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So Red New York City Entry #29 At the end of our meal at Bouley, my friend and I began reminiscing about our most profound meals: she at Lespinasse; me at Lutece. We had just completed an impressive, elegant, and superb meal, but somehow it seemed natural that this meal would not be on that list. The story of Bouley is how a restaurant that has much in its favor - in many ways as sophisticated and as brave a cuisine as any in the city - lacks the punch of memory. It is easy to award Bouley four stars, less easy to understand how it avoids the hidden half-star that makes a restaurant better than the best. Entering Bouley in fall is to be startled. Opening the door one is pierced with the aroma of apple. Looking left one finds shelves of apples, to the right are bushel baskets. I was told that sometimes grapes are the star, but often apples are selected, even out of season. The effect is startling and compelling. Perhaps the apples prepare the diner for a cave of a restaurant that is more red than any room has the right to be: an emotional hotspot. The space has a certain Iberian quality; all those scarlet domes raise seraglio thoughts. At a restaurant like Bouley, the five course tasting menu beckons. We also selected the wine pairings. The service was oddly mixed. The waitstaff was congenial, particularly the wine director, Brad Hickey, whose commentary on the wines was spot on. As someone who is not a specialist in the grape, I occasionally struggle to connect the description of wines to the taste. But the accounting of Mr. Hickey could not have been more precise. Our J. Leitz Rheingau Riesling had the puckery tangerine taste as advertised. Our Gruner Veltliner described as having a white pepper aroma was almost sneeze-worthy. However, oddly, for several courses, Mr. Hickey decided that we should be served two wines - one for each - even when we ordered the same dish. We were each given a single glass. While my partner and I are simpatico, our spouses might object to two straws from the same glass. The choices - twice - were politically and personally incorrect. I was given the heavier, guy wine. On one occasion, I was almost served a red; my partner a white. I prefer lighter wines. Never assume. The busboys seemed strangely anxious about any wayward bits of bread that we had not finished at the end of a course. I must have explained three times that I did not wished to keep my bread, finally suggesting that I might have to arm-wrestle for the plate. Of course, the breads, fig, pistachio, raisin, and sourdough were worth fighting over. Our amuse was a creative piece of work, goat cheese with raspberry gelee, roasted beets, horseradish, and almond foam. As I type this, I wonder if I wrote these ingredients correctly. Right or wrong these few bites awoke my palate. It did what a amuse should: to persuade us that a mind is at work in the kitchen. The various pungencies merged and crossed and exploded into a dish that perhaps didn't deserve a full plate, but was a welcome shot of culinary energy. As the opening entree, I selected the Phyllo Crusted Florida Shrimp, Cape Cod Baby Squid, Scuba Dived Sea Scallops and Sweet Maryland Crabmeat in an Ocean Herbal Broth. Put aside the madness of the gazetteer, the herbed broth was splendid seawater and the seafood, sexy bathers. I tried to count the herbs that I tasted and gave up at half a dozen - thyme, tarragon, parsley, cilantro, and other good guesses. The only odd note was the phyllo crust on the shrimp. I think of phyllo as a flat sheet, but this was a nest of slivers: shrimp in a pastry haystack. The coating was crispy, but in such a bath, nakedness is seemly. My second course was Seared Black Bass with French Cepes, Braised Salsify, Jumbo Green Farmer Beans, Lemon and Clam Broth. Such a long title for a dish in which a slab of bass in broth dominated. Yes, the other ingredients appeared, but they were bit players. Once again Chef Bouley's broth was a glorious creation, here mixing the tropic land and sea. The mushrooms, beans, and salsify were used almost as seasonings. I found the chef's subtlety of flavors to be profound, but the description misleads. Speaking of descriptions, one of the choices for the main course was "Whole Roasted Berkshire Pig." What do you imagine will appear on your table? Wrong. Thank God! A diner should be grateful that Whole Roasted Berkshire Pig is not, in fact, a Whole Roasted Pig. Whoa. Diners receive slices from various corners of hog. I had to ask. Who needs Tony Bourdain when menu writers compose fictions? What I did select was the most complex, robust dish of the night: Maine Day Boat Lobster with a Fricassee of Baby Bok Choy, Sugar Snap Peas, Celery Root Puree and a Passion Fruit and Port-Wine Paprika Sauce. I hope whomever created this label is paid by the word. I am usually dubious of those chefs who attempt to combine too much. Too often the dining room becomes a mess hall. However, Chef Bouley brings it off. I have had more tender lobster in seafood shacks and I would have enjoyed more vegetable, but the passion fruit, port wine, and paprika added complex layers of sweetness and pungency. The mildness and buttery quality of lobster allows it to be a divine mixer. This is a chef who is unafraid to walk the tightrope of taste. Calling the next course a palate cleanser doesn't do justice to another layered dish: Chilled Concord Grape Soup with Candied Ginger and Fromage Blanc Sorbet: a colorful tribute to the NYU Violets up the road? The tartness of the grape soup is shaped by the pungent ginger and the cool pliable rich cheese. Finally dessert: Warm Pineapple Meringue with Pistachio Cake with Ten Exotic Fruit Sorbet and Pistachio Ice Cream. Again I found myself puzzled by an ingredients arms race. If one chef creates three fruit sorbet, must another add a fourth. Are we headed for Heinz 57 sorbet? Nomenclature aside, this was a fine, sturdy dessert with luscious ice cream and the aforementioned sorbet of excess. Our closing icy amuse was a flavorful strawberry granita with white chocolate mousse and yogurt foam. Of all of the dishes this was the one that played most explicitly with texture: the slightly crunchy ice, airy foam, and smooth chocolate pudding added a tactile complexity to the complexity of tastes to which we were now accustomed. It is easy to praise Bouley. Yes, there were gaffes from the service to the ostentatious menu to the garish room to a few culinary flubs. However, Bouley is a grand New York restaurant: an establishment that betters the best restaurant in most cities. Still, it has been over thirty years since I first ate at Lutece and I can relive that menu nearly dish by dish. Lutece changed how I thought about what food might do. Bouley, for all its glory in pleasing customers, doesn't change the world. In time these dishes will fade. What I will remember from my evening at Bouley is my entrance and, oh yes, all that red. Bouley 120 West Broadway (at Duane) Manhattan (TriBeCa) 212-964-2525 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Scoops 4 New York City Entry #26 One quick entry about New York ice creams before winter hits. What I have learned in my explorations of the best frozen desserts in New York is that no ice cream parlor does everything well - there are gaps and pleasures throughout. I recently tried two well-known establishments in lower Manhattan: Chinatown Ice Cream Factory and Il Laboratorio del Gelato. In each I had a superior scoop, and in each some disappointment. In Chinatown I tried Ginger, Black Sesame, and Taro. I endorse Ginger Ice Cream. This ice cream is both creamy and filled with a rich ginger taste. Not too sweet, but pungent. It is a delightful treat after a Chinese banquet. The black sesame was pleasant. It lacked a rich flavor, but the sesame was satisfying, and the visual appeal was novel. Taro was bland, perhaps like taro itself, and was unmemorable. On the Lower East Side, Il Laboratorio is known for the quality of its gelato and sorbetto. Their Black Plum Sorbetto was plummy deep. A truly superb scoop, and one that justifies the laboratory's experiments. Their chocolate and marscapone were both worthy for the attention of connoisseurs, and I endorse them. Less successful was a pistachio that, although filled with nut meats, lacked a distinctive taste and had a disappointing mouth feel. Not bad, but not a choice that I will make when I return next spring. The pear sorbetto seemed thin and did not reflect the essence of pear. In thinking back of all the ice cream parlors I have visited one scoop disappointed, but at least there was always another to salve my wounds. Chinatown Ice Cream Factory 65 Bayard Street Manhattan (Chinatown) 212-608-4170 Il Laboratorio del Gelato 95 Orchard Street Manhattan (Lower East Side) 212-343-9922

Speak, Memory New York City Entry #25 Memory challenges a food critic. Does the dish consumed today compare with that of yesterday, last year, a decade ago, or in childhood. Is our world growing better in every way or is it forever in decay? New Yorkers of my acquaintance tend to accept the latter. Since arriving in Manhattan there has been a litany of complaint: Restaurant X (fill in the blank) is going downhill. The reverse diagnosis is rare. Early in my visit I was told that Katz's Delicatessen was not what it was. Could it be true? And how could I tell, despite the many times I visited its location on the corner of Houston and Ludlow? Katz's is something of the archetypal Jewish New York Deli (and is there any other kind?). Rows of common tables are set apart from a long counter at which work numerous busy countermen. On the walls are a who's who of the famous and less-so. One receives a ticket upon entering, and the countermen (and some table servers, too) mark one's purchases. This Sunday morning my friend and I shared a hot pastrami sandwich on rye, an order of potato pancakes, and an egg cream. The good news was that the pastrami was better than any pastrami outside of the confines of the Lower East Side (starting with the ritualistic taste that I was offered before purchasing). Katz's serves their pastrami sandwich much as the archetypal Philly Cheesesteak vendors (Pat's and Geno's) serve their steaks. The meat is not so much sliced as chopped, although in New York there is no Italian roll to cup the mess. The pastrami was very flavorful and juicy. Excellent. Was it fattier than I recall? Perhaps a bit, but I was in no mood to complain. Memory did not permit a judgement on whether it remained at the same perch on Mount Olympus, but it was well above competitors (I haven't tried the Second Avenue Deli this visit). The potato pancake was less satisfying: it was not as airy as some I recall. The dish was rich with potato, but rather solid. I'm not sure if onions used to be mixed in, but these pancakes were pure spud, lacking a kick. I enjoyed them, but was not in love. I have had better. The egg cream was a canonical New York version, not too sweet and with the chocolate syrup added at the end. When we reminisce in heaven about egg creams, this could be one of which we speak. Did Katz's measure up to my last visit some years back? I can't quite say. However, if Katz's is no longer a New York classic (and that is not MY claim), most other cities would roll out a carpet of pink smoked meats. Katz's Delicatessen 205 East Houston Street (at Ludlow Street) Manhattan (Lower East Side) 212-254-2246 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Craft and Text New York City Entry #24 As a tagline to his online food essays Steve Plotnicki adds provocatively, "It's okay to like Salieri more than Mozart, but it's not okay to think that he's better than Mozart." An aesthetic puzzle that deserves unpacking. In many of my dispatches from the culinary front, some feel that I have floated over the thoughtful and sensory writings of my fellows on various discussion groups. When I have read the texts (praying for wise advice), I rarely incorporated the ideas into my writings. The case of Craft - the craft of cooking and of dining - demands such an assessment, even if I still touch lightly on deep and unresolvable issues. For this review I have read the extensive posts on Craft on several websites - and spent several days considering them in light of my meal. Not to tire readers, I abbreviate what could easily be a lumpen academic commentary, heavier than a leaden dumpling. In the case of Craft, the quality of Chef Tom Colicchio's cuisine aside (but not too far aside), the texts of Mr. Plotnicki on several websites have contributed to placing Craft at the culinary center. Critics, when enthusiastic, persistent, and well-placed, can midwife an aesthetic. Here the classic models are Emile Zola as promoter of the Impressionist cenacle at the Café Guerbois or Clement Greenberg's role among postwar Abstract Expressionists at the Cedar Street Tavren. The recent attempt of Frank Bruni to trace the revolution in New York cuisine to the Ground Zero of Danny Meyer, 1985, and the Union Square Café has something of the same flavor. When rare and well-done, these critical assessments matter when based in a web of ideas. In the several debates on those threads that assess the importance and limitations of Craft, opinionated diners attempt to assess whether Craft really matters to New York dining - and how. And how! I return to the Plotnicki tag, and what it implies. In his writings (and I will avoid those citations that decorate an academic assessment), Steve calls for (on August 17, 2004) an "objective perspective," adding "What the dining experience should be about is not calibrating your palate to [others, but] it should be calibrating your palate to a standard of what is good. . . . The real bias . . . revolves around stylistic preference and not a critical assessment of ingredients, techniques and philosophy of cuisine." He later adds what could be a mantra, "our mission is to go beyond subjectivity." We modernists often hold tightly to an ancient ideology, "De gustibus non disputandum." Caligula's philosophy. Now we are told to stake its heart. "Chacon a son gout," get thee gone! Yet, relativism and its sib subjectivism dampen disputes, of course, and that is sometimes a blessing. Relativism must be correct, but yet must not be. Put another way, objectivity can only exist within a shared world of communication. To suggest that a Bolivian peasant, a Uzbeki farmer, or a Eritrean hunter must share Steve's assessment of pain perdu would take eccentricity over a bridge too far. So, we must realize that objectivity must be linked to a community that is grounded on trust, socialization, and discourse. For objectivity to be possible, one needs to believe in the possibility shared assessment and in a desire for a hierarchy of value. Yet, even in this more limited way, problems emerge. When two friends diverge how can we adjudicate the difference, except by splitting the difference. Is assessment to be based on a golden mean, the conclusion of a Quaker meeting, or through the insistence of one party. A "hard objectivity" cannot help but privilege some voices over others. Fortunately a soft objectivity is possible as well, and it is this that Steve's tagline explicates. Some foods satisfy: we can call them Salieri foods. Perhaps these puddings and chips are comforts from our childhood (Most moments I'd rather quaff an egg cream than a Lafite). Mozart foods are harder tests, their appreciation demands effort. Their complexity must be considered, challenged, revisited, and not just ingested. Philosophers have it as hard as hod carriers. But philosophers in the kitchen also depend on seeing the dishes in light of assessments of others. A world in which everyone were to judge cuisine on their own would likely not produce much consistency. It is precisely for this reason that Steve demands that cooks understand their dishes while perched on the tongues of their diners. Alone all hell can break out. I ask my students to perform the experiment of viewing a museum without benefit of the wall labels, just judging the art without knowing whether others have determined that the painter was a Salieri or a Mozart. It is a disconcerting and discouraging task. The point is that the collected texts of critics - all of us together - make possible the goal of an assessment that is not purely subjective. We are shaped by texts and well as by craft. I have read 100+ assessments, learning that both carrots and eyes can be glazed. But as a result my tasting of Craft is shaped, sharpened, and quite different from what it might have been. By claiming objectivity, we exalt community. This asserts that suggests that a chef is not an isolated artist in a cold-water garret, but a social worker. Turning, at long last, to Craft, my assessment builds on what others have remarked about Chef Colicchio's craft (and that of his Chef de Cuisine, Damon Wise). This reality of a community of evaluation enriches - rather than pollutes - what food means. And our community provides a space in which others can present dissonant views where - if they persuade - the meaning of those dishes can be changed. And so to the truth of craft - at least when my tongue doesn't deceive my pen. Craft, located just north of Union Square, is an sleek space, with enough curvaceous modernist browns, pumpkins, and oranges tones to be memorable without detracting from the chef's work. On this evening we selected the tasting menu, asking only that one of the choices be the heralded Kobe Skirt Steak. We began with an amuse of a small glass of banana squash soup with chives, topped with creme fraiche. I believe that the soup base was a beef base. It certainly was beefy, substantial, and golden. This was a bracing start, complex in its aromas without being showy. Our first course were two pairs of Oysters - Kumomotos and Chilmarks, each paired with a fruit: Asian Pears and Watermelon. Both oysters were pristine (I give my nod to the Chilmarks), but the Asian Pear matched the Kumomoto better than the pickled watermelon did for the Chilmark. However, my companion had the opposite reaction - damn him! He enjoyed the punch from the watermelon more than the tap of the pears. Who is to say? Is this only the final 10% - a dollop of subjectivity - or does it undercut a 90% objectivity. Following these bivalves were "Marinated Sardines with a French Sucrine." (I treasure Google to inform me that Sucrine is a buttery, sweet French lettuce, semi-romaine, pretending omniscience). With the mild, sweet salad, with cucumber and bits of fig and black olive, the sardine proved a most suitable match. When well-married, I enjoy marinated sardine, but I could imagine a diner for whom sardines would have been a poor choice. Yet, and this supports an ideology of objectivity, the first thing that any young chef must learn is how to prepare nasty food so that one's diners feel that it is prepared to perfection. Even if that young chaud-froid cook gags on sardine, I must believe that s/he has an inspired touch with marinated fish. A quarter century ago I watched young trade school students grimace and blanche as they tasted oysters, asparagus, and artichokes - sometimes for the first time - learning what their craft demanded. If not acquiring an objectivity of taste, they were learning the demands of clients. The Raw Dayboat Scallops with little sticks of black truffle and endive was a most elegantly displayed plate. Although I may be in the minority here (let's vote!), I preferred the slightly bitter endive (so modest that it was not listed on the tasting menu) to the Burgundy Black Truffle. Of course, the two were matched, black and white, bitter and musky, as they backed the raw dayboat scallops. The dish represented the magic of small flavors. In Chef Wise's hands, the mild flavor of the scallops was preserved while its slightly gelatinous texture was transformed with the sexy crunches of truffle and even sexier endive. Although I won't discuss our wine choices, the slightly sweet Macon-Villages Quintane, (Domaine Emilian Gillet, 1999) was the liquid high point of the wine pairings, with just enough sugar to enhance both truffle and endive. If I were a vegetarian I would have treasured our fourth dish, "Butter-Braised Halibut with Chanterelles and Corn." Unfortunately the halibut, while not dry, seemed to have its flavor drained. Although it looked pearly white, it was no gem, but a damp memory. I was told that the chanterelles were flown in fresh from the south of France. Why Craft should import chanterelles in mid-October, rather than using local fungi is mysterious. A greater commitment to local produce seems proper. However, the mix of mushroom and corn was a lovely take on creamed corn (another Salieri moment transformed into a Mozart taste). Concluding our main courses was an inspired Kobe Skirt Steak with infant Hen of the Woods, sauteed in a touch of olive oil, Hubbard squash puree, and Brussel Sprouts, those little green globes of chacon a son gout. If truth is anywhere at Craft, it is in the skirt steak. The purity and flavor of this beef with its roasted juices is profound. Even my partner who generously permitted this course, despite an aversion to beef, admitted we were served One Fine Cow. Simply and perfectly prepared, it didn't need its well-presented accompaniments. The sides, and they were really treated as apart from the steak, were fine (and the midget Hen of the Woods better than that, since my mature twenty-pound Hens generally require a lot of boiling). Next appeared a small glass of Concord Grape Spritzer - deeply grape, but equally seltzered. Although Jews are reminded of Concord Grape on Passover (thanks to Manischewitz), this cleanser suited on a night before Yom Kippur. Dessert was a Brioche Pain Perdu - a recast French toast with whipped cream, roasted bananas, and caramel ice cream. The dish was not a transformative moment, but it was certainly a superior sweet, leaving other choices for future visit. We ended with a small plate of caramel popcorn, pleasant enough, but more Salieri than Mozart, and less Charles Ives that the packing popcorn that Homeru Cantu serves at Moto. Craft may be an appropriate restaurant to propose gustatory objectivity: good to eat, good to write. It is hard to dislike the creations of Chefs Wise and Colicchio and it is hard not to recognize their confidence with tastes and textures, while not straining to create an alternate universe of cuisine. These are not dishes that undermine our collective expectations, but they are always well-conceived, smart, and inviting. Perhaps in this sense Craft represents, even when a rare dish doesn't work, an essential three star restaurant, proffering creative cuisine to its community of diners. Even when the kitchen flubs - as in the halibut - we avert our pens, erasing the memory. No harm, no foul. Craft 43 East 19th Street Manhattan (Union Square) 212-780-0880 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Comfort Food New York City Entry #23 Restaurants trade in an emotional economy. Some generate joy; others, excitement; a seductive few, lust; and a bulging contingent, anger. Perry Street, Jean-Georges Vongerichten's latest outpost, radiates calm. Three of us (the other two once having interviewed Jean-Georges) visited Perry Street for a late lunch during one of the flooding rain storms in mid-October. My experiences with Jean-Georges's empire have not been auspicious. I scorn the annoying Spice Market (although there were some staff transitions at that moment), and I had been underwhelmed by the $20.05 lunch at Nougatine. Indeed, the last time I had been impressed by a Jean-Georges restaurant was at the opening of the then-upscale Vong in Chicago. Our afternoon changed my outlook, although drying out from our October floods may have contributed. The restaurant, designed by Richard Meier, is located in the architect's Perry Street Towers on the Western edges of the Village, another workingman's area of Old Gotham gone upscale. The space has the quiet minimalism that one expects in a Meier construction. The room is not opulent with simple wood tables with brown paper table mats. However, the tranquil whites and grays provides an aura of placid composure. I was particularly impressed by the off-white window scrims, separating the room from the busy road beyond without hiding that world. This is a room that calls for a return. Our servers were congenial, knowledgeable, and unobtrusive. The dishes, too, radiated a confident composure. This is not comfort food as that phrase is often used, but they do comfort. The selections are not flashy with clashing flavors, but the combinations are thoughtful and demure. The taste register is not subtle, just spot-on. These dishes don't shout, but neither do they whisper. If not works of transcendence - offerings from a four-star temple - their pleasure invites a quick return. Our amuse was the finest opening I have had in New York. We were served a small bowl filled with a celery root soup on which floated iced maple vinaigrette. The sharp maple-balsamic beautiful complimented and provoked a new assessment of the foamy herbal-vegetable base of the liquor. That the soup was served in a small rectangular bowl, lacking implements, required that in using the bowl as implement, we "tasted" the steam along with the soup. We began with a trio of entrees. I often find that I envy my partners' choices, but this afternoon I had the edge. I began with the Rice Cracker Crusted Tuna with a Sriracha-Citrus Emulsion (and not a jarring smear, either - just a serene pool). Sriracha is a novel term - it is a Thai garlic-pepper sauce. Combined with citrus, it sparked the sashimi grade cylinders of naked tuna. The rice crackers added a texture that the soft fish and silky emulsion lacked. Not sweet-and-sour, this appetizer was mild-and-hot - and a delight. The second appetizer was Warm Pumpkin Confit with Brown Butter-Soy Vinaigrette and Herbs. I was surprised at the solidity of the pumpkin confit, expecting a quivering dumpling, more like a quenelle. However, anything foodstuff can be preserved in oil, capturing it in amber. The pumpkin triangle captured the moment of the season, and, here as in the amuse, the tang of vinegar built upon the starchy modesty of the pumpkin. Our third appetizer - Dill Broth with Vegetables and Lime - brought back disconcerting memories of a nasty lime pasta at Spice Market, but much is proper at Perry Street that is unbecoming elsewhere. I couldn't taste a poultry or meat base to the broth (perhaps there was), but I believe that the flavor was from vegetables and herbs alone. Although this soup might not be on my dance card next visit, the lime added to the vegetables rather than upturning them. The diced, sliced vegetables - of which there must have been a saucier's dozen - were covered by a satisfying dill broth. My entree was "Warm Shrimp with Julienne Green Apple, Crystallized Wasabi and Coconut." The quiet row of plump, fresh shrimp was matched by a lightly transparent coconut jus on a bed of green apple matchsticks. Were that to have been the dish I would have been fully satisfied. However, the dish was made memorable by what Chef Vongerichten describes as "crystallized wasabi" and what I think of as "Pop Rocks for Adults." The wasabi was held by light green sugar buttons. I have a sentimental regard for Pop Rocks because of some writing on that small matter a quarter of century ago, but sentiment or not, these zippy beads revealed a chef's creative heart. Our second entree, while satisfactory, was a simpler, less memorable presentation. The Grilled Paillard of Veal, Beefsteak Tomato, Wild Arugula and Black Olive was well-made, but was fundamentally beef-and-salad. Tucking into my chubby shrimp, I was not envious. We shared a single dessert: Chocolate Pudding, Crystallized Violet and Fresh Cream. Although some of the desserts seemed on paper more creative (Baked Hazelnut Frangipane, Oatmeal Souffle), I can only eat chocolate at lunch. Here the pudding was as good as a chocolate pudding has a right to be, but it remained pudding. The rectangular bowl was bisected with two triangles, one of snowy white cream, abutting a purple rock garden of violet pebbles. A candied violet decorated the cream. Below the pudding was a thin layer of chocolate cake. If not explosive, the mixture - a riff on comfort food - proved a happy ending. By the end of lunch I regretted departing - only in part because of the contrast between the torrent outside and the peace within. If Perry Street is not everything, it is something - and that's quite enough. Perry Street 176 Perry Street (near West Street) Manhattan (West Village) 212-352-1900 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Cupcake Queen - this is from yesterday. Just Desserts New York City Entry #22 The relationship between a head chef and a pastry chef is rarely between equals. That we speak of "chef" and "pastry chef" displays a hierarchy by virtue of the extra descriptor alone. Virtuous diners skip dessert, seeing the denouement as a needless excrescence, and because desserts are typically served cold, they are often seen as less a performance than the hot dishes they follow. In my observations, pastry chefs, even if they prepare far more than pastries, pies, and cakes, do not work during the evening, preparing their morsels earlier in the day, home to sup quietly with the family. Not laboring in the kitchen inferno, they are not truly part of the trade. All too many restaurants, even some who advertise their stars, outsource the production of sweets. Made in Bangalore. The relatively low status of the masters of dessert is evident by a simple thought experiment in this age of celebrity chefs. Most food savvy New Yorkers can rattle off the names of a dozen or more great chefs, but how many of these are pastry chefs? (Chicagoans may justly name Gale Gand whose magic outshines that of her husband Rick Tramonto at Tru). How many pastry chefs have restaurants named after them with the entree chef as second fiddle? Someone will certainly come up with such an example to which I will smugly add the line on which every mistaken loser relies, "That's the exception that proves the rule." And yet the brilliant pastry chef can rescue a meal from the muddle that the chef has left. In entering WD-50 I expected that my task would be to compare this outpost of "agape cuisine" with those standouts that have made the Second City the First City of cutting-edge dining. Leaving I knew that my story was of sweet closings. WD-50 is a restaurant that is often compared to Alinea, Moto, and Avenues in Chicago (and El Bulli and the Fat Duck in Europe). This 60 seat Lower East Side "eclectic new American" has received much buzz, but a fair measure of disappointment. In considering my twelve course tasting menu ($95), it is not hard to see why. Wylie Dufresne seems to lack a sense of harmony that Chefs Achatz, Cantu, and Bowles share at their best, even while teasing and tormenting. These men are former students at the stoves of Charlie Trotter, and his academy left its mark. Trotter insists that his cooks and his diners think about their meals, and each chef has adopted this view in various ways, treating each food as an exercise in philosophy. Chef Dufresne comes to his craft from other stoves, trained by Jean-Georges Vongerichten, whose cuisine is characterized by powerful flavors and challenging combinations, but not by a challenge to ideas of dining. Chef Dufresne carries this style one step further, but eating at WD-50, one feels that one is attending to a working cook, not a theorist. It is appropriate (and surely desirable) when that cook has a palate that surprises and delights, melding different tastes into one. Others can write with words, while chefs must write with herbs, spices, meat, and mash: the poetry of the plate. However, in the eight dishes selected by Chef Dufresne for the Tasting Menu the tones were off. (The chef was not in the kitchen the night that we dined at WD-50, but the problems were not with the execution, but with the conceptions). The problem in almost every Dufresne dish was that one flavor - and a jarring one - dominated the plate. The fact that the taste is unsettling, coupled with some instances of technocuisine, allows WD-50 to be classed under the El Bulli umbrella. The trick to have a satisfying meal at WD-50 is to take charge of one's plate, exiling the offending ingredient. Chef Dufresne needs to tame his creative urges, tasting his dishes as his customers might. Only then will he distinguish harmony from dissonance. We began with a lovely pistachio soup with sour cherries, and a touch of garlic and lemon thyme. This would have been an ethereal starter. The cherries and thyme were quite sufficient to add the spark to the mild soup. Chef, drop that skillet. Yet, sitting in this innocent soup was a lump of marinated sardine. I have nothing against sardines - and used to eat them from the can and enjoyed a treatment on this workingman's fish at Prune. Dufresne's marinated sardine was well-prepared, it just belonged in an alternative universe. No pistachio, cherry, or thyme can win a battle with marinated fish. The answer was of course triage, creating two dishes from one. This opening seemed an eccentricity of the chef, and diners find quirks in other temples of agape. However, the second dish had a similar problem. We were presented with a glowing pink puck of foie gras mousse, huddled at the edge of a large plate, perched on shamrock pixie dust, described as dehydrated green pea "soil." Our server advised use to cut the cylinder. Shades of Moto! Out spilled crimson beet liquor: Lucifer's boiled egg. This was Chef Dufresne's most explicit bow to Chicago's gang of three. I felt that the beet jus didn't fully bring out the flavor of the mousse (the candied olives helped). Here the problem was the soil. Let us give the chef points for cute, but deduct for a mix that was more salt than sweet pea. Pushing the soil to the side, the remainder could be savored, but, unless this represented an error of preparation, someone should have noticed the clash. Third was Dufresne's canonical "Shrimp cannelloni," neighboring a bright orange chorizo smear and selected micro Thai basil. Shrimp cannelloni is "pasta" of extruded shrimp. Although cleverness can get wearying, the shrimp, basil and chorizo made a disarming match. The problem here was a hidden ingredient: preserved lemon. Once again, this one ingredient so dominated the plate that one had to rely upon the childish technique of making sure that different foods didn't touch. Without that preserved lemon - or by eating it as a mid-course amuse - I could come to appreciate the conception that went into a Mexican mix of sausage and prawn. Our first meat dish was "picked beef tongue, fried mayo, onion streusel, and tomato molasses." The tongue was thinly sliced, an amiable lunchmeat, lacking the meatiness that I expected. The fried mayo, little dice of breaded Hellman's - another bow to adorable cuisine - nicely paired with the tongue. My disappointment here was a tomato molasses that smacked of prune and coffee aromas. Once again - my repetitions are becoming tiring - by exiling the molasses, the tongue could be enjoyed. (WD-50 does not serve bread, only crackly sesame flatbread, but I would have appreciated a roll to mop the piquant sauce). A second dish that captures a sense of amazement was the "carrot-coconut sunnyside up." Here Chef Dufresne pays homage to the humble fried egg. A carrot yolk, seasoned with olive oil, is surrounded by cardamon coconut milk albumen. This dish is primarily notable for its trompe l'oiel texture (trompe les doigt?). Poking the creation one might imagine breakfast at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe. The dish tasted less impressive than it looked. The carrot dominated, although neither component was memorable. That the chef imaged the dish was sufficient without having to consume more than a bite or two. "Hamachi with sausage flakes, plantain gnocchi, nasturtium smear, coffee-infused water chestnuts" was a more satisfying main course. While the intense coffee could have dominated, the Hamachi fillet held up well. The plantain was too mild, but eating the gnocchi as a separate mouthful allowed an appreciation of the tropics. The carrot confit, hibiscus sorbet, and crispy lamb belly was a strange selection. Chef Dufresne prepared the lamb as bacon. What might have been an original and amusing encounter with a novel taste was lost in its preparation, less impressive than Alinea's bacon on a trapeze. A so-what moment. Here a too-sour hibiscus sorbet that destroyed the sweet-savory flavor that the carrot confit might have added to the belly. With the belly unimpressive and the hibiscus in its own world, I was left to commiserate with the finely-made confit. Our final main course was a beautifully presented plate squab breast, crispy squab skin, sweet potato jus, and golden beets encrusted in ruby beet chips. The jutting crispy squab skin paid tribute to Albert Portale's architectural cuisine without requiring a building permit. While I found the beet in beet a little precious (although the contrasting textures of sharp and smooth were pleasing), the squab was succulent, and the potato jus added to the gamy flavor, sweetening without losing wildness. This was a dishes that I endorse without qualification. At this moment, despite the success of the squab I was troubled. The meal did not compare with meals at Moto, Alinea, and Avenues. Would my Gotham friends see me as a hopeless Second City rube? Perhaps the New York Department of Health doesn't permit philosophers in the kitchen. The miracle of Pastry Chef Sam Mason squelched a well-honed prairie suspicion. The quintet of desserts proved that some startling unions are blessed. (Four desserts are usually served, after pleading caffeine sensitivity, I was sent an alternative). Often the more creative a chef, the more s/he hopes to capture the flavors of childhood. Some succeed, but occasionally one is glad that our toys have been put aside. Chef Mason served a plate of celery sorbet, peanut butter crispies, and pickled raisons. Ants on a log: a stalk of celery, smeared with Jif, plumbed with raisons. This is every mother's healthy snack. Mason transformed each ingredient, everything but the memory. And how they were transformed: the celery became sorbet, the peanut butter, cereal, and the raisons, pickles. What was a childhood compromise becomes an ageless delight. When one sees "rice and beans" on a contemporary menu, one knows that the rice and beans will be steeped in irony. Here rice was a luscious, light, luxurious sorbet surrounded by an azuki bean jelly and lines of emerald bright cilantro puree. Both the beans and the cilantro deepened the cool, mild rice. This is how tastes should be combined: the sweet starch of the azukis played off the herbaceous coriander. Bravo. I begged for Chef Mason's parsnip cake, served with carrot cream and carrot paper (a crispy carrot skin or the thinnest vegetable flatbread imaginable). Every cake deserves a scoop, and the chef's choice was a luscious coconut cream cheese sorbet. Although most non-chocolate desserts have a puckery fruit base, this wily cake was constructed in tones of dairy and roots. It was not the most colorful dish on the menu; its color was in its taste. My companion was served the milk-chocolate-hazelnut parfait cake with an orange reduction. Once again I begged (I'm rather good at this), and was rewarded with a forkful of mastery. Chocolate, nuts, and orange are made for each other, and this pastry proved the rule. As we reached the end of the meal, we wondered about the "cocoa cotton balls." WD-50 is not Moto, so our closing amuse was not a Mississippi boll (with weevil sprinkles?), but a delicious truffle filled with what was a cross between cotton candy and a malted milk ball. It was the fitting end to a string of desserts that I wryly dub my favorite recent meal. Chef Dufresne is a cook with guts. I admire that. He is willing to stretch boundaries, to puzzle, and to offend. And his style of presentation with separated ingredients and not stewed together permits diners to work with and around his presumptions. Perhaps his cuisine will provoke glorious amazement if he can imagine his meals on his diner's tongues. Chef Mason, a native Floridian, is an artist of another sphere. Should I be offered the opportunity to invest in an imagined hotspot - Mason's Dixie? - I would sell a kidney, confident that he could whip up another on pain perdu. WD-50 50 Clinton Street Manhattan (Lower East Side) 212-477-2900 Vealcheeks

I would imagine that finding cherry pits in the tart would constitute a surprise! I just hope that the lights were not turned down too low. Maybe Chef Bouley considers pits to be nuts. This makes our chef sound a little like Frank Lloyd Wright: what a magnificent building, if only the roof didn't leak!

Hoping for the Wurst: A Journal's Diner New York Entry #20 Despite my best efforts, I run into restaurants that do not deserve a full review: they lack interest or my tasting was insufficient. Hallo Berlin falls in both categories. Hallo Berlin is a small restaurant, a step up from fast food, with a pleasant garden in back. Although Hallo Berlin is known for the most casual side of the menu (their wursts and a good selection of draft beer), it also offers more substantial German fare that I have not tried, such as schnitzel, rouladen, and sauerbraten. What I did try - their wursts and a few side dishes - were ordinary and inoffensive. Fair value in a city in which the grand old Yorkville restaurants (the Bremen House Restaurant, the Jaeger House) have long passed from the scene. (The Heidelberg still serves German food, but I hear it is not worth the trip). I found the Bratwurst satisfying, but my companion, a Milwaukee Cheesehead, felt it did not meet local standards. My Currywurst was somewhat dried out and the curry sauce, always mild by Mumbai standards, could still have used a little oomph. I enjoyed the sweet red cabbage and the tangy sauerkraut, but found the pickled potato salad a bit of a bore. Our rollmops (wine herring stuffed with vegetables) were soggy and sour. With its modest prices Hallo Berlin satisfies a sausage craving, but unfortunately this is not, ahem, wurst at its best. Hallo Berlin 626 10th Avenue Manhattan (Hell's Kitchen) 212-977-1944 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Future Choices New York City Entry #19 I have been eating at Chinese restaurants for a half century: every Jewish child's birthrite, our mess of pottage. There are many mysteries in eating Chinese food for those who are not restaurant brats, the offspring of the owners and staff. One that I have puzzled about for decades is what I describe as "menu excess." The question is one of how and why. A group of us ate tonight at Green Bo Restaurant in Chinatown (most guides call the restaurant New Green Bo, but the menu has dropped the "New." Perhaps they have noticed that years have passed.) The Green Bo, a highly regarded Shanghai restaurant, has 284 items on its menu, and this figure does not include the off-menu items that are available. Yes, if one ate every meal at the Green Bo for a year (by no means a torture), one would be able to determine one's favorite dish. Each Chinese restaurant provides Future Shock, Alvin Toffler's term for a surfeit of choice. However, unlike Toffler's vision of corporate options, Chinese restaurants provided these abundant options without the prodding of a head office. Would a restaurant with 117 or 89 choices be scorned as pathetically limited? And how can one select between "Fish Head Casserole," "Duck with Part Tendon in Brown Sauce," or "King Sea Cucumber in Shrimp Seed Sauce." Well, we always do choose, but I often feel buyer's remorse, speculating that the truly heavenly dish was precisely the one that when the moment came to order I decided to skip. Aside from the question of how the cooks produce all these choices (an explanation that many a chef can provide to an ignorant diner), the other question is what a menu of this size is supposed to do for a restaurant. Does the size of a menu correlate with quality? Government funding is required. This came to mind as I was instructed to make menu choices for our group of six. Eventually I selected nine dishes (five appetizers, four main courses), some selected through the welcome advice of The Chowhound's Guide to New York Tristate Area, a guide with all of the literary charm, organizational efficiency, and quality control of the website from which it takes its name. I appreciate the suggestions, but wonder if I might have done as well using a menu and set of darts. At its best Green Bo is superb. I found three of our nine dishes memorable. Green Bo is properly known for its soup dumplings. We ordered the dumplings with crab and pork, and they were splendid. Opening each dumpling the enclosed soup exploded with an aromatic tingle. We agreed that these dumplings were the pinnacle of the evening. Also excellent was the plate of crispy eel, looking for the world like a purple haystack of shoestring potatoes - an architectural achievement that any fusion chef might have envied. The hoisin sauce (perhaps with some plum sauce as well) added a sweetness that was quite unexpected in coating the eel. The deep frying of the eel strips made the taste less aquatic than might be imagined, subtle, and perhaps slightly overwhelmed. Our scallion pancake was certainly tasty, although few Chicagoans would choose these crispy pancakes over the canonical feathery version at Ed's Potsticker House. Less appealing was a cool Preserved Duck. The dish tasted more like cold duck than a dish that had been preserved with aromatic spices. The remaining skin made the dish disappointingly fatty without a distinctive taste. Our aromatic beef was rather tough and less aromatic than I had expected, although the sweet and hot sauce was pleasant enough. My favorite main course was "Shredded Pork and Preserved Cabbage Rice Cake." Not everyone at the table enjoyed the somewhat gelatinous rice cakes, but I did. However, it was the sauteed preserved cabbage that tied the dish together both texturally and in taste. Also very good was the "Yellowfish with Dried Seaweed," astonishingly light fish sticks that could float away on their own juices. This dish challenges a very few Southern fried chickens for entry in the Deep-Fryer Hall of Fame. Our Braised Pork Meatballs (Lion's Head) with Shanghai Cabbage was pleasant enough, although lacked a distinctive taste: an inflated sphere of ground pork in a rather bland and thickened sauce. The whole fish Szechuan Style (I didn't catch the species, perhaps it was yellowfish) was mushy with a thick layer of peppery hot sauce. It was prepared with a heavy hand, never a good sign for a delciate white fish. Every restaurant has its specialities and each diner has favorites, the problem - particularly acute in conditions of menu excess - is one of matching. Eating out is a dating game. But now I have my favorites at Green Bo, and upon my return I know what to order, allowing my partners to explore the remaining 275 options. Green Bo 66 Bayard Street Manhattan (Chinatown) 212-625-2359 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Deconstruction New York Entry #18 Many small American cities would be pleased to have a satisfying Chinese restaurant and a satisfying Indian restaurant side-by-side. What makes New York a chowist paradise is that one need not traipse next door. Tonight I visited Chinese Mirch on Curry Hill, known for its row of inexpensive Indian restaurants. The New York Times is quoted as announcing that Chinese Mirch is "the first Manhattan restaurant to serve this strange but satisfying hybrid of two of the cities favorite cuisines." I neither doubt the claim of priority or critic's judgement. Chinese Mirch uses traditional Indian ingredients, including a set of spices as Indian as Chinese, but with preparations that owe more to Chinese cuisine. I applaud the conception of the dishes (what literary scholars might label their hybridity), although the execution - with a single exception - was only adequate. For much of what follows, I give great credit to my dining partner, who posts as "Hammer" on our grand Chicago board. Hammer has an ability that I do not fully share of not only tasting the dishes placed before her, but as a skilled cook herself, she is able to deconstruct the dish into its components, revealing how it was prepared. She tastes the process; I taste the product. Our superior dish, and a dish for which I would gladly return was "Gobi Manchurian," cauliflower florets tossed in fresh ginger, garlic and onions. The cauliflower was first quickly deep fried before being sauteed with ginger, white pepper, onion, garlic, and green pepper. The florets retained some of their crunch, while absorbing the pungency of the other ingredients. The Gobi has some heat, but will be satisfying to those who avoid peppers. This is a remarkable vegetable dish. The second appetizer, one for which Chinese Mirch is known, was "Chicken Lollipops," spicy wings with the meat pulled back and fried to force a lollipop shape. This dish had more heat than the Gobi, and was pleasant for that, if not terribly complex. It was more a starter than a fully conceived dish. The spices included Chinese pepper, touched perhaps with curry-based spices. It was satisfying, if not memorable. Less successful were our two entrees. The Crispy Szechuan Lamb was twice cooked meat, but unfortunately it had been coated with flour (and/or cornstarch), without the flour fully cooked, giving the dish a somewhat pasty taste. The lamb and the Chinese and Indian spices mixed well, but the dish was not as compelling as it might have been had the lamb been fried naked. Our second entree was a disappointment: Chicken Coriander, diced chicken in a coriander sauce. Its texture with heavy notes of lemon reminded one of any inauthentic Americanized Chinese restaurant. It was more glop than glisten. The chicken sank under the weight of the sauce. The coriander, used with an intensity owing more to Indian cuisine than Chinese, could have, in the right hands, provided a memorable cross-cultural excursion. Much on the menu of Chinese Mirch is intriguing, and the chef knows his spice rack. However, with the exception of the Gobi Manchurian the restaurant avoids the lightness of preparation that would transform dinner from an interesting experiment to a compelling example of culinary deconstruction. Chinese Mirch 120 Lexington Avenue Manhattan (Murray Hill) 212-532-3663 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Chinese in Cleveland New York City Entry #16 Those who search for the chimera of authenticity find some restaurants that just don’t belong. The image of the place in which they are found argues against their presence. Can there be superb Chinese in Cleveland, fajitas in Fargo, or tandoori in Tampa. The debate over the possibility (according to Ed Levine) that the best pizza in America can be found in Phoenix at Chris Bianco’s Pizzeria Bianco is a case in point. To the extent that food is about ingredients and talent, no place should have a particular claim to greatness (unless, as some say, there is something in the water). But eating is also about an appreciative community of diners – and about imagination. This came to mind at dinner at Rebecca Charles’ Pearl Oyster Bar in the West Village. Much (although not all) of the food served at Pearl might be found any number of lobster shacks along the Maine coast. Indeed, the last lobster roll I ate was from The Clam Shack in the village of Kennebunkport, consumed by the Atlantic on a perfect summer afternoon. As quaint as the village of Greenwich may sometimes be, it has no ocean spray. The smells, memorable though they may be, are not those of salty sea air. But aren’t New Yorkers as entitled to a finely made lobster roll as Down Easters, or Cheeseheads for that matter? The Pearl Oyster Bar is a tight space, simple and spare as any Mainer would recognize. The back room where we were seated is rather cramped and we felt somewhat rushed at this very popular restaurant (its 27 Zagat rating is undeserved, but not its popularity). I began with a lovely plate of Prince Edward Island mussels in cream, wine, parsley, and mustard. The mussels were plump and pumpkin-orange; in their blacks shells mussels are the perfect Halloween cuisine. This was a fine starter, and a generous one. While one might find bivalves up the Maine coast, such elegance and subtly is not to be had at a coastal shack. The lobster roll was exemplary, even if it carried a New York price tag ($22, about double my last roll). The lobster was buttery and fresh. The crispy shoestring potatoes were just fine, not as meaty as Maine fried potatoes, but not New York anorexic either. To claim that the Pearl’s roll was superior would be misleading, and, as much as I enjoyed my dining partners, I would choose to have my lobster accompanied by blowing sea foam. Dessert was a superior blueberry crumble pie with vanilla ice cream. The ice cream was pleasant, and the blueberries with its crumb topping were sweet and slightly acidic, a most enjoyable close to a lobster meal. If I had my choice I would pick lowbush blueberries and eat them au naturel (the berries, of course). However, choice is the issue. Perhaps we should force Iowans, New Mexicans, or Virginians only to eat locally produced foods, foods with a stamp of authenticity, and ban invasive cuisines. As a tourist, this is precisely my strategy for choosing a restaurant. Yet, New York without Pearl’s and without Cajun, Tex-Mex, and California smoothies would be a lesser place for locals and guests alike (Barbeque is another issue). I welcome that Pearl’s brings a downeast flavor to the Village while knowing its place, keeping diners free from faux foam. Pearl Oyster Bar 18 Cornelia Street Manhattan (West Village) 212-691-8211 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

My theory of reviewing is the following: every serious review should be a mixed review. It should not take either writer (reviewer or reviewed) too seriously, but it should engage the reader and engage the issues of the book. Perhaps my essay has done so, perhaps not. I hope that I placed Mr. Shaw's book into a context, and raised those issues that I thought that he did well and those issues that I thought that he did not do as well. And I hope that this review goads many others to weigh in with their thoughts. As I was composing some of my dining reviews, I came to feel that if I could critique (and, in some instances, be praised for critiquing) Chefs Hamilton, Samuelsson, Vongerichten, Batali and others, we who write about food should not be immune. We should never be gratuitiously nasty or hostile, but we should be critcal in an amusing way. Do I have an axe to grind?: no personal animosity, but a set of beliefs for which I carry a large whetstone and strop. And we should not hide behind anonymity, which is why I signed my review and mentioned my writing, which is every bit as fair game as is Mr. Shaw's. I confess - and not only with this essay - that I have a weakness; it is what I label the "Anthony Lane effect" (Lane is a film reviewers for The New Yorker). And that is I find it hard to let a witticism pass by (good, bad, or indifferent). If only we on the web had tough-minded editors. I appreciate the good humor - and proper sensibility - that "The Fat Guy" showed in his responses. On to Pearl Oyster Bar!

[ADMIN NOTE: GAF has reprinted the review below, which appears on his blog -- see link at end of post] Turning the Tables: Restaurants From the Inside Out by Steven A. Shaw. New York: HarperCollins, 2005. $24.95. Pp. xxiv + 216. by Gary Alan Fine In 1947 a British radio journalist wrote a thin volume that was to usher in postwar morality. Stephen Potter has been largely forgotten in the wave of cynicism that his work spawned and his book, The Theory and Practice of Gamesmanship, or the Art of Winning Games Without Actually Cheating, is little read. But gamesmanship entered our way of thinking about civic culture. The title of his third volume, One-Upsmanship, published five years later, expanding his tactics to all of social life, similarly passed into folk speech. Potter recognized that we moderns want rewards that we have not fully earned by virtue of position or ability, but that in a world where we must judge strangers, a convincing facade is all that is needed. This approach, termed the strategic model of social life, was brought to scholarly fruition by sociologist Erving Goffman (Presentation of Self in Everyday Life). Goffman believed that social life was akin to acting and selves were but masks, a view that resonated throughout the 1960s and still does: life is a game with rules to be diddled. (Both Potter and Goffman could draw on Machiavelli, Diderot, Mandeville, and Veblen, but it is not until the post-war era that there slippery claims seemed intuitive). The strategic virus spread, as we decided that living well is the best revenge against all those who would place us in our rightful place. We were taught how to survive in all of those privileged places where we did not properly belong by virtue of birth, education, or talent. Nowhere was this crafty education more necessary than in restaurants. How could the Average Joe survive in a place in which one might actually have to pronounce French properly to escape the dreaded label "rube" - or worse "American." We all strived to be Francophonies. Many felt that restaurants were designed to make them feel socially naked, while stripping their wallets bare. If restaurants have changed - somewhat - they are still dangerous places for daters. Navigating a dining room is an effective means of matching a couple with roughly similar cultural capital. Fortunately we have a book that provides a guide to that gastronomic minefield. The book is Jay Jacobs, Winning the Restaurant Game (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1980). Jacobs, the long-suffering New York restaurant critic for Gourmet, composes with a poison pen he must have borrowed from Potter. Jacobs writes with that vicious bonhomie that New Yorkers so treasure. Jacobs knows that "Most social activities are competitive and dining out is no exception. . . . Under a thin veneer of politesse, we meet one another at restaurants to determine who has the clout." The book is a brilliantly malicious how-to manual to transform losers into something approaching diners. (One gets a sense of the writing by learning that Ronald Searle did the illustrations). Jacobs recommends that we choose our turf, becoming a restaurant regular. Although he doesn't cite Jacobs, Steven Shaw writes in this same strategic tradition. Mr. Shaw is known for having devised and overseen the growth of eGullet, the leading Internet food and restaurant site. Yet Shaw, as Jacobs, is both competitive and opinionated about dining. Certain dainty rival websites are unmentionables, Shaw's victorious secret. Every writer selects a persona. While Jacobs embraces his inner curmudgeon, Steve Shaw wants our love, and is not above a little self-abasement. This former attorney embraces the moniker "The Fat Guy" - and what better evidence could there be that American culture is teetering on the brink then that our authorities see personal humiliation as a good career move. Steve Shaw wants to be our friend, and the friend of his food-givers, ripping only the sheerest of veils from the restaurant industry. Unlike Jacobs who - like Mikey - more or less mistrust everything all that is put before him, Shaw is enamored. He advises us, making bistros like beagles, "if you love restaurants. . . they will love you back." Even if designed to be a diner's guide, his is a big wet kiss for the restaurant industry. Shaw's introduction is labeled "Why I Love Restaurants"; Jacobs begins, "What Am I Doing Here?" Given all of Shaw's references to his "friends" in the industry - Tom Colicchio, Gray Kunz - they provide him with access that we mortals are denied. They seem to like him too. They really, really do. And who wouldn't with blurby sugarplums dancing between his covers. To be fair, Shaw surely chose these sources because he already admired them. (In contrast, I am on record that I will trade David Bouley a paragraph for dessert). Shaw is an easy companion, light on his feet, low-maintenance to the end. His writing is plainspeak, not frothy; a book of Joe, not cappuccino. And I did learn from these pages. His account of the lifeworld of reservationists opens the door to a backstage world allowing us, following the strategic model, better to understand how to get where we want to be. I had little idea of the surveillance that operates in restaurant life; the amount of personal information that they collect is startling. Top restaurants seem as prepared for Bridezilla as for Al Qaeda. And after this review I will be viewed from thorny eyes as "critic of Steven A. Shaw." How I suffer for you. Shaw, like Jacobs, is persuaded that the way to experience restaurants properly is to develop relationships. He claims, but fortunately does not carry the metaphor to its inevitable consummation, that the first meal is a first date. And, of course, he is right, although such a perspective is more useful for those with the resources to eat out regularly. Let us call it the "Cheers syndrome." The "Seinfeld syndrome" is, in contrast, that you will get crappy service no matter how often you return if you are jerks. Not all chapters equaled the promise of the first. Although Shaw wishes to give deep truths about the restaurant industry in his guise of observer, he doesn't visit any restaurant long enough to understand the underside of work (there is no underside here). This book is the inverse of Tony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential where underside is the only side. What is needed is a recognition that the structural conditions of work and of temporal pressure contribute to the food that diners receive. As I have noted elsewhere, should your steak fall on the floor (OK, on the stove), what choice does the chef have but to serve it to you. Without knowing it, you demand it. I admired the account of Sandor's tiny restaurant in Seagrove Beach, Florida (reminiscent of John McPhee's "Brigande de Cuisine"). The individual craftsman can do remarkable things, even if here, as with McPhee, the account may be enriched with a dollop of romance. Also a nice set piece is Shaw's account of Fernando, the "egg man" at Tavern on the Green (for a elegant piece that owes much to Shaw, see Burkhard Bilger's "The Egg Men" in the September 5, 2005 New Yorker). Shaw is weaker when he leaves the kitchen, his boudoir. The controversies of food require more than description, but an assessment of the way that images of virtuous food are played out in a contentious society. One would imagine that the four-letter word PETA would be somewhere evident, but it isn't. Shaw dismisses those who wish their foods to reflect their politics, seemingly having little time for those who believe in foods that are organic, local, or authentic. (He blasts Slow Food, those goodmen and women who imagine the artisan in the fields. For the record, I am a member of this group, but am no better a member there than in most things). The case of foie gras could - and will - provide a window to how food politics becomes lifestyle politics. Only time will tell if Mike Bloomberg finds bloated poultry liver as easy a target as nicotine. I admire eGullet as much as the next dweeb, but I couldn't help feeling that "The Restaurant Information Age" involved special pleading. Steve Shaw likes cooks and embracing the ethics of a Times critic would cramp his style. Frank Bruni is roughed up in these pages. Shaw argues, and there is some truth in his claims, that the critic should judge the artist at his best. Should we focus on those Leonardo caricatures that he sold for two bits each at the Florence county fair? And Shaw is right that there is only so much one can do when a VIP arrives: if you don't have plump strawberries, the Fat Guy gets the dregs, like the rest of us. Of course, he should expect fawning service for a pasha, but at least we can share his posh life. This kind of critic is not everyman, but Someone. Shaw's strategy is to present several cases within each chapter (a residue from law school). In the case of describing the "The Business of he Restaurant Business," this strategy is ineffective, erasing those structural forces that organize the restaurant industry. It is interesting to observe the attempts of Gray Kunz to open a restaurant at the Time Warner Center (no more so than on a day on which Charlie Trotter called it quits as Kunz's neighbor), but we don't see the role that tax rates, building codes, labor markets, political pressure, and real estate vacancies play on which restaurants succeed. And how, for instance, do recent immigrants see restaurants as the ticket to the good life (cheap labor, coupled with easy rents and ignoring Bloomberg's burdensome laws), finding a community audience, even if chowhounds never discover these fragrant aromas. The depiction of Ed Mitchell's Ribs (of Wilson, North Carolina) tells us precious little about finances as messy as the ribs themselves. Shaw concludes his text by speculating on the future of dining: pretty good, thank you. And located in W.'s USA. Just so long as we rescue authenticity from the authentologists (my goofy word, not Steve's). Novices to the food game will find Shaw's appendix a brisk compendium of culinary resources. Will reading Turning the Tables provide $24.95 worth of better dining (or $16.47 worth of better dining from Amazon.com). Probably. Shaw exudes a chirpy warmth that one finds neither in Winning the Restaurant Game or Kitchen Confidential (much less in George Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London, Bourdain's ur-text). One finishes infected by the virus of Shaw's enthusiasm, strategic and simultaneously the billet-doux of a fat man in love. ************** Fair is fair: Gary Alan Fine teaches sociology at Northwestern University and authored the virtually unknown Kitchens: The Culture of Restaurant Work. He still contributes to eGullet. My Webpage: Vealcheeks

When It Rains . . . New York City Entry #15 I used to be a habitué of Manhattan's Meatpacking District. In fifth grade, forty-five years ago, we were bundled off to see butchers at work. In time, meatpackers became meat markets, as our economy has sunk from production to consumption, beef to beefcake. Today those fragrant warehouses are haunts with handsome filles, not filled with handsome haunches. (Shoot me now.) A friend and I reserved a table at Spice Market, Jean-George Vongerichten and Gray Kunz's take on Thai-Malay street food, an establishment where authenticity is a dirty word. Neither of these notables oversees the kitchen, that is the responsibility of Stanley Wong. The space dazzles, a fantastic concoction of a Malay street as wed to a Delhi seraglio. So beautiful was it that by the end of the evening, I was tempted to nibble my chair, finding pleasure where I could. Given some fond notices for Spice Market, I wonder what radical changes might have transpired over the past few years. We set 6:30 for our dinner, and as a second friend had just arrived from out of town, I decided to meet her at 5:00 for drinks, having been assured that Spice Market would be serving. Technically the reservationist spoke true. If one didn't mind sitting at the bar or at some wobbly tables in the foyer, one could order a drink, just so long as one hied oneself to the bar to order and to pick it up (and for all I know to mix it - and tip oneself). No food was available. Trudging through the rain, we landed at Pastis, where I had a most satisfying - what else? - pastis and my partner a chicken Caesar salad. For a restaurant to force their customers to their competitors seemed an act of perverse generosity. But to Pastis I shall return. I arrived in time for our reservation at SM. As we were questioning the menu our waitress emphasized those wines and plates that we should avoid. Both the Thai and Indian wines were not to her - and perhaps to anyone's - liking. We were warned off the Striped Bass with Wok Fried Napa Cabbage, Water Chestnut, and Cucumber. Too fiery, we were told. When we selected it, the order was forgotten, and we were brought a single entree to share. I realize that servers try to befriend customers, but starvation might just go too far. When I requested a copy of the menu, I was told that this was not permitted; I was allowed to copy the dishes we ordered. Whether our server violated a rule, I don't know, but the menu for Spice Market does not appear on Jean-George website, a decision for which I now share some sympathy. We were informed that the dishes were intended for sharing, a nice concept, but with overly large plates on overly small tables, this plan seemed as fantastic as the setting. With a single exception, the dishes ranged from the unimpressive to the unpleasant; the preparations from ineffective to incompetent. But as I am sweetheart - everyone tells me - let me start with the dish. I enjoyed the Cod with Malaysian Chili Sauce with Thai Basil. The cod was mild and tender without being mushy. The Chili Sauce was more fruity than flaming, and the Thai Basil added a little complexity. It was a satisfying and pretty dish, with the bonewhite cod set off by the maroon sauce. As it was emphasized that the dishes were meant to share, we were surprised when the two of us were served three Spiced Chicken Samosas with Cilantro Yogurt. Could they not realize that if dishes are to be split for a table of two, an odd number was, well, odd. Fortunately the samosa was not of such a quality that we were motivated to fight. The batter was not as crispy as needed and the meat was reminiscent of Taco Bell. The cilantro yogurt was, in contrast, refreshing. Our Lime Noodles with Vegetables, Basil and Sesame raised a question: why did we order this mess. Yes, it was recommended, but as I read this I feel queasy again. Aside from the strange combination of tastes, the noodles sat patiently in a pool of sauce, a sauce for which our sporkish utensil was not well-suited, and so the poor pasta became soggier as time ticked on. Given that our bass never appear, we were persuaded that this was a grave warning, and so we choose Onion and Chili Crusted Short Ribs, Egg Noodles and Pea Shoots. After about twenty minutes, they made their entrance. Lime Noodles redux! The noodles sat in a bowl of sad sauce. If there was crust on the soft ribs, I missed it. The flavors were just right, but the textures were a sodden muddle. One can often count on dessert to save an otherwise unfortunate evening. Not so "Thai Jewels and Fruits with Crushed Coconut Ice." Although we were clearly sharing the dessert, the server brought a single big bowl (this dessert is enough for four), and when we requested separate bowls (scoops were provided to ladle the fruit and other spoons to eat with), we were asked "Do you want them?" Uhhhh. Note to kitchen: crushed ice does not mean marble-sized hunks. Yes, the dish was pretty, and as the coconut ice melted, it was cool and sweet. The sweet water chestnuts, lychee, and papaya were a chewy counterpoint, but not one that I shall repeat. Something is wrong at Spice Market. The errors on the floor and in the back were so frequent that this can hardly be a bad night. The idea, a loving paean to Asian streetfood, is to be praised. If only we could dine on ideas alone. Upon exiting, rain was pouring. A perfect end to a perfect evening. Spice Market 403 West 13th Street Manhattan (Meatpacking District) 212-675-2322 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Manhattan Sunday Morning - New York Entry #14 Restaurants are industrial organizations. They consist of line workers whose job is to manufacture when required. But unlike many factories, there is no room for inventory (cakes, excepted). Production is required immediately. And unlike services such as cobblers, laundresses, or auto mechanics, one can not request customers to return later while these professionals operate on their own schedule. Of course, high-end restaurants, like surgeons or beauticians, require reservations to provide some temporal control. Yet, until operating theaters or salons, the number of dining reservations scheduled is a function of the size of the room rather than the time necessary for focused of attention to the needs of a particular client. When the restaurant is jammed, all hell breaks loose. Restaurants are routinely overstaffed, except for those moments at which they are dramatically understaffed. These moments - typically termed "the rush" - are necessary for a restaurant to be financially successful. At the best restaurants a rush is a high for workers, allowing them a sense of flow, flying through the kitchen, but it also creates a pressured space where mistakes happen. This Sunday some friends and I decided on a late brunch at davidburke & donatella. davidburke is David Burke, formerly at River Café and Park Avenue Café. donatella is Donatella Arpaia a former attorney turned restauranteur. The name reminds me of a hoary magic act in which Mr. burke would climax by sawing his skimpily-clad assistant in half. Could he be channeling Charo? We made reservations for 11:30. I can hear New Yorkers snickering at these rubes. In Chicago, our day is half over. When we arrived the restaurant was empty. Was davidburke & donatella suffering from being under-capitalized? We had the staff to ourselves, hovering to snatch our plates before we were quite done - although perhaps they were aware of the circus to come. But at 11:30 we enjoyed the tight, but pretty, room, decorated in bright swaths of red; everything from the banquettes to the servers' ties was rosy, centered by an explosion of lilies in a stunning centerpiece. By 12:30, the space revealed its flaws. The staging area for the servers was near our table, and it was apparent that the tiny corner needed a redesign with plates teetering. The room became raucous with servers charging about, nearly colliding, and forgetting to bring both the sauce for one of our courses and our bill, the latter despite the customers waited to be served. What had been a restful brunch had become rush hour. Yet, despite flaws in the preparations, I could find no kitchen problem that I could easily attribute to the crowds. I recognize the need to squeeze in customers, but next time I will play a Chicago farmer and appear at a bleary ten a.m. On first arriving, servers placed an object in front of me that seemed a simple popover. With thoughts of Boston's Anthony's Pier Four, I tapped it expecting the souffle to collapse. The roll tapped right back. Was it a Candid Camera roll? (davidburke can be playful, as in his signature cheesecake lollipop tree with bubblegum whipped cream.) I was so confused that I asked a servers (We had four at the start of the brunch), whether this was how it was to be. Assured that it was not last Sunday's antique, I broke it open with the imagined mess. No popover this, but a faux-popover hard roll. Not bad, but not the first thing to tackle with a hangover. One guest began with "Fresh Berry [black and blue] Granola and Vanilla Yogurt Parfait with Mango Donuts." This is a good and straightforward dish. The berries were fresh, the granola was crunchy, and the yogurt mixed nicely. Less successful were the accompanying "mango donuts." Guess: What is a mango donut? Wrong. At db&d, it is a chewy little dough ball (doball?) with a bleak and bland mango-ish sauce. Bleech. The warm asparagus with wild mushrooms, chorizo, black olives and goat cheese would have been just fine had the kitchen merely forgotten the asparagus. These tough old stalks had no place in a fine new restaurant. That the stalks were intended was testified by the fact that the kitchen had scraped them. If one cannot find baby asparagi, why not substitute a baby carrot disguised by guacamole? The mushrooms were delightful (the morning had a fungal flair), and the goat cheese and chorizo added a nice tang. The third appetizer was "Pretzel Crusted Crabcake Tempura with Mango and Poppy Seed Honey." Put aside intramural debates about when frying becomes tempura, and let us admit that the batter, while not soggy, was not as crispy as to make it memorable. Still the crabcake was luxurious, enriched with dabs of mango vinaigrette and what tasted to me like a cumin aoili, circling the plate in delicious dipping dots of yellow and beige. The unadvertised segments of grapefruit was unneeded, but as readers of my reports know any chef who plays with bitterness gets a free pass. The first main dish was "Classic Eggs Benedict." Classic it was, and well-made. It was served with a couch potato serving: an oversized mound of shoestring potatoes. The crispy threads sprinkled the table with tiny nubs of spuddy goodness. I ordered Short Ribs of Beef with Wild Mushroom Cavatelli and Truffle Mousse. davidburke is described in Steven A. Shaw's Turning the Tables as a man who loves his meat, and these ribs were stunning. This is meat that you could cut with a butter knife. As a mushroom picker I greedily consume fungi with a smile. Were the meat not rich enough, the truffle mousse would have solved any spartan quality, abetted by the earthy mushroom cavatelli. I am not usually a fan of truffles, believing little slices add more to the bill than to the dish, but this belonged. The only surprise - and not a happy one - were a small pile of rather sad and tepid porcini chips. The third main dish is course was stellar: Sheared Brown Eggs and Dried Figs with Braised Short Rib Hash. But before my groveling praise, three cavils. Cavil one: Perhaps the kitchen had run out of those distasteful dried figs, but our figs were fresh and moist. Cavil two: Brown eggs? - how would we know unless the chef left little bits of shell around for us to check? Cavil three: I had thought that sheared eggs were scrambled, not fried. Cavils aside, db's dish was spectacular. I adore the voluptuous mix of meat and fruit, and no fruit promotes concupiscence more than the beloved fig. With db's meat fixation, this dish could be placed on my culinary rotation. Desserts were mixed in execution. Least successful was a "Warm & Crisp Apple Tart" (with cider caramel and cinnamon ice cream). The tart was not crisp (it was warm), but warm and stale might not pass muster with restaurant consultants, although it might create a unique market niche. The cider caramel was a proper mix, and the cinnamon ice cream, if not luxuriant, was cool and spicy. Better was a canonical version of Vanilla Creme Brulee, properly crunchy and smooth, above and below. A traditionalist could enjoy a most pleasant brunch at db&d with Organic Greens, Eggs Benedict, and Creme Brulee. Perhaps the portion was over generous at the end of a rich brunch, but had we will-power, such complaints could be shelved. My dessert was lovely: Butterscotch Panna Cotta with Curried Cocoa Gelée. The martini glass filled with perfect whipped pudding with little shards of chocolate, topped with a butterscotch jam. At the bottom of the glass was a joyous curried cocoa liquid, which could only have been more satisfying if there was twice as much. There was not enough to infuse in the panna cotta, but my last three bites were memorable. The dish was an advertisement that desserts can be as complex as any amuse bouche. At times I was disappointed with the service and the kitchen work, yet at its best the food at db&d was very satisfying. I enjoyed the boldness of David Burke's flavors, his mix of imagination and tradition, and his respectful veneration of meat, not always evident outside the doors of steakhouses. New York brunch reminds me of a heartland advantage: by intelligently designing when to dine I avoid Manhattan's madding crowds, who treat the Times crossword as an austere sermon from which they are not early released. davidburke & donatella 133 East 61st Street (between Park and Lexington) Manhattan (Upper East Side) 212-813-2121 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Potatoes Evermore - New York City Entry #13 I spent the winter and spring of 2003 warmly tucked in Uppsala, the comfortable University town forty minutes northwest of Stockholm. I have many fond memories of my hosts, but as for food two words will suffice: potatoes and Operakällaren. The latter is the perfect Swedish restaurant located in the Stockholm opera house. Of all the many meals that I have enjoyed over the years that dinner at Operakällaren was perhaps the only one of which I could find no flaws. The high-ceilinged traditional 18th Century dining room made no concession to Scandinavian modern, but the food drew from the best of the last three centuries (I understand that the decor has recently been remodeled and the cocktail bar is contemporary). I provide this background to justify my claim that Swedes do - under the right circumstances - appreciate and prepare cuisine of the highest caliber. My visit to Aquavit proved delightful, but not surprising. After a dozen New York outings, I had yet to find a restaurant that I could label brilliant. I was beginning to despair, feeling grumpiness around the corner. Aquavit brightened my palate. I understand from a dining companion, an Aquavit admirer, that the previous location - dominated by a waterfall and a superb atrium - was an architectural marvel. The recent move brings a pleasant modernist room with clean lines and soft tones, but not a place that begs recording in Architectural Digest. The food is, however, brilliantly constructed. Although I rarely start with a cocktail, in memory of my wintery months and in honor of the restaurant I ordered House Infused Pear Vanilla Black Pepper Aquavit. Skol! Joy! I cannot begin to explain how but this trio matches the icy purity of the aquavit. Pear, vanilla, and pepper share spicy aromas, which, although distinct, mix beautifully. Marcus Samuelsson's cuisine nods at Scandinavian ingredients, but as at the Operakällaren, this is no folk cuisine. Chef Samuelsson is a global artist, and any misbegotten diner who expects boiled cod, peas, and potatoes should beware. I have eaten much smoked salmon, but never with goat cheese ice cream; venison was never served with a star anise broth. We began with a doubly amusing bouche. First, a sashimi grade tuna in a slight coconut broth, followed by parsnip puree with American caviar on brioche toast. This pair did precisely what starters are supposed to do: amaze us with the skills of the chef: little matters that suggest the larger canvas of cuisine soon to appear. Samuelsson is a chef who is skilled in working with contrasting tastes, producing not clash but synergy. The coconut brought out the slight saltiness of the tuna, mingling salt and sweet. Something similar might be said of the mix of caviar and parsnip, but with the slightly bitter taste of the root vegetable embracing the salty eggs. I was sated and the meal had just begun. As a first course I selected Kumamoto Oysters: half dozen bivalves topped by marinated salmon roe and dill oil, sitting on a dollop of smoked potato cream and a crouton. The presentation, here and elsewhere, revealed a intuition of Scandinavian design, witty and imbued with the beauty of simplicity. Our waiter explained that the chef wished for diners to slide the combination as a bite: six bites of heaven. The oysters were at the peak of perfection, and each ingredient made for a totality that could not easily be divided. My second course was the Lemon Cured Duck Breast with Potato-Braised Duck Leg Hash, Walnut Vinaigrette, Duck Egg, and Glögg Sauce. How could one eat at Aquavit without potato: it wouldn't feel right. The lemon cured duck breast was so delightfully piquant that I forgave an egg that might better have been slightly runny and a more generously ladled sauce. The disappointment of the evening was the intermezzo, a Buttermilk-Yuzu sorbet. How the heavy buttermilk matched the citrusy yuzu and how it was to be a palate cleanser, not a palate coater, I cannot explain. Dessert set matters right. I ordered the signature Arctic Circle, a frozen goat cheese dessert with blueberry sorbet and passion fruit curd. Although I wished the dessert was served slightly less frozen, a few minutes of conversation cured the problem, spawning happy memories of those cloudberries that I enjoyed on my Swedish sabbatical. Again the symphony of flavors was thoughtful, startling, and brave. Marcus Samuelsson is a creative and influential chef, a master at the top of his craft, and should I get lonely during a winter afternoon, I can appear at Aquavit's Café hat in hand for my nostalgic order of Meatballs, Mashed Potatoes, and Lingonberries. Now that's eating. Aquavit 65 East 55th Street Manhattan (Midtown East) 212-307-7311 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Reviewer-Proof New York City Entry #12 Some restaurants are reviewer-proof. One can just pack up one's adjectives and go home. They do what they do, do it adequately, if not memorably, and go on their merry way. A couple that I know swear by the Madison Bistro, visiting it on most visits to New York. They find comfort in the dark, romantic (although some might say murky, gloomy) interior. They find the bistro food well-prepared and the service attentive. I was recently taken to the Madison Bistro with a group of colleagues, and can sympathize with my friends. No one would confuse MB with one of the bright, elegant, creative bistros that New York has to offer. The Madison Bistro is not Balthazar through any fantasy that I can imagine. What one might best say about the food is that it does not distract from one's conversation, amorous or intellectual. Restaurants are not only places for eating, but for talking. At some exceptional restaurants I wish that my partner would vanish to leave me alone with my food and my thoughts. This is assuredly not the case at MB. My choice was traditional bistro fare: Escargot with Parsley and Garlic; Lamb Shanks Tangine with Olives and Lemon, and Praline Souffle with Vanilla Sauce. These dishes were neither successes or failures, they just were. The escargot was garlicky, perhaps a little tough, perhaps with too much butter, but six satisfying bites. The tangine sauce lacked much spice - and seemed more Madison than Mecca, but it did mix sweetness and acidity pleasantly. The souffle was fluffy, although not delicate. Given that the waiter attempted (successfully) to sell us the souffle, this seems a production-line item which the bistro has down pat. None of my dishes astounded and none failed in this bistro that would be a credit to the restaurant scene in any number of small industrial cities throughout the American hinterlands; it happens to be located right here in Murray Hill. Madison Bistro 238 Madison Avenue (between 37th and 38th Street) Manhattan (Murray Hill) 212-447-1919 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Triage - New York City Entry #11 Despite internal voices urging caution, some things seem too good to pass up. Many top New York restaurateurs offer special "bargain" luncheons, but few of these establishments match Jean Georges in sheer culinary wattage. Recently I crossed Central Park for a three course meal from a four-star chef for one nickel and two sawbucks. (Come January, add a penny). Chef Vongerichten offers this steal in the less formal of his two dining rooms, the Nougatine Room, an airy, if casual room, outfitted in light woods, tans, creams, and whites. One chooses among two starters, two entrees, and two desserts. Considering the third course, our desserts, the food was matchless. My dessert, Strawberry Consomme with an Almond Blanc Manger, was the finest sweet I have had this year. When I was young I recall waiting for packages of frozen berries to empty so I could gulp the juice. This consomme had that intensity but with a lightness that was ethereal. Add an almond flan that almost floated off the plate, mild but still nutty, and the pastry chef deserves a standing ovation. My partner's dessert was almost as satisfying. Chocolate Peanut Ice Cream with a gob of chocolate fondant and a smear of chocolate-orange (Jean Georges seems taken with smears; they were found on half of our dishes). The chocolate fondant was as intense as the finest mousse and the chocolate peanut ice cream was inset with meaty chunks of nut. If only all six dishes could have been dessert! As appetizer we had a worthy, if not startling, plate of "Wild Arugula, Bleu Cheese, Walnuts, and Pears." This was well balanced and fresh, but by now these tastes are rather ordinary - nouvelle salad as comfort food. I selected a "Sweet Potato Soup, swirled with Brown Butter and Ginger." I admired the swirl which was spicy and indulgent, but the soup in which it twirled lacked taste and felt awkward and weighty on the tongue. It should have been lighter and more assertive. Both entrees were overcooked (Skate, Black Beans, Red Pepper, and Celery - a smear, again - and Pork Loin, Napa Cabbage, Figs, and Smoked Bacon - here a fig smear). These dishes had the potential of being satisfying, although not uniquely creative, but the tip of the skate was dried (the center was nicely moist) and the pork was cooked to medium doneness with the cabbage mushy. Had I been asked to specify my preferred degree of doneness (rare) and had we not been eating on the cheap, the pork would surely have been returned. It was edible, but not enjoyable. The pork and figs, had it been cooked properly, would have delighted. In contrast, the black beans, even under the best of conditions, would have done little for the skate. At lunch the staff serves diners in the main room, diners in the Nougatine Room ordering off the regular menu, and skimpers. I couldn't avoid the feeling that a process of triage was at work in the busy kitchen. Close enough was good enough for the likes of us. (The waitstaff, however, was professional and cordial). The fact that our desserts (and the salad) were most satisfying suggests that the best choices at a bargain lunch may be those that the cooks need not attend to in the hustle of the lunch rush. Even at Jean-Georges - perhaps especially at Jean-Georges - a class hierarchy is never far from the surface. Jean Georges (Nougatine Room) Trump International Hotel 1 Central Park West (between 60th and 61st Street) Manhattan 212-299-3900 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

You mean in Brooklyn? My assumption is that she cooks out of her home - but perhaps I am wrong about that. That is the number she provided. These days everyone has a cell phone, so I don't know.

Emily and Gabrielle - New York City Entry #10 Strolling down Houston Street, heading for Prune, I happened upon a woman standing by a portable heater along the avenue - the good sweet aroma of southern cooking could not be resisted. This chef introduced herself as Emily and introduced me to her mother sitting nearby. Emily has lived in New York for some forty years, part of the great Southern migration, a native of upcountry South Carolina (near Anderson), not far from where I spend my summers. Tonight she was serving fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, collards, and upside-down pineapple cake. I have always felt great sympathy for Calvin Trillin's young daughter, who, as he described the matter in his "Tummy Trilogy," always carried a bagel on family outings to Chinese restaurants "just in case." I feel the same about greens; you never know when pot likker might save an evening. Prune thinks of itself as a neighborhood restaurant, but what could be more neighborly than a $10 plate of fried chicken, eaten on an East Village stoop. And Emily has not forgotten her roots with collards as sweet as tea, a peppery chicken, macaroni whose cheese is not quattro formaggio, and a dessert made for porch eating. Emily informs me that she cakes - vanilla, chocolate, red velvet, and, of course, upside-down pineapple. Her cakes, not uptown but upcountry, are worth a call. With my part-eaten dinner in hand, I arrived at Prune. As many have noted, Prune's ambiance melds cramped and loud, but the tables - almost like a long communal table at Boston's Durgin Park - do make for acquaintance. May the couple to our right have a blissful life together. But when you choose you seats, ask your partner who is in greater need of the facilities, otherwise you may be plum out of luck. The restaurant seats thirty in a space that under less convivial conditions might fit twelve. The starter - not quite an amuse bouche - was a mean trick. Gabrielle Hamilton, the highly regarded chef at Prune, served boiled peanuts cooked al dente, seasoned with cayenne. I was not amused. Boiled peanuts are a comfort food, designed to be served at the point that the nut is soft throughout, where the sweetness of the meat merges with the saltiness of the boil. I admit that a chef has the power the right to taunt our expectations, but to what end? The poor nut could not stand up to the kitchen's rough play. And my thoughts drifted to the perfection that Miz Emily would have brought to my bouche. Prune is rightly known for its Monkfish Liver on Warm Buttered Toast, and, excepting lobster innards, I have never eaten a more dazzling seafood organ meat. (With Beef Marrow off the menu until winter, this is the closest we come to Fergus Henderson's offal cuisine). The liver was so mild and tender that it might have been the finest foie gras. Napped with a soy based sauce, one could eat it pungent or pure. The happily buttered toast added a richness that complimented the essence of liver. With the monkfish, we saved the best for first. Along with monkfish liver, we ordered Prune's signature barfood, Sardines with Triscuits and Mustard. I have always fantasized that some day I would learn to cook corn flakes, and I assumed that Chef Hamilton would have taken on Nabisco. No such luck. I'm not convinced that any of the trio of ingredients deserve top billing. This is home cooking for those without a stove. We had been deciding between the two sardine dishes, and kitchen kindly sent us the second a sardine and avocado sandwich. I wouldn't place this dish in a Hall of Fame, but it was a more successful presentation that its sibling. The sardine was more substantial, and seemed to have been cut rather than scooped from a can. This appetizer belonged in a restaurant, not a tavern. I choose to order two starters rather than a main course (I was less than stunned by the choices of roast chicken, lamb chops, ribeye steak. Only the whole grilled bronzino tempted.) As is often noted in accounts of Prune, the "Fried Sweetbreads with Bacon and Capers" is a substantial opener: four sweetbreads supporting a long strip of bacon in a pool of caper sauce. Like the liver, sweetbreads are organ meats, but here the preparation detracts from the dish. While the sweetbreads were clean and fresh, their flavor was overpowered by a fried coating. Had the chef modestly sauteed them with a bit of flour or left them naked, the dish would been superior. The bacon and capers provided all the pungency needed. The Pasta Kerchief (with poached egg, French ham, and brown butter) was too great a conceit. My preference would have been as a simpler take on pasta carbonara - horizontal, not sculptural. At the bottom of the plate, the pasta had become rather soggy as the sauce cascaded down. A sauced dish that is served vertically inevitably has a different textural profile in the basement than on the leaky roof. As with the sweetbreads, this is a dish that could be fine with some thoughtful tweaking. My dining partner ordered the Roasted Suckling Pig (with pickled tomatoes, blackeyed pea salad, and aioli). In an eloquent memoir in Food & Wine, Gabrielle Hamilton reveals that she is a Pennsylvania girl whose her mentor, Misty Callies, inspired her in Ann Arbor. Nobody had to tell me that his girl isn't from Dixie. Maybe suckling pig doesn't require wood smoke, but it wouldn't hurt. This was B-bbq. The clanging tastes of this dish were louder than the background noise. Suckling pig can have a purity when cooked precisely. Pulled pork does not deserve tomato-jalapeno salad. The blackeyed pea salad did provided a welcome and witty commentary on bbq's standard cole slaw. Although I should have been focusing on Chez Prune, I mused about the contrast on Houston Street. Iron Chef Carolina. Side dishes were thick Jersey tomatoes as bright as a Southern cardinal and as sweet as a honeysuckle night. The bitter greens salad contained fresh lettuces, but was rather cautious in its willingness to tempt us with bitter leaves. Chef Hamilton is more than willing to indulge in salty play, but bitter tastes are rare. Dessert was an Upside-down Nectarine Cake (counterpoint to Upside-down Pineapple Cake). The cake itself was moist, sweet, and perfect. Thus, it was a surprise that the nectarines turned up missing. To combine this cake with pineapple rings with a maraschino nipple would have been divine. The wine list, although not large, is well chosen. We selected a modestly ($24) priced Provencal rosé (Routas Rouviere Rosé. It was a perfect summer wine. Bravo. I enjoyed my meal at Prune. Many dishes could have used tweaking, but at $72 (before tip), Gabrielle Hamilton provide creativity. If her inspiration is not always mine, it is inspiration. And yet there are those from whom she could still learn, not only Fergus Henderson of St. John's, but Emily too, dishing out heavenly cakes and blessed greens down the block. Emily's Heavenly Cakes and Deli 718-538-5089 Prune 54 East First Street Manhattan (East Village) 212-677-6221 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Scoops 3 - New York City Entry #9 Ask a stupid question department: In my ice cream travels throughout the boroughs, I have puzzled how New Yorkers managed to bring pints of their favorite desserts home without finding a soupy mess. In Chicagoland we pop in the car and the pint is still chilled, at least if we choose our commutes well. Today I returned to Park Slope for the gelato at Tempo Presto in Park Slope, and had answered what New Yorkers surely will surely label a foolish query. On my recent tour of pizzerias, I hoped to detour to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden, but perhaps my companions considered the potted herbs we spied a sufficient bout with nature. But I decided to make a Trifecta Sunday (the Brooklyn Museum, the garden, and another round of Brooklyn ice cream). The advice was noble. Several of the flavors at Tempo Presto were inspired. TP specializes in gelato (and sorbetti), which, if made properly, will be more creamy in texture and more intense in flavor than American ice creams. Among the flavors offered are Nutella Swirl, Pistachio, Café du Monde, Cinnamon, Chocolate Sticks and Stones (peanuts and pretzels) (all milk based), and Mixed Berries (a sorbetti). I selected Orange Cardamon, Caramel Swirl, Banana Bourbon Pecan, Tangerine Melon, and a taste of Concord Grape (the latter two, sorbetti). The texture of all five were exemplary - smooth, not swollen; lustrous without being fatty. Although I typically prefer big bold flavors, I confess that the subtle Orange Cardamon was one of the most delightfully flavored ice cream I have tasted. One doesn't need much cardamon to make a point, and, as I enjoy ice creams that are not sticky sweet, the marriage of orange and cardamon was as inspiring as it was surprising. More traditional was the Caramel Swirl, a big flavor with intense caramel (and a ribbon of caramel) throughout. The third striking scoop was a Tangerine-Melon sorbetti. The mix of citrus with the sweet tartness of Cantaloupe was melodious - two fruits that belong together. Less successful was an under-flavored Banana-Bourbon-Pecan. Like much rum raisin, BBP is designed for kids. I couldn't taste the bourbon, and, as is often the case, the taste of banana is readily hidden by the cream. Had I more than a taste, the Concord Grape Sorbetti might have appealed, but it lacked the puckery punch that I expect of Concord Grapes. I anticipate revisiting Tempo Presto next spring when Prospect Parks's cherry trees is in bloom; perhaps cherry sorbetti will await. To take my pint, I was provided a sturdy styroform tub (better living through chemistry!), able to hold my ice cream for two hours. Perhaps other parlors stock such marvels, but I am taking no chances. It will travel with me until the winter winds blow. Tempo Presto 254 Fifth Avenue (between Carroll St. and Garfield Place) Brooklyn (Park Slope) 718-636-8899 My Webpage: Veal Cheeks

Four Slices of Brooklyn - New York City Entry #8 Trekking through Brooklyn, searching for the perfect slice, from ethnic Midwood in central Brooklyn to Brooklyn Heights, viewing Lower Manhattan, is to be reminded of the diversity of humble pizza. Bread, tomato, and cheese - the stuff of life. It should be simple, but so many choices must be made. In New York City, pizza is typically heated by coal, and so it was at our choices [correction: Di Fara uses a gas oven]: Di Fara (in Midwood), Peperoncino (in Park Slope), Caserta Vecchia (in Boerum Hill) and Grimaldi's (near Brooklyn Heights). If pizza is known by their crust, these are all within the broad range of New York style pizza, having neither the cake-crust or crispy cracker-crust found in Chicago. Of these four, Di Fara, and not the award-winning Grimaldi's, was the one that brought me to the doorstep of my childhood pizza memories. For those who label themselves "chowists" searching for a fantasy of perfect authenticity and uncorrupted artisans, Di Fara is the place. Chowhound's Jim Leff (who gives Di Fara's his highest rating) and Ed Levine of Pizza: A Slice of Heaven (who counts Domenico DeMarco as one of his "keepers of flame") should not be dismissed lightly. As Mr. DeMarco explained to us and to Ed Levine, he is "very proud of what he does." Let us lobby for a culinary heritage award. When we arrived in the mostly silent area of Midwood on Saturday morning, an area labeled as "Kosher Brooklyn" by Myra Alperson, Di Fara was, like its neighbors, closed. Yet, as the 11:00 a.m. opening time, we could hear Mr. DeMarco puttering behind locked doors. Finally he took pity on us and let us in through the back, even before he was fully ready. He works alone, creating pizzas by hand, one at a time. He is an artist of the first rank. Customers must have known of his schedule as we were the first diners for about fifteen minutes. Entering through the back might not be something that would be recommended for health inspectors, but the grease and dirt certainly added points for authenticity to the 1960s pizzeria in a neighborhood for which today a pizzeria might not be a natural foodstuff. I imagine that more than one once-devout teen violated kasherut laws, chewing Pieman DeMarco's pepperoni (Pepperoni can be made from beef, but that was not the case here). In the window boxes on Avenue J were his herbs - basil, rosemary, and oregano - that were to give their lives for these exemplary pies. This was our first pizza of the morning, and we ordered a pizza straight up and one with pepperoni. What first impressed me was the quality of the ingredients. The tomato sauce (both fresh and canned) had a complexity that comes from a master's hand adding those herbs that create the synergy of a New York pizza. The sauce was sweet, but had the pungency of an oregano base. The cheeses - God's cheese (Mozzarella, Romano, and Parmesan) - were impeccably fresh, and blended with the tomato sauce to provide a pizza in which each bite contained a consistency of flavors. The edge crust was close to the Platonic ideal of a New York bread crust. The single weakness was that the pizza seemed slightly undercooked. Not much, but enough to notice. The bottom was not burned or even singed, and the structure of the pizza allowed each slice to become immediately flaccid when raised to one's lips. The point of the slice pointed straight down. As we could see Mr. DeMarco checking the bottom of the pizza, possibly this was his style. But in my view an erect slice should only slowly become limp, cherishing its brief victory over gravity. (Pizza is a rare food whose imagined eroticism generously lends itself bisexual fantasies. Consumption can be doubly gratifying for amorous diners). Since New York pizza is a street food, not eaten, as in Naples with knife and fork, this disappointed. However, I found Di Fara the closest slice to my ideal, and had one been able, as at a reputable steakhouse, to return the pie for a touch more heat, it might have reached my ideal. Leaving I informed Mr. DeMarco that he is my hero and so he is. Peperoncino in Park Slope is a different place: not a pizzeria, but restaurant, much attuned with its renovated neighbors. Brooklyn is the new home of an array of mid-priced restaurants for upper-middle class New Yorkers who find the newly elegant townhouse throughout the hills and slopes of northwestern Brooklyn satisfying their real estate yearnings (even pizza follows realty). Peperoncino aims at this market, despite the connection of the pieman with the owners of Caserta Vecchia and despite the claim that their ingredients were shipped from Napoli. I found Peperoncino's the least successful pizzas of the day, each failing to entice me. We ordered a Margherita (tomato, fior di latte [a mozzarella-type soft cow's milk cheese], and basil), a Diavola (tomato, fior di latte, and spicy sausage), and a Pizza do'mare (tomato, calamari, mussels, clams, and shrimp). The tomato sauce was properly sweet but lacked complexity. I could taste no hint of basil, no fennel pungency in the sausage, and the shrimp was tough. Add the general soupiness of the sauce, creating a soggy crust (more characteristic of the Napoli style) and, despite the pleasant surroundings, these were not pies of my dreams. A connection exists between Peperoncino's and Caserta Vecchia in Boerum Hill (the now-gentrified locale of Jonathan Lethem's magical realist account, Fortress of Solitude). The pieman's wife's grandmother (get that?) had been the piemaker at Caserta, Maddalena Carusone, according to Ed Levine she may have been the first female commercial pie'r. Caserta Vecchia had burned down in 2002, and the new establishment is rather spiffy, although not as elegant as Peperoncino's. The pies at Caserta Vecchia were the first of the day that had a proper structure, holding gravity at bay. Unfortunately CV does not serve classic pizzas (tomato sauce and cheese), so we selected the Margherita (mozzarella, tomato sauce, and basil) and their Quattro Formaggi (Fior di Latte, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, and Fontina). The Gorgonzola provided a tang, providing the four cheeses with a rare pungency. The tomato sauce on the Margherita was, like that at Peperoncino's, a simple blend. More troubling was the crust seemed chewy. Although the structure of the pizza was fine, the crust seemed somewhat undercooked. Finally we reached Grimaldi's, huddled modestly under the Brooklyn Bridge, perhaps the favorite pizzeria of New Yorkers. (In the 2005 Zagat's Di Fara, properly gets the nod, with the same rating as Babbo, yes!). Grimaldi's is not an old-time New York pizzeria, but a 1990 breakaway from East Harlem's Patsy's, where Patsy Grimaldi began working for his uncle in 1941 at age ten. Only in New York would half of a placemat serve as an account of the legal battles: the Brooklyn "Patsy's" lost, becoming "Grimaldi's." The hurt may still be felt in the desire of the piemen not to be photographed while working, a request that Mr. DeMarco had accepted happily. While waits can be excruciating at Di Fara (although not for morning customers), Grimaldi's is a pizza factory. A specialized team produces these worthy pies. One man (and they are all men, when I were present) worked the ovens, a second added the tomato sauce, and a third placed the cheese. This is not artisinal work, but Fordism at its best. In both structure and ingredients, Grimaldi's was superior. The crust was properly charred and deliciously bready, the tomato sauce was complex, and the mozzarella was smooth with a subtle and supple aftertaste. The pepperoni was not the superior spicy meat at Di Fara, but was good enough. My complaint with the Grimaldi pie may be judged in terms of my childish vision of what a pie should be. Grimaldi's does not produce a pie of consistent taste, but blotches of cheese and of tomato sauce. The pizza is a map of red and white shapes, a rather garish gifted Christmas tie. While the pizza held up better than that at Di Fara, the consistent profile of the Di Fara triangle provides the edge. Four pizzerias, one guileless dish. When it comes to the stuff of life, men of the oven find as many ways to create memories as there are ways to live. Di Fara 1424 Avenue J (at 15th Street) Brooklyn (Midwood) 718-258-1367 Peperoncino 72 Fifth Avenue Brooklyn (Park Slope) 718-638-4760 Caserta Vecchia 221 Smith Street Brooklyn (Boerum Hill) 718-624-7549 Grimaldi's 19 Old Fulton Street Brooklyn (near Brooklyn Heights) 718-858-4300 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Scoops 2 - New York City Entry #7 The ice cream trust must have called in heavy favors for mid-September to boil the souls of New Yorkers. The Brooklyn Heights Promenade had the aspect of Marsailles in July. Under the Brooklyn Bridge at the Fulton Ferry Landing Pier (a stone's throw from the River Café) sits the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, a highly regarded establishment (with a few indoor tables and a plaza with a spectacular view of lower Manhattan and that magnificent monster of a bridge. After waiting on a substantial line (far longer than at Grimaldi's Pizza), I selected scoops of Peaches and Cream and Vanilla Chocolate Chunk. BICF serves a mere eight flavors (Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry, and Butter Pecan, among others). These folks are purists. Their ice cream base is as good as I can recall. It is creamy and sweet without being obese. It is super-premium ice cream, but without that excess that sometimes characterizes ice creams that feel the need to flaunt their luxury. Like great ice cream, the flavor profile should rely on a taste of half-and-half, rather than whipped butterfat. With this base, one wishes that they added brave flavors to their suave cream. Both ice creams lacked powerful tastes. Although small bits of peach were present - and unlike many peach ice creams they were not half-frozen - they did not produce the child's peach memories that such a late-summer delight demanded. This was no Madeleine de la Pêche. If only the makers took "Peaches" as seriously as they took "And Cream." One can say the same of Vanilla Chocolate Chunk. I couldn't find the vanilla in a selection more precisely labeled "Chocolate Chunk and Cream." Some home-made ice cream artisans offer an option that they modestly describe as "Plain." I cannot think of a more pleasant setting to sample ice cream plain and simple. Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory Fulton Ferry Landing Pier Old Fulton Street (and Water Street) Brooklyn 718-246-3963 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Lost on Curry Row - New York City Entry #6 Looking for mid-range Indian cuisine, six of us journeyed to Curry Row in the East Village. Diners who seek the diversity of South Asian cuisine of Chicago's Devon Avenue must travel further afield to Jackson Heights, but 6th Street, a short walk from NYU, serves in a pinch. Haute Indian cuisine has now made its mark at such Western restaurants as New York's earnest Tabla and London's astonishing Chutney Mary. But 6th Street tames Indian food for a broader New York dining public. We selected Banjara, a restaurant with good reports in Zagat's, named after the people from the Rajasthan region of Northwestern India (capital city Jaipur), which, the menu announces is known for colorful clothes and fine jewelry. Unlike other restaurants in "Little India" Banjara eschew the tiresome red Christmas lights that twinkle at passers-by along the block. In contrast, Banjara is festooned with colorful wallcloths, and mirror fragments embedded in the ceiling and walls. For a modest decorating budget, Banjara is a pleasant space. Each restaurant along 6th Street has its own style and its own chef (Abu Ahmed at Banjara, no longer the highly regarded Tuhin Dutta), even if one might fantasize that somewhere in the bowels of Curry Row a bustling central commissary produce recognizable dishes. Banjara, to be fair, goes beyond the usual suspects of Indian cuisine, with mixed results. The appetizers, particularly the somosas and the murgi shaslik kebab (marinated chicken) seemed most ordinary and rather dry, although the onion bhaji (onions deep-fried in a chick pea batter) was more creative, tasting like potato pancakes as translated in Delhi. Our six entrees included two that I judged excellent: the creamy and tropical Shrimp Pappas (shrimp in spicy coconut sauce with curry leaves and smoked tamarind; one of the specials of the evening) and the hearty vegetarian Bay Goon Ka Koon (pureed whole eggplant, pureed with fresh onions and tomatoes). In contrast the Chicken Biriyani was uninteresting, dry, and less complexly spiced than often found. Similarly dry was the Banjara Karahi, a local dish that consisted of overcooked pieces of lamb (cooked in "very high heat") with tomatoes, onion, green pepper and assorted herbs and spices. The Chicken Balti, another local dish from the Northwestern frontier was much better with a definitive taste of coriander and a complexity of other Indian spices. The Pasanda Lamb was a suitable, if not striking, dish of marinated lamb in a yogurt-curry sauce. The evening's surprise was the red plastic ring (harvested from a milk container) that my son discovered in his lamb. No persuasion could convince him that Indians serve a curried stew borrowed from La Galette des Rois, Mardi Gras' King Cake. Banjara, I suggested, was touchingly honoring the battered residents on the Gulf. Another remarkable idea that required the proper audience. With several regional dishes and a decor that surpasses their neighbors, Banjara deserves some applause. Yet, Banjara can not be classed as a destination spot for either haute and authentic Indian cuisine. And, as my son would stress, sometimes the best surprise is no surprise. Banjara 97 First Avenue New York, NY 10003 212-477-5956 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Grandmotherless Bronx - New York City entry #5 When I was growing up in Manhattan, visiting the Bronx was a family matter. Yes, I would go to Yankee Stadium to sneak into box seats when the ushers weren’t looking. Yes, I went to high school in Riverdale at a rather chichi private school (since it was all-male, perhaps hee-hee is more apt). But the reason to visit the Bronx was to see my grandmothers, one on the Grand Concourse and one on Jerome Avenue. My father, the son of my granny on Jerome, used to describe the attacks of the Italian kids across the street on the guiltless and guileless Jewish youth, circa 1927. The accounts provided a frisson of danger, even ten-year old Jews were at risk from childhood-fascists. Yet, while he narrated his strongly-felt childhood traumas, I suspected that there was more subtle class politics involved than his memories of innocence and attack suggested. (In Manhattan the strict Italian-Jewish culinary boundary was Canal Street; Little Italy to the north, Chinatown to the south). Given the frequency with which we visited the Bronx, I am abashed to admit that not only did I never visit Arthur Avenue, but I never heard of it, despite its proximity to Fordham Road on which I spent so much time. Such was ethnic boundaries prior to immigration reform. Eventually other ethnic transitions made their presence felt, and while we value the culinary treasures left in their wake, my grandmothers - and their yiddishe generation - left their urban redoubts to more comforting locales. Age multiplies fear. This Sunday, after more than half a century, I visited Arthur Avenue, today less a neighborhood than a thematic shopping mall, unlike what it would have been in 1927 or even 1957. While there are many restaurants on Arthur Avenue, Dominick’s has a special appeal. The restaurant has the feel of a church rec room with plastic paneling, long wooden tables, covered with long plastic tablecloths. Today was a particularly busy Sunday; along the street (on September 11th, no less) the neighbors were celebrating the 8th Annual Ferragosto festival, a lively, but lesser version of Little Italy’s feast of San Gennaro. I was seated with two attractive women, returning to the old neighborhood, talking about family, friends, and, because this is New York, real estate. Each was surely blessed as grandma by a troop of fortunate moppets. One had close ties with Dominick’s staff (there was a fair amount of hugging of which I was not included), and so we received superior service on this busy afternoon. Myra Alperson in her useful Nosh New York describes visiting Dominick’s, asking if they had anything “light” for lunch. She received the marvelous deadpan New York reply, “water.” She adds, seemingly without irony, “I went elsewhere.” I can imagine my mom doing the same. But what better advertisement could there be. Dominick’s does not have a menu, and one negotiates with the waiter as to what he thinks you might like and when the bill comes you learn what the traffic might bear. My large lunch (salad, veal, pasta, baked clams, and wine - no dessert was served) came to $41.00, but I have no idea if I received a discount thanks to my tablemates or whether this was more injustice to the Jews. Dominick’s food is an experience, not a text. We began with bread as clean and thick as fresh Italian bread should be (with just a hint of salt). The salad was a mix of iceberg, romaine, tomato, olives, and onion in an excess of good olive oil and vinegar (not that northern chichi Balsamic stuff either). The pasta (a small rigatoni, whose name I don’t know, but not the elbows I had at grandma’s) was cooked as properly al dente in a bath of very tomato sauce. The veal parmigiano was layered with some fine mozzarella. If this calf was never fed milk, it gave its painful life for a happy diner. The bread coating on the clams was a bit heavy by downtown standards, but they were plump and juicy and the garlicky sauce could not have had more butter. As I waddled out, I decided to make the walk that I never had as a teen, up the hill from Belmont. The walk wasn’t long - and today offers a range of restaurants inconceivable a half-century ago. Within about a quarter-hour I was at Fordham and the Grand Concourse. Fifteen minutes and fifty years to reach the old neighborhood. Dominick’s 2335 Arthur Avenue Bronx, New York 718-733-2807 (closed Tuesday)