New York minutes

Here’s something you don’t hear every day: Eat meat. Put on some weight.

That was the surgeon talking before my date with the chainsaw. So I took him up on it twice at The New French (cheeseburger, steak salad) and also used it as an excuse to brave a Chipotle Grill. I never eat fast-food meat, but I swallowed the hype and ordered soft tacos with “steak.” Which were surprisingly decent although the guacamole was mostly color, not taste. I also cooked brisket while testing recipes from cookbooks for Epicurious. And I even ordered the “country meatloaf smothered in brown gravy” in the hospital and understood why a nausea patch had been attached behind my ear.

Charlie Palmer also came to the iron rescue at his scrum of a 20th-anniversary party at Aureole: a whole table set up in the back was loaded with charcuterie, including foie gras.

And out of the hospital, my pal Cheese Jenkins has supplied us and drop-in friends with weight-adding food for days. Not sure when I’ll be able to venture out to a restaurant, but things could be worse. . . . Too much of a good thing is almost enough.

New York minutes/End of October 2008

The good: Mermaid Inn uptown, where my consort treated me to a last supper before the chainsaw and where the food, service and price were just what we needed. I usually avoid trout like the real chicken of the sea, but it was the best bet on the restricted plan I was on, and it was saved by a plethora of herbs and lemon roasted inside. The mashed potatoes I substituted with it were outstanding; Bob was totally happy with his skate with roasted potatoes and chorizo. WIGB? Repeatedly. 568 Amsterdam Avenue near 88th Street.

The bad: Cafe Luka on the Upper East Side, where I stupidly retreated for a “real” lunch between appointments. A guy standing out front volunteered that he had just eaten there and it was good and fast, which was all I wanted. But the Reuben (a special) was industrial meat under a cheese-like substance that was barely cheese-like, and the potato salad with it was unnerving. To call the aftermath intestinal distress would be like describing a four-car pile-up as a fender-bender.

The great, again: The New French, where I went first for a cheeseburger alone, then back three days later for a steak salad with my consort since doctor’s orders were to eat meat and put on some LBs. The burger was easily the best I’ve ever had, perfectly cooked, topped with caramelized onions and three pickle slices and teamed with not just a huge heap of exceptional fries but a spicy aioli. And the steak salad was just totally happy-making, great meat seared right and laid over Romaine, French green beans, potatoes, hard-cooked egg and sweet peppers in anchovy vinaigrette. I’d rave more but am out of time. Just WIGB? No question. 522 Hudson Street at Tenth, 212 807 7357.

New York minute/Early October 2008

The lame: Baluchi’s in the West Village, where an Indian-craving friend and I wound up after deserting a wineless new Thai place whose web site promised a full bar and where the food was only slightly better than the service, which sucked the big one. Ironically, Wally had said as we walked up and saw it was all but empty: “At least they’ll treat us well.” First they gave us a crappy table right by the kitchen door, but my consort was wise to insist we move once he arrived. And then cobwebs were forming on our menus by the time we were able to order. The wine “list” was a few varietals on a table card, with neither producer nor price produced; we tried to order a bottle of sauvignon blanc but settled for glasses of pinot grigio from the dim bulb in a waiter’s uniform. The naan was not as bad as I’ve had elsewhere, and the chana masala and vegetables jalfrazie had nice-enough sauces. But we were a long, long, long way from Chola. Or even Sixth Street. WIGB? Not even at gunpoint.

New York minutes/Early September 2008

The good: Fairway’s cafe, again, where my consort and I met a new-to-New York couple for an affordable dinner in a quiet setting and had what we always have, satisfying food without gouging, although the service was a bit distracted (new faces). My pizza with prosciutto and arugula was fine, Bob’s game hen with fries was even better, and our friends seemed happy with their shared (misspelled) prix fixe menu of fig appetizer and lamb chop entree if not the creme brulee dessert (not enough crackling crust). The grilled pita on the table came with roasted or sauteed spicy zucchini that was excellent, to the point that I tried to duplicate it a couple of nights later, with only moderate success. That book needed more recipes. WIGB? Can’t beat the prices and the noise level. 2727 Broadway near 74th Street, 212 595 1888.

The unsurprising: Les Halles, where we went once again for a post-Greenmarket meat fix and where we walked out wishing only that we had shared the steak frites. Maybe that free chocolate ice cream was not such a good idea, because neither of us came close to cleaning our $17.50 plates. As it usually is, the meat was butchered right and cooked perfectly, the fries were copious and the salad was just enough. The ladies’ room was a bit neglected, but you can’t everything. Nothing crawled into all the bags we left under the table, and it certainly felt better than risking Primehouse with eggs down the street. WIGB? It is a good buy. 411 Park Avenue South near 28th Street, 212 679 4111.

The adequate: Cornelia Street Cafe, where we retreated after finding Pearl closed for vacation when we really needed uplifting after the thoroughly depressing “Trouble the Water” (how that literal son of a bitch lives with his narcissistic self when so many lives should be on his conscience mystifies me). We got a sidewalk table and the service was beyond attentive and the wine list was good and affordable, so who cared that the too-sweet pomegranate syrup drizzles made the hummus plate less than wonderful? The crab cake was made with that shreddy crab, but it was fried right and came over a nice cabbage salad. Four glasses of wine and two appetizers came to about what we would have spent at Pearl on food, so it was fine, especially given the setting — that street is one of the more magical on this island. But we trudged to the C train still depressed. 29 Cornelia Street near Bleecker Street, 212 989 9319.

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/Mid-July 2008

The good: The New French, where I met the Not-So-Tyro-Anymore for a perfectly pleasant lunch at that great little table in the window and where I was mostly relieved that I had not oversold the tuna sandwich (confit makes it as much as the proper proportion of bread). I had the special BLT pizza bianca, which tasted great but was tough to eat either by hand or with knife and fork; the judiciously applied creamy dressing on the greens over the tomato slice and under the bacon bits was outstanding, though. And we each had a glass of the Spanish rose. Like old pros. WIGB? It’s become beyond a habit, and lunch, even when the place is busy, is so mellow. 522 Hudson Street near 10th, 212 807 7357.

The hellish: Barceo 95, where I met a friend for location’s sake on a sweltering night when all the doors were open to the street and where we somehow managed to survive a few hours wedged into a tight table directly under a blaring speaker with the most inattentive service since Helen Keller last waited tables. We should have stayed at the uncrowded bar for our two rounds and a shared order of roasted peppers stuffed with cheese. As it was, the busboy got the bread, napkins, silverware and oil to us right away and kept our water glasses full no matter how tricky it was to navigate through too many chairs crammed into too small a room. The waiter was either overwhelmed or out of it; we might have ordered more if he had seemed half-engaged. I was fine with the $11 verdejo (quartino), but Valerie thought her $13 monastrell — listed as “full,” with extensive tasting notes — was on the wan side. Luckily, the place had emptied out enough that she was able to send back her second choice because the glass reeked of bleach. Unluckily, around 11 someone started to use that same cleaner to swab up around the bar. Not the best effect in a place where aroma is part of the pleasure. The only saving grace was that the human larva at the next table when we were first seated did not throw the shit fit you always anticipate from those ticking time babies. WIGB? Not likely.

New York minutes/Early July 2008

The ideal: Fairway upstairs, where a very motley crew of us assembled to appease some who hate fish, some who were bored with Italian and Mexican and one who wanted mashed potatoes. We walked in around 8 on a Thursday and immediately got a round table for seven and an accommodating waiter and good food at a great price (although I doubt that the Atlantans and the Illinoisans would agree on the latter). I just had the pizza with prosciutto and arugula and a few bites of my consort’s perfectly executed (for a change) skate and a forkful of my littlest sister’s daughter’s Caesar. Everyone seemed happy enough with the chicken schnitzel and skirt steak on the great-value special menus, and I will never complain about sauvignon blanc that cheap. Plus we could hear each other talk. Most of us, anyway. And for some reason, the 20 percent service included struck the outlanders as a bonus. 2127 Broadway at 74th Street, 212 595 1888.

The serviceable: Spice, where five of us took refuge in a drenching rainstorm when we set out to explore the Greenmarket at Union Square and two of the out-of-towners balked at Rosa after having tried the Atlanta branch. The place was deserted for a change, and the staff could not have been nicer. I got a noodle-free pad Thai that was gloppy and good with lots of smoked tofu and vegetables, after the crispy spring rolls, and none of us could finish our food (even with the much smaller cup-size of rice shaped in a Madonna bra). The bill with tip was $44 if that says anything — I think I spent that much on produce four blocks north once the skies cleared. 60 “Universal” (University) Place, 212 982 3758.

Also, I was not invited to the celebration of the unholy marriage but would still have chosen to trek to Tribeca to another party the same night. The chef is engaging as hell (despite his lineage), his partner’s no dummy and the pastry chef has credentials to spare (Blackbird impresses me more than the Big E, though). The space they found looked great, too, but that might be because the Sancerre-filled wineglasses were the size of Prada chalices. I only tried a little of the food, but even this chicken shunner was impressed by the deep-fried nuggets. WIGB? Soon, I hope.

New York minutes/End o’ June 2008

The great: The New French, yet again, where we headed after Werner Herzog’s latest at prime time on a Saturday and where we were fortunate enough to arrive with just long enough of a wait to be distracted by excellent sparkling rose in paper cups out on the sidewalk. Some of the scariest words you can hear on entering a restaurant are “party of 12 ahead of you,” but the kitchen and the staff were more than up to the punishing challenge. Four of us split the pizza bianca of the day (two cheeses with roasted peppers) and stole forkfuls of the beet salad with superb dressing, then passed around the excellent braised lamb, pulled pork sandwich and top-grade Nicoise (well, I made it that by ordering tuna rather than salmon or beef). My consort scored highest with the special fish, seared skate over corn and bacon etc. He said it sounded like Bouley Bakery’s, but it was at least five times better. We also overindulged in desserts, a ginger creme brulee and berries with lemon curd. They know me now, but I don’t think the service was affected, and I did appreciate a table against the wall rather than out in the room, because it does get loud. Especially when four friends are arguing about a movie only one thinks is totally brilliant. WIGB? I think I’m moving in. 522 Hudson Street, 212 807 7357.

The good: Bouley Bakery, where we coincidentally wound up for brunch the day after the skate and where the halibut was perfectly fine but not what it once was, which is just like the place. The market floor where the bathrooms are was pretty funky-smelling; the carpet on the stairs was pretty beaten down; the whole room had a seedy aspect (napkins stuffed into vents to stop drips?) But the energy was still there, even late on a Sunday when the cooks have seared about enough burgers. I had the wild smoked salmon over rosti potatoes, which was immensely satisfying even though the arugula strewn over the top was past its prime and the caviar was the kind my dad used to use to catch lesser fish. And Bob’s halibut was the same as it ever was, pristine fish cooked just right, set over coconut milk with shiitakes, corn and peas, the latter seemingly straight from the Birds Eye farm. Service was outstanding, and there could be no better place to be during two serious thunderstorms, with those windows looking out onto those old buildings. The funniest part was that we had to wait for a table late in service while the new incarnation of Duane Park Cafe a few doors away was pretty much empty aside from a hostile broad at the “hostess” stand. And this was after we had actually decamped from a table at the new Fish Market at the Seaport because the bartender was overextended and some broadette in a tight black dress refused to acknowledge customers. I was fried by the time we got there, but the destination was more than worth the long walk north through hordes of lumbering tourists. And not just because we got to watch some blonde young thing plow through a steak, eggs, toast, potatoes and a huge side order of sausages a couple of tables away. Made me wonder if her escort realized that what looks like a lusty appetite at 25 is obese gluttony at 35. WIGB? Maybe. The host/waiter was outstanding. 130 West Broadway at Reade Street, 212 608 5824.

The promising: New Amsterdam Market, where Bob and I schlepped for different reasons and where we both hoped the Fulton Fish Market can find a second life. The food on offer was impressive, and not just because it was the right mix of Greenmarket familiarity and off-island artisanal imports. We bought Bouchon bread with rhubarb and pistachios after sampling a bit, and ground veal after just spotting it (I needed it for a story) for only $3 (Unholy Foods gets $7.99 a pound for meat of murky origins). Flying Pigs was there, so I was able to get pork for work reasons as well. Bob tried his fill of amazing cheeses, but I could have gone through two or three more times with toothpick in hand. And both of us put Peasant on our restaurant agenda after tasting the razor clam salad/ceviche being portioned out on razor clam shells. What was most intriguing is that I spotted exactly one other professional eater there. Hope they can get it off the ground, but it is much more Ferry Plaza than Union Square, and the tourists just to the west are mostly of the Disney World variety — I can’t remember when I last saw so many hippos lumbering past in short shiny shorts bunched at crotch level.

New York minutes/Late June 2008

The good again: The New French, where my faith in the restaurant business is always restored — it is possible to get it exactly right right out of the starting gate. And the advantage over Pearl is that it was open Saturday for lunch when my consort and I had an errand on Bleecker Street. The tuna sandwich on pizza bianca with fries was just as amazing as last time, and the brisket sandwich on ciabatta with greens was nearly its equal — I took the last four bites home. We were going to skip wine, but the rose was too tempting and the waitress too easy to hail. The best part was that the brunch menu had those eggless alternatives. And without elaborating, I’ll just say the attention to detail is like nothing I’ve ever experienced in this city. Even the doggie bag is right (no wasteful packaging there). WIGB? My cover’s blown, but absolutely. 522 Hudson Street near 10th Street, 212 807 7357.

The surprisingly good: La Rural, where we headed for a latish Sunday supper despite having heard stories of rudeness and cluelessness recently but where we got service as good as the food. We shared a cheap bottle of Malbec plus a skirt steak — a great slab of meat grilled really rare, with a mound of sauteed grape tomatoes alongside — and an excellent tricolore salad with blue cheese. We were there too late for garden seating (it ends at 8), but our table right by the back door compensated. WIGB? Even with no BYOB, it’s still good value and a really nice room. 768 Amsterdam Avenue near 98th Street, 212 749 2929.

The reassuringly good: Toloache, where we retreated from the hordes and the Trader Joe’s plonk at the ICP student exhibition and where the food and service were as superb as ever, even if the cooks were now wearing gloves (why anyone thinks those are better than clean hands is beyond me). We got our favorite seats at the guacamole bar and shared overstuffed brisket tacos, a quesadilla with huitlacoche and the trio of empanadas; we ordered in stages, and somehow comped guacamole with chips and salsa verde materialized in between rounds one and two. The vibe in the place is always great, too. 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818.

The whoa, what the hell happened? Gallo Nero, where I lured a friend for a scheming lunch when she had to be in that neighborhood for a meeting and where I walked out embarrassed nearly two hours later. Not only was everything we ordered lame, but it was also slow — three small dishes took forever to come. The porcini under the provolone on crostini were slimy, and the crab in the crab cakes could have been canned salmon. The fried calamari and zucchini were fat rubber bands and a few charred slices of squash. Even the bean puree with the bread needed salt. The waiter was the solicitous one from my first trip, and the wine was decent, and the room was still very charming. But WIGB? Not on a bet.