CaB Magazine

CaB Magazine
November 1992

You Are Where You Eat
Restaurant Reviews

The world didn’t end. We know that because you’re reading this after October 28, 1992. The Rapture. Judgment Day. With life continuing on, I, for one, am breathing heartfelt sighs of relief. It’s dinner time.

Where to venture, knowing that we just barely squeaked by my final reward? We immediately eliminate any place where the clientele think a budget is something for Congress to play with rather than a personal amusement. Even at the end of the world we have principles. Our favorite cuisines come to mind. French, Japanese, and Italian. All three will have to do.

French restaurants in New York are often so stuffy you just want to yell “Fire” to see if anyone reacts. We prefer somewhere with a little life. Just off Sheridan Square, its awning enclosed by a gaggle of geese or brood of ducks (I’ve never been quite sure which), is La Metairie.

The name translates to something like “sharecropper farm,” which definitely fits the look. The rustic farmhouse guise is encouraging from moment one. The tables are packed a trifle close, which can turn an intimate dinner into a group affair. If you don’t mind sharing airspace with your neighbors, you’ll love it.

There is something to be said for haute cuisine with delicate portions and dainty sauces. Admittedly, I’m generally not the one to say it. I like food with flavor and substance, and La Metairie’s kitchen delivers. Whether you want a galantine of duck with a bright fruity sauce, tuna and salmon carpaccio with garden herbs, or seafood sausage, start with anything from the appetizer list. If you’re like me, you’ll order the garlic flan with wild mushrooms. Heaven on earth.

For your main course, I always find it difficult to decide. There’s a grilled poussin (young chicken), roast chicken breast, salmon with ginger and star anise, or provençale style rack of lamb. My personal favorite is the duck breast, which is served with a different sauce each day. Raspberry takes the top of my list.

Desserts vary from time to time. I’m not a big creme brulee fan, but for those who are, my friends tell me La Metairie’s is exceptional. When they have it, the pommes glace is topnotch. If you love French food, don’t pass up an opportunity to savor the moment here.

La Metairie, 189 West 10th Street (at West 4th), 212-989-0343. Open for dinner 7 days a week. All major credit cards. Reservations a must. Dinner $35-40 per person.

Down in that Triangle Below Canal (you did know TriBeCa was an acronym, didn’t you?) is the first place where I first sunk my eyeteeth into a sliver of shimmering fish on sweet vinegared rice. Zutto. The best sushi bar in New York City. Every time I say this, someone is sure to ask, “How can you tell?” I can’t, it’s just a gut feeling. The sushi is always wonderfully fresh, perfectly prepared, and simply yet elegantly presented. Maybe it’s like your first love, the one you never forget and no one every compares with.

There is a modest reserve to the decor, with exposed brick, polished wood, a casual scattering of plants, and Japanese art works. A glass case displays traditional tea service and pottery. The shiny hardwood sushi bar beckons from the back. We traipse our way over and settle down to splurge. Initially formal and correct, the sushi chef loosens up when he realizes we know what we’re looking for.

Everyone has their favorite selection of sushi. While you’re certainly welcome to sample a preset combination plate, I recommend selecting from what looks good right in front of your eyes. Start with a steaming bowl of clear soup, a flavorful dashi (bonito broth) decorated with sea vegetables and crab meat. Green tea or a flask of sake on one side, and it’s time to choose from the array of glistening fish fillets mere inches away.

My personal selection can be counted on to include rich and unctuous hamachi (yellowtail), toasty, seasoned unagi (eel), crunchy and tangy kappa-maki (cucumber and plum roll), and the true test of the sushi aficionado, that quivering bubble of uni (sea urchin roe). Take your chances, and ask the chef to include a few of his own favorites. You won’t be disappointed.

If you simply mush have something besides sushi, Zutto also has a wonderful kitchen. The nega-maki (rolled beef and scallions), the shumai (shrimp dumplings), and hijiki (dark seaweed) with sake sauce are without peer. The broiled salmon teriyaki is one of the finest fillets you’ll find.

For dessert, there is the ubiquitous selection of ice creams; ginger, green tea, and red bean. For something a bit more traditional, try the yokan, sweet red bean cakes.

Zutto, 77 Hudson Street (at Harrison), 212-233-3287. Open for dinner 7 days a week. All major credit cards. Dinner, depending on your appetite for sushi – $20-50 per person.

For those who’ve never ventured into Alphabet City at the far fringe of the East Village, it’s time to check it out. For a first trip, you may want to penetrate just barely over the line, to Avenue A and 6th Street. Ci Vediamo bills itself as “an Italian eatery underground.” And it is. Underground.

New York has more Italian restaurants than we need. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out it has more Italian restaurants than Italy. Yet few of them are worth the trip. When a friend told me about Ci Vediamo, I promptly forgot about it. When a patrol officer on her scooter told me, I went. It was worth the trip.

We walked down the steps into a gleaming space in bold black, white, and red. A wall of mirrors doubles the visual space. The kitchen, which is one of the cleanest I’ve ever seen in a restaurant, is framed by shelves of Italian goodies like pasta, vinegar, and olive oil. The hyperkinetic staff is friendly and cheerful.

Try the garlic sautéed wild mushrooms, a decent mozzarella and plum tomato salad, or mussels simmered in a tasty marinara sauce. Pass on the Antipasto Rustico, lackluster at best. The polenta was topped with a great mushroom sauce, but could have used a little seasoning itself. The top choice has got be the toasted Italian bread in basil pesto. Richly mingled flavors of garlic, parmesan, and basil had us mopping up every last drop.

For our secondi piatti, or second and main course, we had the chance to sample from ricotta and spinach stuffed canelloni in fresh tomato sauce, zucchini and asparagus ravioli with artichoke purée, risotto primavera, bowtie pasta in vodka cream sauce, grilled salmon. The linguini with a rich puttanesca sauce; capers, anchovies, green and black olives is outstanding. The waiters regularly recommend against the individual pizzas. Surprisingly, everything a Ci Vediamo is inexpensive, with no item on the menu over $10.

Desserts are a trifle overly sweet, though acceptable, and change regularly. The ricotta cheesecake is my personal favorite, and the chocolate mousse cake is pretty tasty. The tiramisu, which would classically by filled with a marsala tinged mascarpone, is filled with whipped cream. The fruit tart is delicious, though the puff pastry is a little heavy. On the other hand, the espresso was among the better cups I’ve had in New York. The complimentary glass of port is a nice touch. Time to check out the far reaches of the East Village. Wonder what’s happening at the Pyramid…

Ci Vediamo, 85 Avenue A (at 6th Street), 212-995-5300. No reservations. Open for dinner 7 days a week. Cash only. Dinner $20-25 per person.

CaB magazine was one of the first publications I ever wrote for. Published by my dear friend Andrew Martin, it covered the Cabaret, Theater, Music and Dining scene in New York City, long before slick publications like Time Out NY and Where NY became popular. We had great fun writing it, and some wonderful writers contributed to its pages. When the magazine folded in the mid-90s, Andrew disappeared from the scene, and rumors had it that he departed from this existence not long after. I was thrilled to find out in mid-October 2005, a decade later, that the rumors were just that. Andrew contacted me after finding my site via that omnipresent force, Google. He’s alive and well and a member of a comedy troupe called Meet the Mistake. Somehow quite fitting!

CaB Magazine
October 1992

You Are Where You Eat
Restaurant Reviews

If you have been following this column over the last couple of issues, I have no doubt that you now picture me in bursting, rotund glory, oil dribbling down my chin, gingers sticky with grease and barbecue sauces of varying hues spattering my formerly gleaming white linen shirt like bad tie-dye. While I number such companions among my friends, I concede to none of the above. Yours truly stands just five and a half feet in height and weighs in at a mere one hundred and twenty-five pounds – soaking wet. But, cholesterol-laden feeding frenzies are an occasional part of my life, not unlike shopping sprees.

I promised several friends to point my pen in a lighter direction for this back-to-school column. I cannot lay claim to being vegetarian in any of its aspects. I am not classifiable as ovo-lacto-, ovo-, lacto-, or pure vegan. I am, by nature and habit, an omnivore. If it is presented as food, I am quite willing to taste, to nibble, to consume. Nonetheless, I and my dining companions regularly find ourselves seated in the company of those who decline to ingest nervous systems.

We begin one evening, as we often do, in the West Village. My favorite lane is close at hand, with its trees, its row houses, its mews and theater. Strolling peacefully down Commerce Street, we round the bend. Halfway down the block we arrive at Shojin, our destination for the evening’s repast. A simple wood and glass exterior greets us, a somewhat bare white interior dotted with plants awaits.

The atmosphere is perhaps beyond relaxed. It is not unusual to find someone occupying a table solo for many hours, as they peruse the pages of some tome or another. Conversations throughout the dining room are engaging, and we often participate, table to table. Both the staff and fellow patrons are friendly, and we have seen groups from neighborhing seating join each other to complete a meal, and leave together for further festivities of the evening.

The menu is likewise friendly and simple, and states “Strictly Vegetarian Foods for Your Health of Soul”. The Japanese-style dishes are explained in easy terms. Questions are quickly answered and concerns are resolved by the chipper staff. The selection is varied, with something for everyone’s tastes.

Start with a soup, either the miso or the daily special, which ranges far and wide in the quest to whet your appetite. Follow it up with vegetable spring rols, soba noodles, deep-fried eggplant, or my favorite, the hijiki (seaweed) sautéed with carrots. The whole wheat bread with peanut-tahini spread is wonderful, especially dunked in the soups.

Tofu shows up in several guises, from a delicious teriyaki marinade to the tasty sauté with ginger-miso and vegetables. Gluten, often used as a meat substitute, shows up in cutlet form with vegetables, with curry, in sweet soy-broth, or my personal choice, barbecued (well, I can’t completely escape my past). Buckwheat soba noodles are somewhat bland, but for those who simply must have pasta… My favorite is the tempura, a heaping platter of fresh vegetables, deep-fried in whole wheat batter, with a ginger dipping sauce.

For dessert, there is, of course, the staple of vegetarian cuisine; carrot cake. It is good, but Shojin has a dessert that is a must-try – the tofu pie, with fruit topping, or blended with pumpkin, or even my personal favorite, plain. It easily rivals the cheesecakes served at most eateries in the Big Apple, without the cheese. Definitely drop in here when it’s time to clear out those arteries.

Shojin, 23 Commerce Street (near 7th Avenue), 212-989-3530. No credit cards. Open Monday through Saturday for dinner. Takeout available. Dinner $15-20.

Among my favorite cuisines are those of the Middle East. I can’t claim it’s because my people are desert people; as far back as the dark ages, we’re Eastern Europeans. Maybe it was watching Lawrence of Arabia, or Casablanca – I’m fairly sure it wasn’t Ishtar. Most Middle Eastern cuisines lend themselves well to vegetarian cooking, and I was thrilled ro find someone specializing in doing just that. Moving a bit towards the center of the Village, we wandered our way down MacDougal Street to Boostan.

It would be easy to describe this little cafe as a hole-in-the-wall, though that conjures up images that are not conducive to eating. Nonetheless, clean and bright as it is, hole-in-the-wall is a good description. We opted for the outdoor tables, which, likely, are limited to the summer months. The floor staff is friendly, though tend to be forgetful, and you may have to reorder items you were quite sure were on the way. But the wait is worth it.

From the miniscule kitchen in the rear, a parade of mouthwatering, hearty and healthy dishes emerge. I cannot begin to recommend the Potato Mushroom Pie highly enough – layers of mashed potatoes with savory mushrooms, onions, and walnuts. The grape leaves stuffed with brown rice, onions, herbs and lemon have a bright zip. The fava bean salad with tomatoes, cucumber and mint makes a meal in itself.

The best bet if you want to try a little of everything is the Combination Delight; a little falafel, baba ghannouj, hummous, fava beans, stuffed grape leaves, and other delights. You won’t miss the traditional lamb in the potato and eggplant moussaka topped with homemade mozzarella and almonds. Spinach, fava beans, chickpeas, eggplant, cauliflower, okra, couscous, and brown rice all show up in a profusion of entrees. Pasta dishes are simple, from Fettucine Alfredo to Semoline Penne with pesto. And if you simply must have a meat, Boostan concedes with one dish, a choice of baked salmon or sole with garlic, lemon and almonds.

Desserts range from pudding and yogurt to traditional Middle Eastern specialties like baklava and halvah. In between are a selection of cakes and pies, from the ever present carrot to chocolate, amaretto cheese and tofu. Who can pass up baklava when it’s offered?

Boostan, 85 MacDougal Street (near Bleecker), 212-533-9561. No credit cards. Open 7 days a week for lunch and dinner. Takeout and delivery available. Lunch $5-10, Dinner $15-20.

Given that I, and several of my dining companions, are trained chefs, we have actually been known to cook meals at home. As in, not eating out, dirty pots, plates and cutlery notwithstanding. One of my favorite weekend tasks is heading off into the nether reaches in search of obscure ingredients, exotic produce, and essential cooking tips.

En route one recent weekend to a housewarming party, I found myself wending my way down Sullivan Street to that limbo region of the central Village. There, like a beacon on the rocky shores, was my culinary equivalent of the holy grail; Hot Stuff, the Spicy Food Store. Genuflecting quickly and thanking the chilies that be, I poked my head in and looked around. A small but well laid out emporium of piquancy greeted my eyes. The aromas wafting through the air said, in a word, “hot”.

Quietly careening from shelf to shelf, I quickly loaded the checkout counter with smoked chipotle peppers, chili peanut butter, hot sesame oil, lime pickles, and the hot sauces from all of Dante’s hells (my favorite, for those who must follow the leader, is El Yucateco Salsa Popular de Chile Habaneros; green).

For those who just can’t make it, Hot Stuff prints a mail order catalog. But it’s worth the trip. How can you miss with a place where the owner and top tamale says, “Life is just a bowl of chilies!”?

Hot Stuff, 227 Sullivan Street (near Bleecker), 212-254-6120. If you like spicy food, bring a well-packed wallet. Checks, money orders, Visa and Mastercard accepted.

CaB magazine was one of the first publications I ever wrote for. Published by my dear friend Andrew Martin, it covered the Cabaret, Theater, Music and Dining scene in New York City, long before slick publications like Time Out NY and Where NY became popular. We had great fun writing it, and some wonderful writers contributed to its pages. When the magazine folded in the mid-90s, Andrew disappeared from the scene, and rumors had it that he departed from this existence not long after. I was thrilled to find out in mid-October 2005, a decade later, that the rumors were just that. Andrew contacted me after finding my site via that omnipresent force, Google. He’s alive and well and a member of a comedy troupe called Meet the Mistake. Somehow quite fitting!

CaB Magazine
Summer 1992

You Are Where You Eat
Restaurant Reviews

July. Time for family get-togethers, for outings, for rediscovering our collective heritage. Picnics on Independence Day, vacations at the beach, slot machines and a show in Atlantic City. At the end of the day, there’s always Aunt Sophie’s green jello salad…. Maybe we could go out to dinner?

The mere mention of fried kreplach is enough to start our mouths watering. And while boiled beef flanken may not look like much, it conjures up memories of grandma’s kitchen. Not our grandmother, but somebody’s, we’re quite sure. We hop on the 7th Avenue IRT and head for the border of SoHo and TriBeCa, where Bobby, Eddie, and Dave await us, the identical triplets of Triplets Roumanian Restaurant. Jewish soul food from the old country.

Open space complete with balcony, wood furnishings, plenty of theater lighting, and a staff direct from Central Casting set the stage for a great performance. We wave away the menus; that’s not why we came. It’s the prix fixe dinner that got us here. We prepared with the obligatory twenty-four hour fast, and have no plans to eat before next Thursday.

The waiters arrive in waves, laden with baskets of bread, bowls of intensely garlic-marinated and roasted peppers, plates of creamy chopped chicken livers with sweet radish and onion, and thick potato piroegi, platters of beef stuffed cabbage simmered in spiced tomato sauce, and savory lamb and garlic sausages. All-we-can-eat. Seltzer, fright from the blue glass seltzer bottles. No olive oil, butter, or margarine graces this feast. Instead, the golden nectar of high cholesterol – schmaltz, pitches of schmaltz.

The appetizer binge over, we dive into our main courses. Broiled lamb chops, grilled salmon with rich dill mayonnaise, a Roumanian tenderloin studded with cloves of garlic, a tender breaded veal cutlet.

Instead of a trendy sorbet to clear the palate, our waiter brings more seltzer, milk, and a bottle of U-Bet chocolate syrup. The production of egg creams commences, followed by an encore of cookies and pastries for dessert. We fight over the apricot rugelach and the jelly rings. Thank God the subway station is only a short waddle away.

Triplets Roumanian Restaurant, 11-17 Grand Street (at Houston), 212-925-9303. Open for dinner Thursday to Sunday during the summer. Cash or credit cards. Dinner $40.

We were in one of those soul food kind of moods, so we decided to check in on another set of roots. Just a block away from Piano Bar Row on Grove Street, behind a facade of twinkle lights, we set ourselves down at The Pink Tea Cup, serving up what is arguably the best southern barbecue in New York City.

The Pink Tea Cup is brightly lit, with rows of tables along two walls of picnic benches. A rickety spiral staircase leads down to the bathrooms, where the walls are a mosaic of celebrity patron photos. When not busy, the casually competent wait-staff are only too willing to chat. Sometimes we hear about more than we wanted to know, and sometimes we tell more. We’ve even been asked to help peel and core the apples.

So what if the shredded salad with creamy house dressing isn’t arugula with basil vinaigrette? Who cares if the bean soup needs more pepper and less salt? Bring us an order of apple fritters and another of corn fritters, light and juicy on the inside, dark golden fried on the outside, and a spark blossoms around the table. Wash them down with tall glasses of iced tea, “sweet or unsweet.”

We have ordered the chicken and dumplings, the half-a-fried chicken with hot sauce, the smothered pork chops, and even the chicken-fried steak. We weren’t disappointed. But we’re here for the barbecue. Chicken, ribs, or chopped pork. Showing complete ineptitude at decision-making, we cover the checked tablecloth with plates of each. Adding to the spread are side bowls of black-eyed peas, simmered greens, okra, corn, creamy potato salad, and cornbread.

With our eyes rolling, we order dessert. Bread pudding, jello, pecan pie, and what may just be the best sweet potato pie this side of the Hudson. A proper sized cup of coffee and we’re ready to wander up the block and drop in on the piano bars.

The Pink Tea Cup, 42 Grove Street (at Bleecker), 212-807-6755. Open seven days a week for lunch and dinner. Cash only. Lunch $10-12, Dinner $15-20.

When we were growing up, we had Cantonese take-out on Sunday nights. Sweet and sour chicken, chow mein, and egg foo young were the height of adventure. Then came Szechuan and Hunan, with their hot peppers and garlic. We eagerly sampled whatever was pushed our way, and soon the mavens of food were throwing us Japanese tempura, then sushi, then Thai with tamarinds, limes, and searing peppers. Now, the hot new trend; Vietnamese food, haute form. Tasty, but refurbished by years of French occupation. It took the New Viet Huong to show us from whence it came.

At the height of the Vietnam War, Craig Claiborne talked The New York Times into sending him to Saigon to find authentic chagio, the delicate spring rolls of Vietnamese cuisine. Without having to brave bombs bursting in air, we were able to tuck away a half dozen of these crispy delights with fresh mint leaves and a brightly vinegared dipping sauce. Whole battered prawns encircling a juicy scepter of sugarcane were as appealling to our eyes as to our taste buds. Spiced beef wrapped in vine leaves left nothing to be desired.

The list of entrees at New Viet Huong goes on for pages, ranging from simple rice dishes to elaborate multi-dish samplers. From whole fried bass to curried goat to barbecued beef, we’ve ambled through a couple dozen of the selections. The staff at New Viet Huong is friendly, and always willing to make suggestions if you’re not quite sure what to order. Among the winners to date, tender sautéed squid with strips of sour cabbage, salt and pepper fried crabs, battered and spiced soft shells, and garlic and ginger snails. The latter require being french-kissed to suction them from their shells. It may take some lung power, but it livens up even the toughest crowd.

We accompany our meals here with tea, soda or milkshakes. The shakes don’t come in the usual chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry; but jackfruit, durian, and baby coconut make enticing substitutes. New Viet Huong also serves the most unusual soda we’ve had, salty plum. Next time you want taht touch of the orient, and moo shu and yellowtail just don’t make it, wend your way through the Chinatown markets and drop in.

New Viet Huong, 77 Mulberry Street (at Pell), 212-233-8988. Open seven days a week for lunch and dinner, free delivery available. Cash or credit cards. Lunch $5-10, Dinner $15-20.

CaB magazine was one of the first publications I ever wrote for. Published by my dear friend Andrew Martin, it covered the Cabaret, Theater, Music and Dining scene in New York City, long before slick publications like Time Out NY and Where NY became popular. We had great fun writing it, and some wonderful writers contributed to its pages. When the magazine folded in the mid-90s, Andrew disappeared from the scene, and rumors had it that he departed from this existence not long after. I was thrilled to find out in mid-October 2005, a decade later, that the rumors were just that. Andrew contacted me after finding my site via that omnipresent force, Google. He’s alive and well and a member of a comedy troupe called Meet the Mistake. Somehow quite fitting!

CaB Magazine
June 1992You Are Where You Eat
Restaurant ReviewsEvery now and then, we have moments when we want to stroll down the back streets of London; a chance encounter with Sherlock and the good doctor, perhaps the Artful Dodger and Fagin, or Mary Poppins and the children. We step lightly out on the pavement and go in search some tea and sympathy. But, we’re in New York City.

So we amble our way down Greenwich Avenue to Tea and Sympathy itself. Ducking in through the slightly seedy doorway, we find ourselves in Her Majesty’s outpost to the colonies.

With ten small tables for two to chose from, we settle in a back corner where we can eye the scene. A steady stream of Brits flows in and out, sometimes for tea, sometimes for a meal, often just to say hello.

We’ve come to know that we can count on a delightful bowl of the day’s special soup, undoubtedly consisting of potato and another vegetable – parsnip is our favorite. The special salad brightens the day with its crisp green leaves, crunchy walnuts, and crumbly, pungent Stilton.

Despite our combined culinary knowledge, we hadn’t dealt with a Tweed Kettle Pie before – shreds of salmon, cod, and parsley baked under a crisp crust of fluffy mashed potatoes. Shepherd’s Pie, Fish and Chips, Bangers and Mash can all be had here, washed down with glasses of fresh ginger beer and tart English lemonade.

And for dessert? Topping our list like the hot custard tops each selection, the blackberry and apple crumble, rich in ripe fruit, and the ginger cake, spicy with the bite of fresh ginger.

On another day, we stopped by for afternoon tea. Tea and Sympathy has a delightful collection of ceramic teapots, each of a different design. We selected our favorite brews, which arrived accompanied by a three-tiered silver salver of finger sandwiches, scones, and wedges of cake – a perfect end to a day of window-shopping for crown jewels.

Tea and Sympathy, 108 Greenwich Avenue (at Jane Street), 212-807-8329. Open seven days a week for lunch and dinner. No credit cards. Lunch $15-20, Dinner $25-30.

I have to admit it – I’ve never seen Gone with the Wind. Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler exist for me only in their most famous quotes. Not being thrilled with the idea of sitting through a multi-houred videotape, I agreed to a Georgia-style dinner outing.

We set off for West 4th Street to find the latest import from Wadley, Georgia (pop. 2,438), Georgia Boy. We were graciously greeted at the door by cheerful southern boys, and tables covered with blue and white checked tablecloths.

We immediately shifted into picnic mode. And what a picnic! Advised that our drink selection consisted of “co-cola or some of that sprite stuff,” we tucked our napkins on our laps and settled in to feed.

To start, there’s little reason to look beyond a plate of crispy chicken wings, tender inside, light, not oily; Florence Henderson would be proud. The stone-ground mustard sauce lent a subtle kick, and whetted our appetites for more.

At a picnic we never get tired of fried chicken, so a plate for an entree, hot sauce at the ready, joined our table. The fish cakes with zesty tartare sauce were perfectly seasoned, and fried just right. Since at least one of us likes liver, the tender fried calf’s liver with caramelized onions added to our cholesterol frenzy. Properly stewed greens and potato salad made our picnic complete.

Blueberry cobbler and banana cream pie were overkill, but oh, so good.

Lunch is a similar menu, while brunch abounds with grits, cheese grits, pancakes, and sausages – patty sausages, not northern style link, the staff is sure to remind you.

Frankly, my dear, I’d just like seconds.

Georgia Boy, 165 West 4th Street, 212-255-5725. Open seven days a week for lunch, brunch and dinner. Mastercard, Visa, Diners Club. Lunch $10-15, Dinner $20-25.

“Let’s do Mexican,” generally means heading for the closest eatery serving a greasy Tex-Mex mishmash of tacos, burritos, and chimichangas, usually washed down with an inexcusably large margarita flavored sno-cone. So it was with great anticipation that we headed into the West Village to a new establishment purported to serve culinary delights steeped in traditional Oaxacan cuisine.

Mi Cocina turned out to be worth the anticipation.

Opening late last year, this corner Mexican bistro is a delight of adobe, terra cotta, and colorful glazed tiles. it has already garnered two stars from The New York Times, and the continued capacity crowd testifies to that assessment. So does the food.

Starting the evening with a round of “Dona Margueritas,” made with top grade tequila and Grand Marnier, we peruse the appetizer selection. Without reservation, our list topping starter is the Camarones al Chipotle, spicy sautéed shrimp in smoky pepper sauce, rolled up in warm flour tortillas.

Other winners include deep fried and lightly breaded rings of squid, a delightful quesadilla oozing with melted cheese, and the vegetable salad of local produce in a biting, citrusy vinaigrette.

One of the most overlooked foods in Mexican cuisine is fresh fish. At Mi Cocina, the chef shows his stuff with a daily selection of fish, often grilled, with a unique repertoire of sauces that make liberal use of traditional Oaxacan ingredients like Seville oranges and epazote.

Enchiladas, moles, and chile rellenos do grace the menu, but no everyday red and green jalapeño sauces smother these familiar dishes. Instead, the stock of sauces is once again drawn upon, flavored with everything from Mexican chocolate to pomegranate seeds.

The dessert selection is limited, and early on consisted of a sole entry, almond flan. The list has lengthened, but there is room for improvement, and we look forward to a future selection that stands up to the rest of a memorably meal.

The evening must be capped off with a steaming mug of Mexican coffee, blended with dark roast java, Kahlua, and Tia Maria.

Mi Cocina, 57 Jane Street (at Hudson), 212-627-8273. Open seven days a week for lunch, brunch, and dinner. Major credit cards accepted. Lunch or brunch $20, Dinner $35.

CaB magazine was one of the first publications I ever wrote for. Published by my dear friend Andrew Martin, it covered the Cabaret, Theater, Music and Dining scene in New York City, long before slick publications like Time Out NY and Where NY became popular. We had great fun writing it, and some wonderful writers contributed to its pages. When the magazine folded in the mid-90s, Andrew disappeared from the scene, and rumors had it that he departed from this existence not long after. I was thrilled to find out in mid-October 2005, a decade later, that the rumors were just that. Andrew contacted me after finding my site via that omnipresent force, Google. He’s alive and well and a member of a comedy troupe called Meet the Mistake. Somehow quite fitting! [sigh… edit… and then he had a heart attack and passed away in 2016]