbly in Nice. The Swiss chard torta with artichokes tasted good, but the crust was clunky, while the little stuffed Nicoise vegetables were ingredients in search of cohesion. Only the very tender stuffed veal rolls were fine. I think Bob had it right yet again when he said it all seemed to be cooked by people who had never tasted the original versions. WIGB? Fool me once for a hundred bucks and I won’t get fooled again.

The Epago: Pio Pio on Amsterdam, where I met a couple of friends for proximity’s sake on Saturday night when the place was just jammed and where the Eat, Pay And Get Out message could not have been clearer. After ordering wine at the bar, we were quickly hustled to a table with human larva to the left and right of us and a big birthday party too close, so conversation would have been easier with ear trumpets; maybe that’s why it was so hard to get the waiter to understand two of us wanted a second glass of wine and the third wanted a Coke while the busboy kept trying to pour water in all our wineglasses, full or empty. The other girls were blissful over their shared $22 roast chicken with big platter of decent fries and an avocado-tomato salad, and I didn’t mind my Caesar sans Caesar dressing with tough Romaine because I could filch from said platter and dunk into the super-spicy table sauce. A whole chicken with nothing else goes for $10, which made me a little nervous, given that the birds we buy for home are never that cheap as a raw ingredient. But the price had to be a big lure for the line of people waiting as we left, having had the waiter actually roll up the white paper on our table before we could finish the wine we had finally gotten. WIGB? Given that 95 percent of the menu involves feather food, not likely.

New York minutes/Latish October 2007

The good again: Toloache in the theater district, where I ventured to meet a friend around 8 on a Saturday night, where we expected post-curtain dreariness and where it was just like eating in a real neighborhood. I got there first and took a seat at the bar, where the margarita inches away looked so seductive I ordered one myself, throwing off my friend. By the time we were ready to move to a table, we had to haul old ass up the stairs because the first floor was full; at least it was slightly quieter if much hotter (over the kitchen). The waiter was a charmer I remembered from last time, a guy who could sell sun lamps to Sonorans (he even pointed out that we would have been better off ordering a bottle of albarino). We split a special of crab, cheese, chipotle and pumpkin baked in a small pumpkin, with chips for dipping and a vibrant salad of quartered cherry tomatoes with onion on the side — my only regret on passing up the queso fundido for it was that it should have been bubbling hot. I had carne asada tacos in which the meat actually seemed braised, while Wally was in ecstasy over her octopus. We, being girls, had no room for the special of apple enchiladas, although that idea haunts my thoughts. WIGB? Soon, for queso fundido at least, although the skirt steak with enchilada next to that other margarita on the bar looked pretty tantalizing. 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818.

The not bad again: Saravanaas, where the south Indian thali is $9.95 at lunchtime, the German riesling is $6 a glass and the amplitude of the tiny dishes makes up for the sameness of flavors. Having been there often enough, I no longer get worked up about the brain-dead-to-hostile service. The place is clean, the light is nice, the food when it finally arrives is always fine. If I wanted variety and the whole spiritual journey, I would be up at Chola. WIGB? Absolutely. 81 Lexington Avenue at 26th Street, 212 679 0204.

The underwhelming: Shorty’s32, where I lured another friend who had proposed Aquagrill among other destinations and where we were lucky to escape without needing ear trumpets. And maybe if it had not been so loud and crowded we might have appreciated what the poor gifted chef is doing in a doomed space. Our food took so long to arrive we were comped a very rich Jerusalem artichoke soup with very Jean-Georges garnishes (I suspected intervention by another food writer across the room); maybe that’s why my “crab sticks” just seemed like a great crustacean forced into pollock duty. I didn’t try the chicken entree across the table but got the strong sense that a chicken shunner was not converted that night. The service was better than it had any right to be in a gang bang; the bartender in particular gets points for knowing what wines we had ordered from her before being seated after a surprisingly long wait. A few days later I ran into the above food writer at a kluster phuck and he made a good point — in my words, that real estate is restricting. WIGB? Maybe, although Provence when we fled there for a quiet drink afterward was so serene and comfortable and alluring I almost wondered why we care about food when we leave our homes with all of the above. 199 Prince Street, 212 357 8275.