The good and gimmicky: Hill Country, where I wanted to hate everything but actually was impressed by both the concept, the unnaturally hospitable staff and the Kreuz Market sausage. I’m not sure I would brave it at a busy dinner hour, when it would have to be a circle of cacophonous hell, but at lunchtime on a Monday it was pretty deserted and we were patiently served at the barbecue, side dish and drinks sections. You start with a meal ticket to be stamped at each stop (one that costs $50 if you lose it), and facing down the food makes you want to over-order before you head for the picnic tables with rolls of paper towels waiting to eat off butcher paper. We stuck to a quarter-chicken, a quarter-pound of “moist” (as opposed to lean) brisket, one sausage, coleslaw, pickled cucumber salad and a glass of Texas chenin blanc and got out for $34, no tip needed. The brisket turned out to be too fatty for my taste, but the chicken was excellent for chicken and that sausage was just outstanding — I’d had it before by mail order, and fresh was a whole new experience. Most meats are sold by the pound, but you can buy as little as a slice. WIGB? Only for lunch. I’m too old for head-banging din. 30 West 26th Street between Sixth and Broadway, 212 255 7245.
The inevitably perfect: Pearl, where my cod sandwich came with overheard snippets of chef gossip that made me think about how un-New Yorkly hospitable the West Village is to women (Rebecca, Anita Lo, April Bloomfield, Jody Williams, Amanda Freitag, to name just a few).
The not bad: Alouette, for a change, where we sought out neutral ground after my consort dragged in from a week of teaching at the Maine Photo Workshops. I chose it primarily because the noise level is usually so inoffensive even if the food, whether by idea or execution, can be mediocre to gruesome. But our timing was off, and we were led to the attic level (read: hot) two tables away from boors and basically felt as if we were eating in the spillover chute. Still, the special of mayonnaisy shrimp in avocado was a dated notion but satisfying, and Bob’s monkfish with shiitakes was far better than average for the neighborhood. A real chef could turn this place around so that the upstairs would be as packed as downstairs. WIGB? Where else can I find peace and $7 Macon-Village sanity so close to home? 2588 Broadway near 97th Street, 212 222 6808.
The overreaching: Asiate in the Mandarin Oriental, where the protracted Restaurant Week deal reeled a friend and me in and where both of us walked away adding up all the other venues where $24.07 would have gone further. I was further suckered into ordering salmon because it was described as glazed with both sea urchin and miso, and the resulting flavor and texture could best be described as cat foody. The corn soup with crispy chickpeas and chanterelles that preceded it was unobjectionable, but my date was beyond underwhelmed by the taste-light raw tuna salad and the special cod. I think the cheapest glass of wine was $11, which had to help underwrite the view-maximizing design of the room but was still hard to swallow. The service was almost obsequious. On the plus side, the bathrooms were exceptional. WIGB? Only when I have $24 for a diner breakfast with a view, served by inchworms. Or if someone gives me megabucks to explore that tantalizing wine list.
The dispiriting: Tandoori on 94th Street, a “new” cafe that proves something about reincarnation, although I am not sure what. In 21 years in the neighborhood, I ate at the original at 97th and Columbus exactly once and got takeout or delivery only slightly more often, and I remembered the food as being slightly less dull than dishwater. So don’t ask how I wound up on the buffet line at the new location, where I used to be able to buy crema and chilies and fresh chorizo at Stop One. (Well, actually, I had fled the new fusiony Asian place nearby because it was not just empty but reeked of fish.) Suffice it to say that it was a total rip if you don’t eat lamb or tandoori chicken or whatever fish previously occupied the third Sterno station. I was left with only a yellow dal, an okra-heavy curry with potatoes and spinach with chickpeas to eat with coriander chutney and mango pickles and a whole basket of bread. It was only $8.95 and I have seldom felt so cheated.
The divey: All State Cafe, where I had not been in donkey’s years but agreed to join friends who were craving cheeseburgers and worried that Fairway would be too zooey. I just had a turkey club with big leaden fries and a couple of glasses of overpriced glasses of wine, and the place was the same as it ever was. WIGB? Maybe. It was quiet enough for a shockingly calm debate about Israel. 250 West 72d Street, 212 874 1883.
The doomed: China de Puebla, where the owners have apparently sunk megabucks into the swank decor without considering location, location — our table looked out onto a barrier under the subway tracks and off toward the projects. Only four tables filled on a chilly Monday night. The food was up and down, but at least the concept was clear when the excellent salsa landed with a mix of tortilla and shrimp chips. The best thing three of us split was the hoisin-braised duck empanada with chipotle sauce; the salmon seviche with Asian pears, passion fruit and cilantro was over-cured. And the best entree was the roast chicken with black sticky rice and plantains; my consort’s shrimp and scallops were drowned in other dark flavors, while my crispy tofu with vermicelli and edamame in curry sauce was a bunch of very fresh-tasting ingredients refusing to talk to each other. The service was excellent, although having spent five weeks in a too easily begrimed sling, I have to say the sight of one on a server’s wrist was a little queasy-making. WIGB? Not anytime soon, unfortunately. 3143 Broadway at 123d Street, 212 222 8666. [Late July 2007]