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I received a call the other day from our very own Count James de Szigethy, letting me know about this incredible Italian, nay, Ligurian inn ensconced in the West Village. A quick look at the wall map found Liguria located up in the north of Italy, home to the city of Genoa. A “must try” he said. Who am I to argue with a Count? A quick call to owner Elsie Cardia and our trip to Beatrice Inn was set in Italian marble.

Our trio arrived a few nights later. We wended our way down the flower-banked steps from the sidewalk to enter the comfortably elegant dining room billing itself as a stronghold of the Bohemian Greenwich Village mystique. Well spaced, lightly starched, white-clothed tables in a casual brick-walled, wine bottle embellished dining room beckoned us to sit. The inn has drawn many a famed face, from Sinclair Lewis, Dorothy Parker and F. Scott Fitzgerald to Woody and Mia – a scene from Another Woman was even shot in the dining room.

We started our repast with a decent-sized cold antipasto platter laden with olives, roasted peppers, anchovies, prosciutto and other northern Italian delicacies, while we contemplated the menu. As Ms. Cardia’s suggestion, she took over the selection process and, after a suitable wait, presented us with a sampling of her favorite pastas. I must admit, the pesto sauce was good, though not a cut above the average. On the other hand, her putanesca sauce, brimming with anchovies and olives, was out of this world, and to top it off, her intensely savory tomato vodka sauce with fresh peas, ladled over perfectly cooked penne, may just be the best I’ve ever had.

We progressed on to a triad of plates loaded with delightfully tangy veal piccata, melt-in-your-mouth Chicken Francaise, and the Beatrice’s own specialty, Seafood Beatrice, a cornucopia of clams, mussels, octopus and fish in a rich, piquant tomato sauce. A bottle of 1986 Ruffino Chianti Classico, rich with the essences of berries and just a hint of fresh tobacco, was the perfect accompaniment to this profusion of flavors. Sighing with contentment, for dessert we chose to split a house specialty. We were rewarded with an absolutely delicious tiramisu – initially nibbling, and finally devouring each crumb of coffee-chocolate creaminess.

Needless to say, there turned out to be no reason to argue with our Count, and we seconded his “must try” opinion.

Beatrice Inn, 285 West 12th Street (8th Avenue), 929-6165. Open Monday through Saturday for lunch and dinner. Reservations recommended. All major credit cards accepted. Dinner $25-35.

It was a brunch Sunday. Not all Sundays are brunch Sundays of course. Some of them are reserved for toast and coffee over a paper and heavy repasts in mid-afternoon. Others are spent at beaches, parks, museums or theaters. But this one was definitely a brunch Sunday. We promptly headed for one of our favorite brunch spots, 103. Depending on whom you talk to, this place is also known as Jerry’s 103 and 103 Second – we’ve opted for brevity.

If I were going to design a restaurant, I think this is the one I’d design. Expansive windows look out onto Second Avenue and East 6th Street. We sit in the simple white, black and grey decor, surrounded by formica tables and banquettes, each with a simple flower display. A cute mural spans the wall next to the well-designed and even better stocked bar. Cute waiters with tight T-shirts and just a modicum of attitude (though, watch out at night when energy and attitude levels get raised) drop by for a bit of a chat and offer coffee. We worked our way down through the list of cappucinos, cafe-au-laits, and espressos, and settled on one of each, combined and administered intravenously. Our waiter smiles with understanding, but demurs, and fetches a cappucino and a cafe-au-lait.

Brunch is an a la carte affair. The menu begins with juices and other appropriate mid-day drinks containing champagne and vitamin C. We sample the fresh squeezed orange juice and move on to our main selections. Delightfully crispy waffles topped with pecans and warm syrup adorn one plate, poached eggs on a bed of fresh ratatouille another. When one of us is in the mood for more lunch-ish fare, the 103 Club, piled high with a selection of proper club sandwich delicacies is a favorite choice. Specials are always available, usually an omelette of the day, sometimes a pasta. My own preference is the Eggs Benedict, with zesty jalapeno mayo and thick slices of fresh tomato.

If you still have room, and we try to make sure we do, the dessert special of the day is always a good choice. On this recent venture a mouth-watering warm blackberry and peach deep dish pie arrived, with vanilla ice cream melting slowly down the sides. For those who want something a little lighter, the sorbet plate is always an enjoyable choice. Drop in on this place on your next brunch Sunday and drop over to the table and say hi.

103, 103 Second Avenue (at 6th Street), 777-4120. Open for lunch, brunch and dinner seven days a week. Visa, Mastercard, American Express accepted. Brunch, $10-20.

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!

The date was July 29, 1982. A truck, my best friend’s boyfriend Steve, and myself rolled into New York City. The Big Apple. Life in the fast lane. The next night I went out on the town. I don’t remember anything but the name of it, I was too excited to be here. A Midwesterner does Greenwich Village. Villa Amalfi.

I still get excited being in Greenwich Village, but that’s another story. Since that time I have, however, managed to pop myself back into this long standing Italian eatery enough times to get a handle on the food. The place has a glassed in “porch”, faux marble walls, and a maitre d’ beckoning you in from the street. This looks like a setup for a bad meal, if not a bad movie. Luckily, it’s neither. For classic Italian fare, correctly prepared with minimal tinkering, this is the place to go.

During the summer we sit ourselves down in the little 2-3 table outdoor alcove where we can watch the flow of life in the streets. Unless we’re feeling fancy a round of the house white wine to sip on while we look over the menu is actually a pretty good choice. Sampling the appetizers gives us more time to think about life, liberty, and the pursuit of good dining. Baked clams oreganato are tasty and an occasionally available antipasto platter is good, though a bit hefty. Our favorites lean towards the refreshingly delicious prosciutto and melon, with large slabs of honeydew draped with this salty ham (ask for the aged balsamic vinegar to splash on it rather than the lemon wedges), and the huge platter of fried calamari, perfectly crisp on the outside, tender on the inside, and a mild, but zesty, dipping sauce.

The main course selection is exactly what you’d expect by this point in your adventure. Chicken and veal dishes, piccata, marsala, saltimbocca are cooked just the way you want them to be. Light sauces with clean, clear flavors, the meat tender and juicy. Pastas with red sauces, white sauces, cream sauces, and wine sauces. The flavors of herbs permeate the dishes, the pasta cooked just a touch al dente, all arrayed on platters the size of Aunt Sadie’s seder plate. Our favorites are the carbonara, with tiny bits of smoky bacon, fresh peas, and a cream sauce that’s richer than Ross Perot, and a recent night’s special of fusilli with grilled shrimp, sauteed chicken, peas, artichoke hearts and tomatoes, in a light jus created from the juices of all these little delicacies.

The decision must be made midway through the main course. To save room for dessert or not? Villa Amalfi serves up a solid array of New York classics, like cheesecake, fruit tarts, and creme caramel. All are, as might be expected, properly prepared and tasty. It is, however, a shame that there aren’t more classic Italian selections on the menu, except as specials. We often opt for espressos and glasses of grappa or Averna to end the evening. All in all, next time you’re in the mood for good Italian food a definite couple of cuts above the spaghetti and meatballs at your neighborhood pizzeria, make the trip here.

Villa Amalfi, 84-86 7th Avenue (at West 4th Street). Open 7 days a week. All major credit cards. Dinner, $30-35.

For those of you who are regular readers of this column, you know that one of my favorite things to find is a “hole-in-the-wall” kind of place that serves good food at low prices. In this category fall almost, though not quite, all dim sum restaurants. I’ve seen somewhere around two dozen different translations for “dim sum” into English, but my pick of the batch comes out something like “a little bit of the heart.” The tradition of dim sum started in the old Chinese tea house, a place where businessmen came to negotiate and strike deals. You sat down, ordered and paid for a pot of tea. As a courtesy the proprietor would often bring around small plates of snacks whipped up in the kitchen. Of course here in the US of A, we’ve turned it around – we pay for the food and the tea is free.

New York has dozens and dozens of places one can go for dim sum, ranging from cheap to pricey, bad to good, and small to immense (at one place I’ve been the waitstaff actually use walkie talkies to communicate with the maitre d’ and the kitchen). My hands-down favorite though is a little place on lower Mott Street called Sun Hop Shing Tea House. This unassuming little, okay, let’s face it, dive, serves a tasty selection of dim sum, and doesn’t take more than a nibble out of our wallets at the end of it all.

The process of eating dim sum is half the joy of eating it. Waitresses (almost always waitresses, rarely waiters), often motherly looking, wheel carts piled with dishes of generally one to four different dim sum on them. They come and stand next to your table with the cart and start talking very fast in what I’m sure is an obscure dialect of Chinese, meanwhile pointing at the various dishes as I’m sure they’re extolling the virtues of each. If you’re lucky, you can get the words “beef, pork, chicken, shrimp, or vegetable” out of them. You point at the ones that you’re not quite convinced you can’t live without, and they place a plate on your table. You then eat and wait for the next cart and its delicacies. If you have favorites you can ask, and be assured that the next time that cart is available, but not before, they’ll remember you asked for the dish.

Dim sum is generally an early afternoon tradition, and in New York is often limited to weekend lunchtimes. Luckily Sun Hop Shing serves dim sum daily, and usually from mid-morning to late afternoon. Since I know none of the Chinese names for anything you might eat, and each restaurant calls them something different anyway, I’ll describe the gang’s favorites here. There are little rich noodle dumplings, usually called siu mai, that come in absolutely delicious beef and shrimp varieties. Then there are long rich noodle rolls, looking something like an uncooked extra large egg roll, the best of which are the ones stuffed with vegetables and peanuts. Definitely try the taro root cakes, among the best I’ve tried in Chinatown. their beef meatballs with scallions are pretty darn good, and there is a wide variety of deep-fried turnovers and dumplings, especially the chicken ones, that are outstanding. However, the one “must” each time we go are the steamed pork buns. Tender, rich, succulent bits of barbecued roast pork in a steamed, slightly sweet dough (don’t be surprised that it’s not browned), these are not be missed, make sure to ask for them if they don’t come around. There are also some good dim sum desserts, including custard, sweet bean cakes, and “almond” tofu in honey. What more can you ask for than this little bit of heart?

Sun Hop Shing Tea House, 21 Mott Street (at Mosco St.), 267-2729. Open daily, dim sum service roughly mid-morning to mid-afternoon. No reservations. Cash only. Lunch $5-10.

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!

Try to imagine the sounds of tinkling ivories, musical comedy, a jazz band, and several dozen men singing showtunes. Now try to imagine them all occurring at the same time. Now put yourself in the picture, sitting in the middle of it all, only somehow it works. Welcome to piano bar row, Grove Street between Bleecker and 7th. Welcome to The Grove Street Cafe.

The setting is definitely designed with the yuppie set in mind. Exposed brick walls, subdued lighting, glass front, sidewalk tables, and a waitstaff that is not only friendly, but is appropriately attractive and trendily dressed. The maitre d’ and manager happily took our bottle of wine (a tangy little bottle of Pomino, from Tuscany) before we were seated and put it on ice to chill. This is probably a good moment to point out that Grove Street is a BYOW – Bring Your Own Wine – kind of venue. A little more candlepower in the overhead fixtures would have helped, but we did manage to browse through our menus by passing the candle around the table.

Luckily, this urbane sophistication does not overwhelm the bill of fare. While chic salads of goat cheese and arugula with balsamic vinegar and the Grove Street Salad of baby shrimp and avocado (slightly skimpy on the avocado according to our expert in such matters) were definitely taste test winners, as too are classics like beef carpaccio with olive oil and shaved parmesan, and the basil, tomato and fresh mozzarella plate.

The main course menu is fairly extensive, and split into three realms – animal, vegetable, and pasta. Although the menu lists a fairly good selection of poultry, from chicken to game hen, and several tasty sounding beef dishes, we have yet to try any of them. We have once sampled the broiled salmon, which is cooked to a nice pinkish-orange medium, that virtually melted on the palate. Our main target has been the pasta selections. Tortellini, ravioli, linguine and fettucine proliferate, both on the regular menu selection and an array of daily specials. Some are simple, like a savory whole-wheat linguine with fresh vegetables. Others are fancier, like the delectable garlicky lobster fettucine. My personal favorite, albeit somewhat on the heavy side, is a plate of fettucine topped with wild porcini and domestic mushrooms in a rich cream sauce.

We capped our most recent evening with a round of espressos (if you like lemon twists, you will have to request them), and an array of desserts from a fresh daily tiramisu to blueberry cheesecake and chocolate cake. Sate, we prepared to leave, only to be presented with snifters of sambucca, adorned with the three apropros coffee beans mucking about in them. There does not seem to be a pattern to this gift, some tables got them, some didn’t, some were flaming, some weren’t.

The Grove Street Cafe should be a definite destination next time you’re in the West Village. Enjoy a meal and then your choice of musical entertainments to drop in on right down the block at The Five Oaks, Rose’s Turn, Arthur’s Tavern, or Marie’s Crisis.

The Grove Street Cafe, 53 Grove Street (between 7th and Bleecker), 924-8299, reservations recommended. Open 7 days a week for dinner, plus weekend brunch. Mastercard and Visa accepted. Dinner, $30-35.

As we all know, some days cheap is the operative force in our lives. Not cheap in quality of course, but, shall we say, easy on the wallet. With this in mind, we set out to visit our favorite low-expense neighborhood, the far East Village. Wandering down Avenue A, we found ourselves at that bastion of Cajun-Italian cooking, Two Boots. Named for its culinary origins (two boots – Italy and Louisiana – you’ll have to supply the visuals), this hopping eatery hangs quietly between 2nd and 3rd Streets.

The decor is classic pizzeria – lots of red and white check, and red walls, and things hanging from the walls, like strings of garlic, baseball pennants and cowboy boots. Cowboy boots? Not to mention the Caribbean and Native American looking chachkas and strings of miniature lights also shaped like boots. Boots are definitely a theme, eclectic though the collection may be. The waitstaff don’t necessarily continue this course, and have sensibly opted for comfortable shoes. I have no doubt this contributes significantly to their cheery manner. The pizza kitchen is open to the dining room, where you can watch the multi-tattooed pizza-maker do his thing, and the main kitchen is hidden away behind.

You may ask, what is Cajun-Italian cooking? The answer ought to be simple, and in this case, it is. Italian food with some Cajun ingredients and Cajun food with some Italian ingredients. That answered, we turned to the menus, which lists a variety of simple appetizers, mostly breaded and fried things, salads and such, which, other folk in the establishment seemed to dig into eagerly. We moved on to bowls of outrageously good and spicy gumbo and red onion soup.

While the main menu offers a diverse grouping of pastas with vegetables, chicken and a range of sauces, the real reason for coming here is the pizza. Take that standard New York thin, crispy crust and top with tomato sauce that has some Cajun fire to it. Topping choices include the old standbys like peperoni, ham and mushrooms, but add in an array from bayou country like hot, smoky andouille and mild tasso sausages, crawfish tails and fresh hot peppers. Another plus is the offering of individual sized pizzas, so everyone at the table gets a personally tailored pie.

We finished off the evening with good old American coffee, and slabs of gooey, luscious chocolate-pecan pie and creamy, rich cheesecake. And to top it all off, our ulterior motive was met, it didn’t hurt to pay the tab at the end of the night.

Two Boots also has two takeout pizzeria locations (Two Boots To Go), one directly across the street from the main restaurant, and another on Bleecker, just east of Broadway. The latter does not, in our collective opinion, live up to the quality of the other two, but it does save a walk to the far eastern frontier.

Two Boots, 37 Avenue A (between 2nd and 3rd Streets), 505-2276. Open 7 evenings a week, 12 p.m. to 12 a.m. American Express accepted. Dinner, $10-15.

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!

I suppose it was a mistake to sit down and watch Paul Prudhomme’s Louisiana Cooking videos. I realize it’s not the same as sitting down to, say, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles IIIIIII, but for a chef, it’s darned close. By the end of 130 minutes of tape I had collapsed on the floor, drooling, and moaning for jambalaya and blackened redfish.

Paul Prudhomme, the dean of Cajun cuisine, showed up on the New York scene a few years back with a Big Apple branch of his world famous K-Paul’s. Excessive lines and nearly as excessive prices made this Village eatery excessive for many of our budgets. But now Prudhomme’s former chef, Frank Krebs, has taken over the reins and reopened on the same site as the Louisiana Community Bar & Grill.

Our quartet descended on this darkened depot of the deep south. A minor error in our reservation was taken care of reasonably quickly, but, although tables were available, we were still asked to have a drink at the bar before sitting. We demurred and hovered around the hostess stand until the hint was taken. Passing through the crowded brick bar we reached our red and white checked table – nestled quietly between the swinging kitchen door and the wait-station.

We began with a perky waitress and a round of Cajun style drinks. The fire of Cajun Martinis and Creole Marys, the smoothness of a Hurricane, and a deep, dark Blackened Voodoo beer whetted our appetites perfectly and dulled the roar of the crowd. Appetites were a definite must as the plates of food started rolling in.

The menu at Louisiana changes daily, with some carryovers. We missed out by a day on the smoked crawfish tails, but settled on a selection of gumbo with chicken and andouille sausage and fresh Louisiana oysters on the half shell. Delicious doesn’t begin to describe the gumbo, and the oysters were superbly fresh and tasty. A platter of alligator fritters with garlic mayo arrived. After a sampling of this off-beat (at least for New York) appetizer, we concluded that alligator tastes somewhere between crocodile and rattlesnake. Not like chicken at all. We also gave close attention to the necessary mound of Cajun popcorn – deep-fried crawfish tails with a sherry-mustard sauce.

We bypassed the selection of salads (most of the lettuce we saw looked like it had been wilting in dressing awhile) and po’ boy sandwiches and moved on to the entrees. No one was in the mood for blackened anything, so we disregarded the yellowfintuna, prime rib and pork chops and moved on to what we hoped was lighter fare. No such luck. We found ourselves swamped with a tasty slab of grilled salmon adorned with a, yes, a, crawfish tail and a scattering of chicken and shrimp “Avery Island” on a veritable mound of pasta. In the end, we had a split decision on which was better, the outstanding fried smoked seafood cakes with tasso hollandaise or the incredibly luscious classic crawfish etouffee.

We topped the whole meal off by splitting a large bread pudding with lemon sauce. All in all, service is a bit scattered, albeit friendly, and prices are a trifle high, but I can heartily recommend the food.

Louisiana Community Bar & Grill, 622 Broadway, 460-9633. Open seven days a week for dinner. All major credit cards accepted. Dinner $35-45.

Okay, pop geography quiz. Where is Afghanistan? Yes, I knew it was in Asia too, but I had to look at a map to figure out exactly where. Starting clockwise from the twelve o’clock position, it is surrounded by Tajikstan, China, Pakistan, Iran, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan. If that mix doesn’t have an effect on your cuisine, nothing will. Our favorite place to find out smack in the middle of St. Mark’s Place is Khyber Pass.

Well trodden, bright green carpeting covers the outdoor dining area, an amusing sidewalk spot to sit in warm weather. the rest of the year we enter through the narrow doorway into one of the East Village’s more interesting spacewarps. The dim lighting glows in reflection of silk pillows and highlights intricately woven rugs, tapestries, and yes, afghans. Take a seat in the window and prepare for an exotic feast.

We discovered quickly that our pronunciation of the English transliterations of Pushtu, Dari, and Uzbek just doesn’t make it, and it’s easier to let the waitress select the meal. So I’ll describe what we had instead.

Crispy triangles of pastry stuffed with our choice of pumpkin, scallions or potato and herbs dipped in yoghurt with fresh chopped mint. Savory dumplings, spicy mung bean soup, and herb salads are also around to handle round one.

Moving into the main event, we found ourselves confronted with a selection of “kabobs” – delicious skewered filet mignon, lamb, chicken, or vegetables charcoal grilled to juicy perfection. Vegetarian specialties abound and range from sweet, deeply spiced roast pumpkin to “palau” (pilaf) of fresh vegetables on rice with raisins and nuts. Palau is also available in meat varieties, as are most of the dishes. Lamb is especially prevalent. Among my favorites, the simple selection of buttered noodles topped with a choice of meat, yoghurt, or onion sauces. Though there is that incredible roasted game hen with orange peel, nuts, spices…

We generally pass on the desserts, but the rice pudding with rosewater is good if you are among those who like rosewater. A waitress here once explained that it is traditional to end an evening meal with a steaming mug of cardamom tea, and personally, I like the tradition. For those who want other options, everything from herbal teas to Turkish coffee, thick as mud, are available.

Khyber Pass also offers two prix fixe options – one a $36.00 dinner for two selected direct from the menu, the other, and one we’ll be trying one day, a $200.00 “King’s Feast” for four that must be ordered a week in advance to give the chef a chance to plan something special for you.

Khyber Pass, 34 St. Mark’s Place (at 2nd Avenue), 473-0989. Open seven days a week for dinner, and serves late on weekends. All major credit cards accepted. Dinner, $15-25.

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!

Let me start with the obvious. China is a big place. With almost four million square miles of land a billion residents, there are a lot of variations on home cooking. There’s an area in the northeast that the Chinese call Tung Pei and Americans call Manchuria. In truth, Tung Pei no longer exists as an entity, and has fractured into the provinces of Kirin, Liaoning and Heilung Kiang. Bordered on different sides by Mongolia, Russia and Korea, and once under Japanese domination, the cuisine has developed some interesting stylistic blends.

There are a lot of Chinese folk here in New York, too. Strangely, for many years no one brought the tastes of Manchuria to our fair city. Then, seven years ago, restaurateur Jimmy Sung decided it was about time to introduce New Yorkers to the flavors of his northeast. Combining the talents of some top chefs, he brought Manchurian and Hunan dishes to the second floor of the Hotel Lexington, at J. Sung Dynasty.

One of the perks of being a restaurant reviewer is that sometimes I get invited to be the guest of a local restaurateur looking for a little publicity. This can make things difficult if the restaurant isn’t worth the trip. Luckily, in this case the food and ambience make it easy to like. Climbing the stairs off 48th Street, we were greeted by dozens of photos of Jimmy himself with sports and political figures from all over the world. A thank-you note and photograph from Jean Kirkpatrick graces the coatcheck. All of this opens up into a beautifully designed formal dining room, with private banquet alcoves surrounding.

The service is efficient, if a bit stiff. Most of the staff we had contact with spoke fluent English, a nice change from the typical Chinese establishment in this town. When Mr. Sung is present, he brings a cheerfulness and enthusiasm for his restaurant that infects the staff; if he could bottle it and leave it when he’s not around, he’d have it made.

The menu starts with the standard numbered fare found anywhere. It ends with a description of the restaurant’s founding and the cuisines served. In between are the Manchurian and Hunan specialties and a delightful taste treat. There’s also a complete wine list, with upwards of thirty top-notch choices. The biggest plus here is that you know immediately that the ingredients are fresh. From the first bite, I had no worries that anything had been sitting around waiting for an unsuspecting customer to drop in.

I recommend starting the meal with dumplings. There are the usual fried variety, which are tasty enough, but for a nice change try the Steamed Dumplings in Hot Oil – delicate rice noodle packages with a mildly spicy sesame sauce. The Crispy Spring Rolls are another good choice, and count on the dipping sauce being a whole lot better than what normally shows up in those plastic packets. The soups are generally good, though a bit bland for our tastes.

If you’re feeling a bit daring, give the Flavored Crispy Jelly Fish a shot. Unlike the usual tasteless rubber-textured mound, you’ll find yourself nibbling on brightly vinegared and seasoned seafood that may change your opinion about trying the unusual. While you can certainly order your main course from the customary selection, I recommend diving right into the specialties of the house. On the Hunan side, you’ll find everything from honey-cured and smoked ham in herbs to lobster in garlic and ginger sauce. Top raves go to the Tangy Tangerine Beef, a nice twist on the usual orange variety found around town. Crystal Prawns with Walnuts, dressed in a lightly seasoned sauce also got a thumbs up.

J. Sung Dynasty is also one of the few places around that you don’t have to order your Peking Duck the day before you show up for dinner. With the dozens of orders requested out of the kitchen each evening, the chefs make it fresh every day.

From the Manchurian options, I can heartily recommend the Sweet and Sour Crispy Fish. This lightly breaded treat is actually cooked through, and coated with one of the best glazes I’ve tasted on this dish. Sizzling crisp-fried Dalian Scallops are another good choice. The beancurd casserole is a litte bland but with some salt and pepper picked right up, and certainly made a nicer light choice than some of the tofu dishes we’ve been subjected to. Top honors go to the Smoked duckling Chang Chun Style with crispy vegetables drizzled in hot sauce, and the Sauteed Chang-Pei Pheasant in savory brown sauce.

Make J. Sung Dynasty a definite stop next time you’re hanging around Grand Central Station. And tell Jimmy who sent you.

J. Sung Dynasty, 511 Lexington Avenue (at 48th Street), second floor in the Hotel Lexington, 355-1200. Open 7 days a week for lunch and dinner. All major credit cards. Lunch, $20-25; Dinner, $35-40.

Ever since I saw The King and I when I was a child, I’ve been impressed by things Thai. Surrounded by the mountains of Laos and Burma, and the jungles and plateaus of Cambodia and Malaysia, the cuisine of Thailand has not only its own magic, but the influence of those other national cuisines as well. I realize that the hallmark of Thai restaurants is to have cheerful waiters, but if you like that style almost to excess, and food that is a definite cut above the norm, Bangkok House is the place to go.

From the moment you enter this lavender, bamboo and polished-wood upper east side establishment, you’ll be fussed over by some of the most chipper waiters this side of the Hudson.

It’s almost always hard to get a group of folks to agree on splitting fewer appetizers than there are people, especially when everything smells and looks wonderful. Our waiter happily agreed to have the kitchen make up a sample platter with some of the house favorites. The Beef Satay (Sate) was grilled perfectly and served with a peanut sauce and cucumber “salsa” that outshines the usual. Paw-Pyak, or spring rolls, were crispy little fingers of flavor served with mild and medium-spicy dipping sauces. (If you want things really spicy here, you have to insist.) Paw-Yak Koong, jumbo shrimp stuffed with black mushrooms, pork and white pepper wrapped and deep-fried were a new treat for all of us, as were the Hoi-Jo, a delicious combination of pork, shrimp and bamboo shoots deep-fried in bean curd.

Outside of this selection, I can personally recommend my favorite Thai dish, Laab Gai, tiny bits of minced chicken dressed in ground chili, onion and lime juice, extra spicy, of course.

The main courses run the gamut of Thai food, with everything from sauteed broccoli (Koong Ka-Na) to the deep-fried spare ribs (Si-Krong Mu). Everything we’ve had here was wonderful and beautifully presented. Extra sighs of contentment went to the house specials, including Pod Ma-Kahm, my personal choice, a superb crispy half duck and fruit drizzled with a tamarind and curry sauce. Also the Haw-Muck, a spicy combination of shrimp, scallops, mussels, squid, and sole steamed in red curry and coconut milk; and the Gai-Ta Krai, or lemongrass chicken, a delicious marinated and sliced breast of chicken, cooked to perfection. If you don’t have personal favorites, let your waiter pick out a selection for you, you won’t be disappointed. Bangkok House also has a short dessert list but unlike the usual fare of ice creams and fruit this one is worth at least sampling – creamy coconut Thai Custard, Fried Wrapped Bananas soaked in honey and sesame seeds, and Chocolate Mousse.

Bangkok House, 1485 First Avenue (between 77th and 78th), 249-5700. Open 7 days a week for dinner, takeout and delivery available. All major credit cards. Dinner $25-30.

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!

Travel has been hard for me ever since spending a day unsuccessfully searching Paddington Station in London for a bear from deepest, darkest Peru. So I looked with trepidation towards thirty hours in transit to the land of Oz. But according to our Editor-in-Chief, we have two, count them, two, paid subscribers in Sydney. Who am I not to serve our readership?

So here I am, sitting on a balcony above Mosman Bay, an extension of Sydney Harbour. The haunting throb of local kookaburras echoes around the marina. A small group of rainbow lorikeets are perched on the railing begging for food.

Three and a half million people seems a small number for a melting pot when you’re used to New York City’s teeming masses. But Sydney is a stunning metropolitan area with everything from high-rises to bushlands to white sand beaches, and people from all over the planet have been wandering in for decades.

This is a country where a local chef informed me the typical citizen is likely to be happy consuming “bangers and mash” three meals a day, every day. It seems a contest at times whether the traditional Britishisms of the cuisine will give way to the onslaught of Asian, North and South American, African, and other European culinary invasions.

Native Australian ingredients do find their way into dishes from around the globe. Warrigal greens, wattle seeds and Balmain bugs are common enough on menus. On the other hand, the “bush” fare of the indigenous aboriginal population is unlikely to touch the average Sydney-sider’s palate. Witjuti grubs, blue-tailed skinks and fruit bats just aren’t on the daily bill of fare. With this in mind, I set forth to find out just what was happening at the local fine dining establishments.

Every major city has one restaurant that is a local secret shrine of incredible dining that natives just refer to as “the restaurant.” Sydney denizens have it lucky – hidden away in a back alley on a hill above Darling Harbour, theirs is aptly named simply, The Restaurant. Recommended by one of Australia’s most noted food writers, Stephanie Alexander, the choice was confirmed by my companion as his favorite in the city.

Down a flight of carved stone steps, a glowing garden of tables invited us to sit outside the slightly austere dining room. Alerted in advance to the presence of your faithful reviewer, Chef Stefano Manfredi greeted us as swiftly as his thoroughly competent waiters. At his suggestion we bypassed the menu and let him treat us to a stream of Aussie-Italian gastronomy not to be missed.

We started with a basket of fresh bread dipped in a glassy pool of olive oil and a bottle of one of the best cabernet sauvignons I’ve had (Plantagenet Cabernet Sauvignon, 1986, from Mount Barker in Western Australia), with a taste of ripe plums, cinnamon and toasted oak. Our plated courses began with seared Queensland scallops on a bed of linguini and sun-dried tomatoes tossed with garlic-olive oil. Sorry Long Island, but these scallops had more sweetness and flavor in their, ummm, little fingers, than a dozen from the Sound. For a second appetizer, a local delicacy, yabbies (something like what you’d get if you crossed a crayfish and a shrimp) served with incredibly light spinach gnocchi in a pool of browned butter.

We were then presented with a fish course of savory grilled kingfish steaks atop sauteed Chinese greens and accompanied by an olive puree and a basil, parsley, garlic and olive oil salsa verde. A meat course of baby lampchops from the Illabo region (you know, over near Wagga Wagga…) roasted with new potatoes and rosemary was good, but I must admit, baby lambchops don’t hold a candle to the adult ones in my palate. The final entree, roast pigeon (squab for the squeamish among you) was a stunning finish.

After a bit of time to settle comfortably, a platter of desserts was ceremoniously laid between us. A trio of baklava, an incredible pistachio mousse and slices of a delicious macadamia log was plated with scoops of outrageous pumpkin ice cream and tangy fruit sorbet. Scattered caramelized figs, and fresh rasp- and blueberries provided color and contrast. The Restaurant is a definite must-go when you visit Sydney.

The Restaurant, 88 Hacket Street, Ultimo, 281-2808. Cash or credit cards. Dinner $60-70 (US $40-45).

When the name of a restaurant comes up more than once in unrelated and unexpected conversation, I’ve been known to pay attention. A local chef had made a couple of his personal recommendations, and the young lady cutting my hair (and berating me for not doing it more often) announced firmly her favorite, a not to be missed, once-in-a-lifetime experience. So, on one of my solo nights out, I presented myself at Rockpool.

Located in the midst of The Rocks, Sydney’s version of the South Street Seaport, only much more so, this art deco establishment serves up top-flight “new Australian” cuisine. The waitstaff is competent and efficient, albeit slightly stiff. An eclectic mix of local and imported ingredients are prepared by Chef Neal Perry with touches of French, Middle Eastern and Asian style.

Ice water is not an automatic assumption in Australia, and is generally difficult to convince anyone to bring you. Rockpool won immediate American points by offering (and refreshing throughout the evening) a large tumblerful. This was followed by a first course perched on an ornate silver stand with a mound of shaved ice, a generous spoon of sevruga caviar atop a fresh Sydney Harbour oyster. A light squirt of lemon and I was primed for an impressive evening.

The first wine selected by the chef was a young, lemony Clare Valley Riesling with slightly grassy overtones (Grosset Polish Hill 1992 from Auburn, South Australia). Accompanying was a delicious dish of beautifully plated slices of steamed crayfish on a bed of braised looko and lamb’s lettuce and a sauce of olive oil, golden raisins, toasted pinenuts and strips of dried mango. A plate of crisp and savory pappadam triangles sat neatly on the side. This was followed by delightful sea scallops, seared and served with hummus and fava beans, all drizzled with a garlicky olive oil.

With a little respite to compose my appetite, my waiter delivered the next wine, a stunningly rich and buttery Chardonnay with a touch of toasted oak and crisp apples (1992 Pipers Brook Vineyard, from, oddly enough, Pipers Brook, Tasmania). the next course served up was the only disappointment of the evening. A Spanner crab and bean sprout omelette served in broth flavored with an Asian fish sauce. Unfortunately, the omelette became quickly soggy in the broth, and the sweet and delicate flavor of the crab was lost in the strength of the other flavors. However, this was immediately made up for with a main course of herb encrusted (turmeric, coriander, cumin, Spanish onion) salmon filet, pan-blackened and served with a red pepper sauce and savory roasted Szechuan eggplant.

The main course was followed by Rockpool’s signature dessert, a date tart, filled with plump California dates baked in a custardy pastry cream. Sighing contentment, I was unprepared for a second offering of caramelized nectarines layered with crisp waffles. the whole assemblage sat amidst a pool of caramel and vanilla bean sauce, with a scoop of nectarine ice cream at the side. I couldn’t have been happier, or fuller. Simply, add Rockpool to your Sydney itinerary.

Rockpool, 109 George Street, The Rocks, 252-1888. Cash and credit cards. Dinner $75-80 (US $50-55).

[A third review was omitted from the published version because of space issues. Here ’tis.]

The following evening, a trio of friends insisted we drop in on a more casual venue in the neighborhood, The Bathers Pavilion. The building is indeed a former bathers’pavilion, for many years now a delightful restaurant and soon to be a small hotel. It sits squarely on Balmoral Esplanade and looks over an attractive, sandy beach and cove. The atmosphere inside is as relaxed as outside, with customers sometimes climbing in the windows from the beach and the staff attired in jeans and Pavilion t-shirts. Don’t let appearances deceive, the young and attractive group working the floor are completely knowledgeable about the food they are serving and their sommelier is one of the best I have met.

Chef Genevieve Harris joined the restaurant less than a month ago after a stint as the executive chef at Amankila Resort in Bali, and it was generally agreed by the staff that she was the perfect choice. While she was not present this night, her second, Greg Smith, took exquisite care of us. Unlike the standard tasting series of small plates, he served up platters of food that allowed us to sample a rather extensive range of the kitchen’s offerings.

We opened the evening with a light, dry 1990 Riesling from Howard Park (the private label of Plantagenet Vineyards) in Mount Barker, Western Australia, tasting of under-ripe peaches with a slightly dusty finish. Our appetizers arrived on two huge stoneware ovals and were divided amongst our plates as the waiter described each dish. The cold platter contained three delightful selections: a salmon tartare, lightly dressed and served on toast; a timbale of roast eggplant filled with goat cheese; and tea-smoked river trout with caramelized onions, lovage and feta cheese. The hot plate provided us with two superb dishes, Yamba king prawns with “rag” pasta, tomatoes and olives; and Western Australia sea scallops with sauteed pine mushrooms on a parsnip rosti (basically, a latke).

Giving us a bit of time to digest and look out over the water, our sommelier stepped in with his next selection, a 1990 Chardonnay from Geoff Weaver’s Stafford Ridge Winery in Lenswood, South Australia. This turned out to be one of the more unusual chardonnays I’ve ever tasted with a strong flavor that I could only describe as burnt vanilla and what one of my companions thought hinted at aniseed. I was at a loss to guess what dishes might go with it, but the chef came through. John Dory fillets, crusted lightly with pepper and served on top of crisp green beans and a mound of babaganoush made a light and tasty fish course. Next to this was a delectable Victorian salmon fillet surrounded by roast peppers, prosciutto and caramelized figs.

Almost simultaneously, our third wine arrived, a last remaining half bottle of Mount Mary Vineyard 1987 Cabernet from Lilydale in Victoria. We were informed that this might just be the best cabernet ever to come out of Victoria. It was appealing with its strong flavors of tart cherries and pepper. The kitchen served up a platter containing slices of Illabo lamb with field mushrooms atop a smooth puree of garlicky potatoes and a wonderful roast breast of guinea fowl with spinach, garlic and almonds.

We were then allowed to sit comfortably and chat for long enough to recover from this largess. But soon, a small bottle of Petaluma 1988 Botrytis Riesling was brought to the table. This absolutely delightful dessert wine with its flavors of apricots and spice was a perfect close to the meal. Especially when accompanied by two platters of desserts. A fresh raspberry and clotted cream tart left my companions unimpressed, but I like simple desserts. The chocolate and hazelnut semifreddo gave us our chocolate fix without overdoing it. The cinnamon bakhlava with custard filling and nectarine, roasted almond and candied orange rind salad was superb. The crowning selection, however, was coconut lace wafers with slices of fresh mango, whipped mascarpone cheese and a scoop of mango sorbet.

What can I say? If you have a taste for suburbia, relaxed atmosphere, a pretty view, and good food and wine, drop in on The Bathers Pavilion.

The Bathers Pavilion, The Esplanade, Balmoral, 968-1133. Cash and credit cards. Dnner $65-70 (US$45-50).

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!

February is a time for romance, for fantasy, for coziness. It’s a time of holidays, of festivals, of celebrations. After starting off the month watching shadow-boxing groundhogs and the Japanese throwing beans on Setsubun, I’m ready for the grand twin festivals of Tu B’Shevat and Mexican Constitution Day. A couple of presidents, were they still alive, would be celebrating birthdays in the three digits.

By the end of the first two weeks I’m ready for the middle of the month fertility rites of Valentine’s Day and Lupercalia. Give me a small, intimate and romantic restaurant, where the staff are willing to have a little fun, and so is the chef. I may even take a date.

In preparation, the gang gathered for advance reconnaissance and took over a quiet corner at The Black Sheep Tavern Nestled in the back streets of the West Village, this corner bistro fits the bill perfectly. I was immediately impressed with the notations at the bottom of the menu that for humanitarian reasons, veal is not served, fish is line caught (no nets that might trap dolphins), and meats are free of steroids and antibiotics. Our health virtually guaranteed, we started a more thorough read of the fare.

The Black Sheep has a great menu setup that allows you to order either a la carte or in complete, 5-course dinner style. Each table starts off the evening with a basket of bread and large crudite bowl (fresh and marinated veggies for the uninitiated) and a good sized ramekin of aioli (garlic mayo) for dipping. With a selection of everything from carrot and celery sticks to cool steamed potatoes and beet-juice marinated cauliflower, this is one of the tastier alternatives we’ve had to start off an evening.

The staff is cheerful, quick and knowledgeable about the food and wines they’re serving. They do have a tendency to hover a bit, especially around those dining solo, as if feeling a need to keep you company. Wine service is a bit of a production, and could be done competently with a bit less effort. But all around, we had fun, and one looked disappointed when we didn’t want fresh pepper on each and every item on the plate.

The food here is hearty, and definitely not for the timid of stomach or light in appetite. Roasted corn chowder, grilled chicken salad, wine-steamed mussels, roast polenta with artichokes and Jarlsberg cheese, and wild mushroom ravioli are enough to whet just about any appetite. The terrine of orange duck, seasoned with brandy, oranges and a touch of wild lavender, is first rate.

The fried calamari is lightly breaded in cornmeal and served with a superb lemon and herb sauce. We found the sauce a little overpowering for the light flavor of the calamari, which we dipped in our aioli instead, and then promptly mopped up every drop of the lemon and herb sauce with the bread and grilled eggplant and zucchini that accompanied it. My personal favorite is, without second thought, the brandade de morue, a puree of salt cod, olive oil, garlic, cream and potatoes served on toasted garlic bread with marinated tomatoes and black olives.

For main courses, there is a range that covers everything from vegetarian fusilli in mushroom, vegetable, cream and fresh basil sauce to roast rack of lamb Provencale with a crust of herbs and mustard. The Norwegian salmon filet is cooked to perfection and served atop a salad of roasted grains and sweet peppers. The tuna steak is grilled rare and served swimming in tomato, olive and caper broth. Medallions of beef tenderloin rest comfortably alongside roasted shallots, lightly dressed in a red wine sauce spiked with smoky bacon.

As usual, we dug into some of the more interesting sounding menu items. The confit of duck leg was tender and meaty. Personally, I’ve had better, but the gang outvoted me, and I had to agree that the sweet and spicy ginger-plum sauce and pineapple chutney were perfect accompaniments. The steak au poivre is done to order and topped with cracked peppercorns, shallots, brandy and cream. At the peak of my list was the barbecued, marinated leg of lamb in North African spices and garlic, with white beans and mint mounded underneath. A light salad to clear the palate and we were ready for dessert.

Unfortunately, after several trips, I must admit that I’m not overly impressed with the desserts. The selections sounds great, especially the old-fashioned bourbon-sweet potato pie with toasted pecans, the Brittany butter-almond cake filled with prune and apricot and the banana cake with praline butterscotch frosting. They’re not bad, but they’re just not as exceptional as the rest of the meal. Creme brulee should have its sugar topping caramelized just before serving so you have not only a texture contrast but a temperature one too. Not here, I’d pass on it. Sample from the great after-dinner drink selection and wander on down to the closest cabaret to round out the night.

The Black Sheep Tavern, 344 West 11th Street (at Washington STreet), 242-1010. Reservations recommended. Cash or American Express only. Open seven days a week. Dinner $35-45.

A year or so ago, I was perusing a local restaurant guide and noticed a place that consistently was rated cozy and fun, with good food besides, by reviewers and patrons alike. Such concordance being fairly unusual, we checked the place out. We were suitably impressed, but hadn’t ventured back. With the theme of this column carved in stone, Angler’s & Writers came to mind immediately. [The apostrophe seems to have crept into the published copy, I’m guessing some sort of spell checker was employed.]

Once again, we garnered a corner table with sweeping view of the room. Of course, the place isn’t all that large, so the sweeping doesn’t take all that long. On the other hand, there’s a lot to see. Fishing and boating memorabilia are scattered throughout the room. ON the walls, on tables, on floors. We didn’t see much in the way of writing implements, other than a pen and guest book on a small desk at the door. Perhaps writers are expected to bring their own, which I had.

The staff is unrelentingly friendly, eager to please, and a trifle confused. IN the course of five minute the maitre d’and two waiters came around to give us the specials list. this initially seemed excessive, but since they each gave us a different list, we weren’t quite sure if it was. We settled on the list given by the second waiter, a charming young man from Alaska, mostly because he was the last. It also turned out he was right.

It was a cold evening, and we all opted for soup to start off. Chicken and vegetable sounded a bit tame, we went for the yellow split pea and the whitefish chowder. Both were absolutely delicious, perfectly seasoned and just the way I’d make them at home. The ubiquitous basket of bread helped us sponge up every last drop.

The menu is split into family-style and lighter-style selections. The implication being, I suppose, that families don’t eat light. Or something. There didn’t seem to be a clear difference in presentation of style, but more int he vein of traditional American cooking versus other stuff. Amongst the “light” offerings were a terrine of goose with lingonberries and sweet mustard providing a nice contrast, a roast half-chicken with sauteed spinach, and a hefty plate of gnocchi. Favorites around the table were the smoked salmon and one of the evening’s specials, chicken romagno, with roasted peppers and mushrooms.

On the family side, the battered whitefish was light and crispy, and the stew gave us a nice choice of beef, veal and venison. I went for the roasted chicken with stuffing (okay, for the native easterners, dressing) which was cooked just right and had a nice selection of roasted vegetables on the side. The lamb and mashed potato casserole was also a hit.

Desserts are appropriately family style also, with a selection of pies and cakes in portions big enough to really dig into. Ignore the list at the bottom of the menu, just ask one of the waiters for the evening’s selctions. Just ask one though, or you may get a different opinion. From a myriad of fruit pies and cakes, we selected the mixed brry pie and the apple-plum crumble. Both were, quite simply, good.

Angler’s & Writers offers a nice selection of teas and after dinner coffees to finish off your meal. We unreservedly recommend the Rum Runner’s Cafe, a blend of coffee, maple syrup, rum and cocoa.

Angler’s & Writers, 420 Hudson Street (at St. Luke’s Place), 675-0810. Cash or check only. No reservations. Open seven days a week for lunch/brunch and dinner. Dinner, $30-40.

Somewhere back in the early 00s, long before I’d converted this website to a blog format, I just had these reviews up, along with all the rest, as pages on a regular website. I was contacted by someone, claiming to be involved in a lawsuit that had something to do with The Black Sheep Tavern (long closed at that point), I wasn’t clear whether he was representing the restaurant, employees, or someone else, and demanding that I remove the review from my site as it was prejudicial and could be used against him. WTF? I mean, this is just an electronic record of a print review that was already out there, and I can’t imagine anything in what I said about the restaurant influencing a legal proceeding. Needless to say, despite his demands and threats of suing me if I didn’t, I ignored him, and never heard from him again.

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!