Goodies First

Hill Country

With the obvious exception of vegetarians (of whom I know quite a few), barbecue seems like a style of food anyone could agree on. What’s not to like about slow smoked meat? That’s why Hill Country seemed like the perfect post-holiday meet-up with a friend who will beat me with a bland buttered noodle if I mention her baby palate once again (maybe the Olive Garden gift card James gave me to give her will temper her ire if she reads this).

I needed someplace that wouldn’t be a killer from Brooklyn (that nixed Dinosaur, and besides I was just there a few months ago) or too painful from Morningside Washington Heights (no Smoke Joint or Fette Sau). Daisy May’s has those kooky commercials, but Wildwood has lamb ribs (lamb is the new pork, right? Or is that goat?). In the end I picked Hill Country, top tier as any. Even though the original pitmaster left year, it’s not like I would detect any difference since I had never been anyway. And you could also tell me all sorts of tales about Texas barbecue and I would be none the wiser, having never set foot in the Lone Star state either.

The cavernous, woody restaurant was quiet on a Sunday afternoon. The week between Christmas and New Year’s is great that way, a dead zone. I’ve been entertaining moving to Red Hook just to experience that soothing desolation on a daily basis, never mind the nuisance of bussing to the subway. (I finally convinced James to call about this seemingly awesome house for sale near the Ikea but it had already gone into contract. Even in this supposed down economy, properties are selling quickly in third-rate NYC neighborhoods.)

I liked the by the pound approach so you could get just what you wanted. And I didn’t mind carrying around the little check off card to individual stations for meat, sides and beverages and ordering from the chalkboard menus. I did lame out and got the lean brisket, half a pound, when normally I’m one for the moist, i.e. fatty cuts. With the addition of a quarter pound of pork equaling two hefty ribs, all was well. I know our citified ‘cue is overpriced by Southern standards, but $12 plus change for the meat above wasn’t wildly outrageous.

The brisket is definitely the star and that was no surprise being a Texas-style joint, complete with imported Blue Bell ice cream, Kruez sausages and Big Red soda. Even the lean slices encased in char with pink substrata were juicy. The ribs weren’t necessary and they were a bit tough and dry, which wasn’t helped by the fact that I talk too much when I eat and was futzing around with a new camera (I still have kinks to work out, clearly, but I’m getting there) so they were cold by the time I got around to gnawing on  them.

Even though it was still 2008 at the time and I said I wasn’t making resolutions anyway, eating more beans has been a vague plan I’ve been meaning to adopt (I’m making a white bean chorizo soup tonight, well, the same idea but with tepary beans and chicken sausage). Unfortunately, I think the addition of rubber eraser-sized “burnt ends” to the baked beans might’ve mitigated any nutrients potentially gleaned.

I shared pickles and corn pudding that Heather picked out because I’m a beast who doesn’t like mac and cheese. Starchy and creamy corn is more desirable than starchy and creamy pasta.
Next time I’ll ignore the ribs, opt for a little of the Kruez jalapeno cheese sausage instead, and try one of the mini, though not two-bite mini, pecan pies.

Hill Country * 30 W. 26th St., New York, NY

Irving Mill

I like to pretend that I’m not susceptible to suggestion but after reading a blurb about Irving Mill’s charcroute platter on Food & Wine’s blog earlier this month, I knew I’d have to seek it out.

I hadn’t paid much attention to this restaurant initially because I only have room in my mind for so many urban farmhouses. But after Ryan Skeen moved there from Resto, bringing my favorite salad of 2008 (so far) with him, I figured this meaty Alsatian hodgepodge would not suck.

And it didn’t. The only difficulty was in trying to determine how much food to order. Irving Mill has one of those menus scattered with bites, small plates, full on entrees and randomly placed boxes advertising things like a burger and this charcroute plate. How much does one get for $22 versus the $38 version?

I decided the smaller size could be an appetizer for two, and this was true, everything came in pairs. Perfect. If there had been three of us, it would’ve been all wrong and insufficient. Shared bites just aren’t enough sometimes.

Head cheese or terrine tete de cochon if you want it to sound nicer, ribs, boudin noir in slices, boudin blanc whole and breaded, fried pig’s feet are on the plate clockwise from the top. Though, I wouldn’t have predicted so, the crispy-tender ribs were the star. None of these items were boiled together as tradition dictates, so everything from the delicate weisswurst to the schnitzel-like feet kept their individual textures.

Accompaniments included grilled bread, violet mustard, grainy mustard and potato wedges with horseradish-spiked crème fraiche. I closed my eyes, pretended I had an astute palate and tried to detect floweriness in the burgundy-hued mustard. I liked the color, but nothing violet jumped out flavor-wise.

A few minutes after we took in the whole affair, a separate small bowl of pork bellies were hurried to our table. I think they initially forgot them and in the charcuterie frenzy, I hadn’t even noticed. Now that I look at the menu, the missing component is described as glazed pork shoulder but we definitely were given two, fat-striped squares of belly.

This is perfect restaurant food because cooking miniature versions of six meaty items is impractical from both financial and time standpoints. And I was able justify the gluttony because each porky treat is small and manageable.

So, my palate was useless for flavored mustard, but boy did the sauerkraut get into my system. James didn’t think it was particularly strong, but I wondered if the fermentation might’ve gone wild. At first, I couldn’t put my finger on what tasted odd, not bad, but pungent. It was clearly the shredded cabbage, which was tart, salty, with undercurrents of mustiness. I initially thought urine, then changed my mind to festering genitals (not that I know that smell, first hand, of course). This wasn’t an unfamiliar odor, and I finally placed it: stinky tofu.

On the cheapy bus from Beijing to the Great Wall (hey, I was there this week last year) I started getting whiffs of what I thought was the stench of an unwashed human (once a similar smell assaulted me on the 5 to the Bronx Zoo and it was clearly attributable to a kid sitting next to me) or maybe a dead and decaying human. I was convinced it was human in some form, not animal. I finally realized that it was food, which made me feel a little better, and I totally got why they call it stinky tofu.

I just ate kim chee for lunch so I have no problem with fermented cabbage. I liked Irving Mill’s sauerkraut too. But I wonder if I was just having a supertaster moment and the dish wasn’t as strong as I perceived it to be because I don’t imagine the average diner goes for that sort of thing. Or maybe the average diner steers clear of charcroute, altogether.

Yes, there was other food. I ordered a lobster salad hoping for lightness to balance the starter. I do appreciate salads that go easy on the lettuce; the romaine is really only there to support the salinity of the sweet shellfish and mouth-popping caviar (which type, I have no idea). I could’ve done with an extra chunk of lobster, though. And just to make sure that pig parts appear in every possible place, there are thin rectangles of bacon tossed on top that I initially thought were some kind of vegetable chip. I’m glad it wasn’t crispy grilled eggplant.

I never eat macaroni and cheese because it just tastes like cheese and noodles. I totally don’t get the appeal. And yes, this tasted like cheese and noodles, but drier and sharper than usual. Oh, and those cracklings kind of changed my mind a bit.

The lamb cassoulet was not light and was not my pick. I did eat a slice of gamey, lightly spiced sausage, though.

The sundae was completely unnecessary. I got sucked in by the idea of ice cream slathered in gooey sauce, but really the confection was ordinary. The caramel drizzles were nearly imperceptible and the blondie was kind of hard. The cinnamon walnuts were the standout.

I like getting dismayed over ‘80s music wherever it plays. I guess because it means that I’m old. In a Paramus Outback Steakhouse, hearing The Cure tickles me a little. It somehow makes sense paired with a 22-ounce mug of Foster’s, but I’m weirded out by the same music when sipping a $14 organic apple cider from Normandy because it’s a bizarre melding of highbrow with ancient pop culture.

But no matter the setting, I always love it when "Age of Consent," my favorite New Order song, comes on (a live Arcade Fire version had popped onto my iPod the same day I dined at Irving Mill so it was a daily double). No, it’s not the most obscure tune yet it never fails to put me into a good state of mind. I would gladly eat headcheese to synth-pop again.

Irving Mill * 116 E. 16th Street, New York, NY

Boqueria

As much as a complain about Manhattan, I do appreciate that it’s business as usual on Sunday nights. The last time I attempted going out after 9pm on a three-day weekend Sunday was in Toronto, and it was a complete ghost town. Boqueria (as well as Olive Garden) was almost at capacity the night before Martin Luther King Day.

I was determined to have creative Spanish food after getting hopped on Tapas: a Taste of Spain in America, but deciding where to go was no easy task. Spending more than you’d expect on small dishes was a given; value wasn’t my concern as much as agreeable food and atmosphere. I’d already been to Tia Pol (too far) Ostia (too average) and Pamplona (good but I wanted something new). Everything I read about Mercat said it was loud and oversalted, Casa Mono seemed tiny and irritating, ditto for Quinto Pino but probably not so irritating. I’d been to the old Suba a few times and wasn’t inspired to try the newest incarnation. Boqueria was all that was left.

I hate to admit that my photos are even more off than usual. I was playing around with the white balance trying to counteract the dreaded candlelight and not only made everything washed out and fuzzy but somehow changed the height/width ratio. I don’t even know if I should be allowed to have a camera.

This was regular jamon Serrano, not the fabled Iberico ham. Nonetheless, it was still handsome and meaty. I hadn’t expected the jamon to come atop pa amb tomaquet, pan con tomate, Catalan, Spanish…however you like. I’m always surprised how tomato guts on toast can be so appealing.

“Why are there so many eggs on the menu?” asked the girl half of the couple next to us. I honestly hadn’t noticed the overabundance but yes, there is a soft-boiled one in this dish. She ordered it too. I love anything with chickpeas and morcilla. Garbanzos al Pinotxo are in the style of Barcelona’s Bar Pinotxo. I was very bummed that all the food biggies, including this stand in the Boqueria market, were closed the week I was there last summer.

Any iteration of dates, bacon and cheese (and sometimes almond) are a must. In this instance the cheese was valdeon, a blue. I’ve made these with manchego and think they would be perfect for a Super Bowl snack even though they seem kind of froufrou. I couldn't even snap this shot before one date went missing from the skewer.

Brandade is kind of like shrimp toast. Maybe the whipped salt cod and potatoes on bread were grilled not fried; they still had that oily unctuousness that goes down well but might cause trouble later.

As Americans we would’ve eaten cheese with everything else, but we obeyed its place on the desert menu. Idizabal came cubed and tossed with olives and the rosemary manchego was surrounded a few tiny squares of membrillo and filberts (wow, I tried to not say hazelnut but filbert just sounds backwoods even though that’s what I grew up with and oddly what I saw used in Toronto. Did you know that Oregon is the nation’s largest hazelnut producer?). Our two choices were enjoyed with a rose cava that James thought was like a wine cooler.

Boqueria * 53 W. 19th St., New York, NY

Pamplona

I don’t take on restaurants as causes and I rarely visit places more than once, even in my own neighborhood (er, maybe especially in my own neighborhood). As it is, there are a gazillion worthy restaurants that I’ll never get around to. But for some inexplicable reason I took a shining to Ureña. I guess it’s the appeal of the underdog; it wanted to be something it couldn’t.

So, I was a little bummed to hear of the inevitable closing. But I was also curious how Pamplona might mix things up and finally had the chance to pay a visit after a semi-nearby wine class. You’d think after tasting eighteen wines (in addition to a full glass of pinot noir at lunch) my judgment might be impaired, and maybe it was. However, I’d like to believe that the two albariños with dinner only heightened my senses.

I’d been to Ureña twice, and still, I couldn’t tell you what’s changed with the décor, though a cartoony painting of a pig with acorns definitely is an addition. The palette and furniture seemed muted and neutral before and still seems so. I hesitate to say that they lack patronage because our dining like freaks at 6pm on a Saturday didn’t exactly help us observe the reincarnation under ideal circumstances.

We were originally told by the hostess that we could only sit at the bar or the new tables set up in the bar area since we didn’t have reservations. I acquiesce, rarely pipe up, but the dining room was completely empty and thankfully another staff member said we were welcome to sit at a table as long as we finished by 8pm. Not a problem, and the gesture was appreciated.

I decided to try a few things from different sections of the now abbreviated menu. Gone are $30+ entrees, the tasting menu and anything foamy. I was interested in the $10 pulpo braseado a la rioja, essentially wine-braised octopus. I can’t find this dish listed anywhere in the iteration I had. Others mention sausage and smoked lima beans, but this rendition consisted of a purple tangle of octopus legs atop swirls of cream-colored horseradish sauce flanked by disks that resembled carrots but made themselves known as potatoes once bitten into. I don’t know what the wispy sprouts were.

It was too tough to decide which cured meats to sample, so we went the whole $19 and had a plate of Serrano ham, chorizo and two others that are slipping my mind. I’m not afraid of bread, and I always like to have plenty on hand when eating straight up meats or cheeses. Same with oily, saucy dishes like the octopus. Our original serving was replenished. I only mention this because the couple who later sat next to us rejected a second batch of bread, which made me ponder our gluttony. It’s not 2004, carbs are ok again, right?

I would’ve chosen a couple more small dishes instead of the paella if it had been totally up to me. But I’m frequently wrong. The paella, made with bomba rice, was spot on (not that I’ve eaten my way across Valencia, but I have sampled a few versions in Spain). I don’t tend to get excited over non-Asian dishes centering on rice (what’s the big deal with risotto? And chicken soup with rice is foul), paella included. It either tends to be mushy or dull. This saffron-enhanced beauty dotted with mussels, squid and generous hunks of rabbit, was neither. All the grains stayed separate without being chalky or dry.

I make mention of prices (a practice that always feels too servicey for my purposes) only to illustrate part of the Pamplona re-vamp. Emphasis is on smaller dishes, tapas and sharing. The $30 paella was one of the priciest items but wasn’t unreasonable split between two diners.

Sheesh, I almost forgot dessert. Churros with Valrhona chocolate were light and only barely sweetened. I can’t say that they were the most exciting thing in the world.

It’s hard to predict if the new formula will catch on with diners who go for the flash of Boqueria, Mercat or Suba. Not that Pamplona necessarily needs to capture that audience to succeed; there’s plenty of room for creative Spanish food in the city.

Pamplona * 37 E. 28th St., New York

Devi

This is that birthday time of the year for me. There’s like a two-week period late March/early April when it feels like everyone’s getting a year older (and I can relax knowing I still have a few months ahead of me). Luckily, I only have to worry about special occasion dining for one of the celebrants. You can’t ignore your significant other special occasion dining duty. I never know what I’m going to get, some years it’s more of a blow out than others. 2006 I was taken out to Cookshop, a place I never would’ve picked on my own yet thoroughly enjoyed.

I rarely go for trendy (though whatever year it was that Spice Market opened I did choose it) so Morandi or Waverly Inn were wildly out of the question. Then there’s the stodge issue, Eleven Madison Park and The Modern have been hovering in mind for a while but the time never seems right for them. There are also an infinite number of likeable standards that I doubt I’ll ever get around to, from the Le Bernardins and Daniels to the Union Square Cafes and Crafts of the city. It’s too bad the reviews have been so mixed for Gordon Ramsey at the London because that’s one restaurant I was initially interested in for a splurge.

Instead, I went kind of random and picked Devi. Pretty and creative, though not over the top or ostentatious. I don’t dabble in haute Indian so it was refreshing in that regard. I’d been avoiding it because my former supervisor loved it and I couldn’t imagine how my tastes might overlap with a plastic surgerized, middle aged Jewish woman from suburban New Jersey. But we all have to let go at some point.

First, we stopped into nearby Flatiron Lounge. Just as the thought of Morandi gives me shivers, I have been shunning Death & Co. like, well Death, I guess. My one and only visit to Pegu Club predictably irked me, though I do love the concept of all these newfangled gin joints.

I started with a Jack Rose (applejack, grenadine and lime juice), then segued into a Jamaican Firefly (rum, ginger beer, lime juice), essentially a dark and stormy. It looks like James’s drink in the background is the same in both photos but it’s two pale colored cocktails, a corpse reviver #2 (gin, Cointreau, Lillet Blanc and lemon juice) and something made with pisco.

As we were escorted upstairs at Devi to a completely stand alone, enormously square table for two nowhere near any other diners in the room, I thought “this is a table.” No squeezing or sliding, nothing communal or stifling about it. You could wave your hands or kick about in any direction and not bump a soul. Space is relaxing as long as there’s not too much formality attached to the luxury. I’m still not sold on bar seating, as much as it’s hyped.

Continuing the cocktail theme, I had a Mumbai Margarita with silver tequila, elderflower, mango juice and cayenne powder. I would’ve kept up my mid-week drinking binge—I’m all for wine pairings with tasting menus, but James has less tolerance for alcohol, wine in particular, and it was his birthday dinner, after all. Halfway through the courses I had a glass of random Riesling. I didn’t see a wine list and I didn’t bother to ask (I was a little hesitant after James asked our waitress where the restaurant got its lime leaves for his twist on a gin & tonic made with cilantro. She got kind of flustered. He was just making small talk, which isn’t either or our fortes. Then she disappeared in the middle of our meal and camped out with a cell phone on a box or a stool in this pitch black storage area in the very back of the second floor. I only noticed because even though she was hidden in the dark, she was in directly in my line of vision. I could make out a white napkin that she seemed to be pressing to her face. There was definitely crying and quiet fighting going on but not in English so I couldn’t eavesdrop. We had a male waiter for the remaining part of our dinner).

You could make a perfectly respectable meal from a few dishes and a bottle of Kingfisher beer, but if I’ve never been to a restaurant I like to (though both times I’ve been to Ureña—James’s birthday dinner last year--we ordered a la carte) sample as many things as possible. At $60, the tasting menu is fairly priced. It’s not high luxury or fusion Indian either. There’s a good deal of tradition at work, with the addition of atypical ingredients and very layered flavors and spices. Possibly the most punch per square inch of food I’ve experienced in a while.

Let’s see how much I can recall from the procession (with the aid of their website, of course). This is where words will fail me and why the hardcore write tasting notes on the spot. I find playing with a camera distracting enough, juggling a notepad is too much for a recreational meal.

While this looks like falafel, I know that it is not. I guess I wasn’t amused because I can’t remember what it was.

Calcutta Jhaal Muri
rice puffs, red onions, chickpeas, green chilies, mustard oil, lemon juice

This was a crunchy mishmash like a chickpea fritter rolled in rice krispies. I think I know this blob better by the name bhelpuri, though that seems to be listed elsewhere on their menu.

Salmon Crab Cake
tomato chutney mayonnaise

After spending a chunk of time in Baltimore, James always picks crab cakes. We rarely share food and most definitely do not feed each other. Therefore, I didn’t taste these.

These stuffed breads (kulcha, I suspect) showed up after the first few dishes. I was torn between not wanting to ruin my appetite and wanting to eat warm cheese and spinach filled dough. Not surprisingly, by the close of our meal my half had been decimated.

Tandoori Quail
spicy fig chutney

I always forget how tiny quail is, yet I often order it if I see it. I was swayed by the fig component. The bed of fruity mash (that you can’t see in this picture) contained little gritty bits, just like a Fig Newton. That freaked me out as a child, but I’m OK with it now.

Hmm, James had the grilled scallops with roasted red pepper chutney, Manchurian cauliflower and spicy bitter-orange marmalade instead of the mini game bird but I seem to have missed my photo op.

Veal Liver & Brain Bruschetta
veal with quail egg and green chilies, liver with cinnamon, tomatoes and onions

I knew we’d split on this course. I’m like baby animals and gray matter? Bring it on. The liver was much more distinctly organ meaty than the brains, which were tempered by the little fried egg. More teeny quail product. I don’t know what James’s fish of the day was (no photo because it was even worse than the ones I've deemed fit for publishing).

Tandoori Prawn
eggplant pickle, crispy okra

The side pile was almost like a salad made of shoestring fries, using dried wisps of okra instead.

Tandoor-Grilled Lamb Chop
sweet & sour pear chutney, spiced potatoes

I wasn’t going for a bone poking you in the eye effect—I just seem to have zero mastery over my camera. I can’t not take photos but these moody, low light meals really don’t lend themselves to flashless photography. This dish exemplified the simple seeming yet million flavors at once approach. The meat was mild and creamy from the yogurt, the potatoes were hot, punchy, soft; the chutney crisp and bright.

Emperor's Morsel (Shahi Tukra)
crispy saffron bread pudding, cardamom cream, candied almonds

How do you turn down something called emperor’s morsel? I had the warm cardamom flavored bread pudding and James had pistachio kulfi. He was annoyed because he’d just had pistachio gelato at Bouchon the week before. I was like those are so not the same, plus I was sitting home bored in Brooklyn while he was in Napa Valley (not on some foodie pilgrimage--his sister lives in Santa Cruz and it was a family obligation) so I had zero sympathy. He could’ve just ordered the same as I did but has a thing against food duplication.

Pistachio Kulfi
Indian ice cream, candied pistachio, citrus soup

Devi * 8 E. 18th St., New York, NY

Ureña

*Ureña is now Pamplona

I don’t tend to revisit higher end restaurants, even when I’ve had a remarkable meal. There are such an overwhelming number of options in NYC (sometimes I wonder if living in a second-tier city would be more manageable food-wise and otherwise). I could eat at a new-to-me establishment weekly and barely make a dent in my to-try list by year’s end. But I thought Ureña warranted a second look, especially since it’d been almost a year since my first visit. And lord knows the creative yet un-flashy (some might say frumpy by New York standards, on the other hand, it looks like an respectable, non-casino restaurant in Las Vegas) restaurant might not last until next winter.

They have dimmed the lights, which was a criticism when they first opened (moody is nice but it makes crisp flash-less photo taking problematic) Service is gracious and never stuffy. With recent attention drawn to discrimination lawsuits, I couldn’t help but note that the wait staff was entirely Hispanic. I have no issues with accents, but when we were presented with an amuse both James and I thought our server said martian rather than mushroom. We kind of hoped we’d heard correctly since a shot of Martian soup would’ve been brilliantly bonkers. I would expect such a thing more from Moto, but that’s tomorrow evening’s dinner (assuming that this blizzard lets up soon).

We started with cocktails at the bar. I had a Martine with lemongrass, bitter orange and possibly rum (I’m blanking on the spirit). With dinner we chose a sparkling, scarlet Mont-Ferrant Rosé Cava. I love the promotional copy I found this morning, “a spring like cava, perfect for young people.” See, I’m a young person. Actually, we were easily the least decrepit diners in the room for about half or our meal. The narrow space was around 75% full when we arrived and only 25% occupied when we left around 10pm. That might not be good business for them but it’s rare to be granted a spacious four-seater for two with an empty table separating you from the nearest party.

Unfortunately, a bland (the guy was prep school attractive, the female was dull, ponytailed and turtlenecked), likely younger twosome with MBAs (which I obviously wouldn’t have known if they hadn’t been squawking about their degrees) were eventually seated next to us. The male sent a bottle of wine back, which I almost could’ve predicted. (I’ve never understood the etiquette. I always thought that it was the customer’s responsibility to choose wisely with or without advice from a sommelier, but sending a wine back would only be warranted if there was something wrong with the wine, not that the flavor wasn’t to your liking. Anyone who sends wine back becomes an automatic asshole in my eyes. It’s not impressive.)

Tarta de Ropa Vieja: foie gras, duck confit, short ribs, suckling pig and micro greens.

There wasn’t any mention of cheese so the dairy was a surprise. I’m assuming that the different meats had been shredded and combined into one carnivorous powerhouse. Everything was placed on crouton toasts.

Empanada de Cordero: lamb and goat cheese, Bunuelo de Queso: manchego, chorizo and stout beer fritter, Piquillo Relleno.

I couldn’t really taste the sausage in the fitters but these liquid-centered cheese balls were insanely good. I could eat a bowl-full. These were James’s tapas and I didn’t try the other two dishes.

Pato en Dos Texturas: poached duck breast, confit thigh, braised red cabbage, carmelized quince, parsnip puree, star anise sauce.

Perfect for the weather. I was mildly wary of duck minus its crispy skin but there were no disappointments. The breast strips were soft and tender but obviously not as meltingly so as the confit. The quince nearly mimicked chunky applesauce, star anise was a vivid aromatic touch and along with the tangy, sweet cabbage the dish was lifted out of the Spanish realm.

Cochinillo Confitado: confit suckling pig, granny smith apple puree, shitake mushrooms, wilted green leaf lettuce, truffle sauce.

I’d wanted to try this but I realized that it was essentially the same dish I had last March but with squares of suckling pig instead of pork belly. It went to James.

Bunuelo De Chocolate Y Crema Catalina: chocolate and creme filled fritter, orange and dried apricot puree, yogurt sorbet.

Our second fritters of the night. The little puffs were gone in an instant. I don’t think the original pastry chef, Caryn Stabinsky, is still around. According to their barebones website, Alex Ureña is listed as pastry chef. (2/13/07)

Basta Pasta

1/2 This is a crazy Japanese Japanese-Italian place that you could walk by a million times and not really notice. Ingredients tend towards luxe (lobster and foie gras) and portions are small (definitely a nod to the Japanese rather than Italian side). Normally, I might shy away but it wasn't on my dime. I will admit dining is much more enjoyable when cost isnt a major issue. See my Time Out NY Eating & Drinking Guide review.

Basta Pasta * 37 W 17th St., New York, NY

Mesa Grill

1/2 "Everybody likes Bobby Flay" goes some annoying guy in an annoying Food TV commercial. That is a flat-out lie, but I have no beefs with Bobby's restaurant. I'm not so into the '80s Southwestern, bold flavors thing, but the brunch is surprisingly good (I go nuts because it seems like our friends go to the same brunch place, Teddy's, a block from their apartments every single freaking weekend. Why do I care? It just annoys me when people won't venture beyond the place on their corner. Or maybe I'm just jealous because I've never had a place on my corner).

The woman at the neighboring table was surprisingly non-good. The bread basket filled with baked goodies and jalepeno jelly, chicken sweet potato hash with poached eggs and chile hollandaise and home fries was almost ruined by listening to some twat (sorry, I've been addicted to that word lately) go on and on about weddings, her expense account and her brand new $500 boots (which unfortunately I couldn't see, as she was too close). She committed ten million food faux pas. She asked about the burger. She ordered a salad. Her friend ordered the exact salad. You don't order salads and burgers at restaurants that do other things better (both her and the level-headed friend shamelessly ogled our food, not without surprise) and you don't order the same thing as your dining partner unless it's like a bbq place or chicken shack, you know, a place known for their one thing. She didn't know what tomatillos were, but made it seem like this was the waiter's problem, not hers. This is the kind of woman who abuses customer service, returns things after wearing them and is mean to "the help." When the waiter innocently asked, "how is everything" she matter-of-factly replied, "I'm bored," as if it was his job to play court jester.

My mouth was happy, my eyes and ears were in hell. I think it's the Food TV curse. Demanding people who care very little about food and lots about dining out. God help me the day I dine at an Emeril venture.

Mesa Grill * 102 Fifth Ave., New York, NY

Blue Smoke

Some moderately clever reviewer could craft some line about Blue Smoke and mirrors, since most BBQ aficionados don't believe this latest Danny Meyer creation is all that it's beefed up to be. I'm no bbq aficionado. Heck, I enjoy Dallas BBQ. I've never been to the Carolinas, Texas, Kansas City or Kentucky. I've lived in one city in the NW and one city in the NE. What I'm saying is that Blue Smoke made a perfectly acceptable Saturday night excursion because what you don't know won't kill you.

BlueSmoke * 116 E. 27th St., New York, NY

Havana Central

Unremarkable. Same with "One Hour Photo," which we saw afterward. It was agreed that within a week we would have forgotten both the restaurant and movie. I have a hard time forgetting something I've told myself to forget, but you get the idea.

I ordered the undignified-sounding fried pork chunks hoping for something wonderfully crisp, fatty and flavorful like lechon or the fried pork with basil at Sripraphai. No such luck. The meat was dull and dry, likely a lean cut of pork to start with. It just doesn't work like that--you need the fat. If I was being respectful of my health, I wouldn't have ordered fried pork in the first place.

Barring the mojitos, the prices were reasonable and the portions were huge. I'm a fan of big and cheap, but mediocre? Not so much.

Havana Central * 74 17th St., New York, NY

Pipa

Restaurants housed in stores can be scary like Little Caesars in K Mart, but of course, ABC Carpet and Home is no blue light special. Though after facing a sold out showing of "Y Tu Mama Tambien," tapas, across the street, seemed like a good second choice.

It was Saturday night, there was a long wait, the Gipsy Kings were blaring, but by the end of the evening, I was happy as a clam (or maybe that was the giant pitcher of sangria taking effect). We ordered way more food than we should've: shrimp and crab-stuffed piquillo peppers, shrimp in garlicky olive oil, a hearty salad with machengo, Serrano ham and the sweetest-ever sun-dried tomatoes and a dish called "lamb rice" filled with olives, figs, more of those tomatoes, topped with little lamb chops.

Though I didn't see the bill, I have the feeling Pipa is one of those places where little things quickly add up. Tapas have that way of sneaking up on your pocketbook.

Pipa* 38 E 19th St., New York, NY

America

Closed: I'm surprised it took this long for American to wither away. (6/6/05)

Is this vast, oddly-muraled, noisy space for tourists? Parties? Groups? Kids? Me? I'm not sure the target audience. America strikes me as one of those places that may have been big before my time. No, not like the '60s, I'm talking mid-90s.

The 50 states are represented by the obvious like crab cakes (Maryland) or the invented warm duck salad with soba, watercress and toasted macadamia nuts (uh, Hawaii). Sometimes they push it a bit. The portions are large, the prices aren't completely unreasonable and the food is pleasingly mediocre (not bad, just middling).

My main beef with places like this (Mars 2112 is another in this category) is their use of the carrot, broccoli and zucchini vegetable medley, which could only come out of a frozen bag. It's like my mom's in the kitchen--and speaking of mom, America is exactly where I'd take an unadventurous visiting parent.

America * 9 E.18th St., New York, NY

Big Enchilada

I give such little thought to eating here that I've never even mentioned it before. It's not bad, but it's not great either. My friend Jessica can't praise it enough, but she's vegetarian and their standards are always so askew. She insists it's comparable to west coast Mexican food, which is way off the mark. I guess if you only eat rice and beans in your tortillas you might not be as sensitive to regional differences. But let me tell you, it's not the same at all. Not one bit. I will say that it's better than San Loco or Bennies (which isn't saying much), but it's nothing to go out of your way for. The burritos are decent, the salsa's fresh, the prices are right and it's next door to Cinema Village. If you're catching a less than ubiquitous movie in the neighborhood, pop in for a quick meal.

Big Enchilada * 28 E. 12th St., New York, NY

Irving on Irving

I'm not sure what the heck this new restaurant's name is. I've seen it called Irving Irving, Irving and Irving, but I'm sticking with what's written on the menu. This confusing place peaked my curiosity when I heard they did some new take on the Philly cheesesteak. That's a sandwich near and dear to my heart. And since Irving on Irving happened to be right on the way to where I was meeting acquaintances, it seemed like a good opportunity to sniff it out.

Unfortunately, the cheesesteak is on the lunch menu so we had to opt for dinner fare. There was absolutely nothing wrong with anything, but I couldn't choose an entree for the life of me. Nothing jumped out at me. The appetizers were appealing, the pizzas sounded good, but the entrees lacked a pizzazz I craved. To start, I had sangria and a nice antipasti with a generous selection of cured meats (do I ever love cured meat), olives and cheese.

I ended up choosing the salmon with a vegetable ragout over something that could've been beans or a thick round grain (I was tired and didn't scrutinize before I ordered). It was perfectly edible, even good, but my socks weren't knocked off. James's kielbasa with potatoes and red sauerkraut in an extremely sweet sauce (honey? maple?) didn't seem like a bad choice either.

The vibe is small, cozy, agreeable and possibly better suited to lunch. It's a neighborhood type of place, and I'm often nearby so it's not inconceivable that I'll be back.

Closed: It's Casa Mono now.

Irving on Irving * 52 Irving Pl., New York, NY