Purim, the Jewish holiday that starts this Sunday, commemorates the Jews’ rescue from the evil Haman. Purim is a time to celebrate. It’s also a time to eat Hamantaschen, the famous three-cornered cookies with filled centers. Depending on what you read, the cookies are said to represent anything from Haman’s hat to his ears. Apparently, there’s no revenge like joyously taking a bite out of your nemesis.

Though Hamantaschen are available year round, yesterday, in anticipation of Purim, I braved the blizzard-like conditions in search of NYC’s best.

The route: A pilgrimage to seven of the most famous Hamantaschen-selling bakeries, from the Lower East Side to the Upper West Side.
The guidelines: Purchase both raspberry and poppy-filled Hamantaschen, in the smaller variety where available, and return home to commence tasting with eager husband.

1. Yonah Schimmel’s Knishes Bakery – 137 East Houston Street: Dry and flavorless cookie. Pale (the most unattractive of the group). Schimmel’s is best known for their knishes. I imagine it will stay that way. The worst of the group.

2. Moishe’s Bake Shop – 115 2nd Ave: Too much almond extract in the cookie left an artificial after taste. The raspberry filling tasted like melted Twizzlers. The most disappointing.

3. 9th Street Bakery – 350 East 9th Street: The cookie was buttery and pure. The dough was more neutral, in a good way, than most of the others. The jelly filling was too sweet. The poppy filling was much better. Tied for best overall.

4. Bruce’s Bakery – 1045 1st Avenue: Lingering taste of almond extract from the cookie, but good consistency. Great raspberry filling. The poppy filling tasted a little off. So close.

5. Orwasher’s Bakery – 308 East 78th Street: Crunchy and flavorful cookie with perfect balance of butter and sweetness. Raspberry filling tasted more like cherry and was way too artificial and sweet. Tied for best overall.

6 – William Greenberg Jr. Desserts – 1100 Madison Avenue: Cookie tasted like pie crust. It could have had a touch more sugar and been crisper. Again, the raspberry filling tasted more like cherry, but appeared to be, and tasted like, real fruit. The best poppy seed filling. The best fillings.

7. Hungarian Pastry Shop – 1030 Amsterdam Avenue: Tasted more like biscotti. Very dry and crumbly with hints of almond extract. They didn’t carry any small varieties but were the only bakery with a walnut filling. The most non Hamantaschen-like.

My goal of finding the single best Hamantaschen in NYC was not as easy as I had hoped as there wasn’t a clear winner. While 9th Street and Orwasher’s had the best cookie, William Greenberg had the best fillings. Those are the three plates to which our hands kept returning.

Regardless, it was well worth the schlep.

I ate a lot of meat last week. A lot. My carnivore parade began on Tuesday with pork at The Breslin and ended on Saturday with a Reuben at Katz’s. In between, there were stops at Po for guinea hen and bolognese and DBGB for sausages.

On Sunday afternoon, my arteries and stomach begging for reprieve, my husband and I happened to walk by babycakes, a 100% vegan bakery on the LES. It couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than a sign.

In addition to being dairy-free, babycakes’s baked goods are wheat-free, soy-free, refined sugar-free, and guilt-free. Their cupcakes, brownies, cookies, and loaves are made of spelt and sweetened with agave nectar. They also offer baked goods that are gluten-free.

The cupcakes were not the moistest we’ve ever had, nor the sweetest, but they were surprisingly good. And better yet, we felt good about eating them.

Am I a convert? Maybe on Sundays.

You can learn more about babycakes and their ingredients at their website. They deliver in Manhattan and ship outside the city.

So is the theme, if not the mantra, of The Breslin. It should come as no surprise that in the Ace Hotel’s hipster gastropub, brought to you by the same folks as the Spotted Pig, pork is king and oil is gold.

The Breslin’s authentically tarnished ceilings and dark wood are not only gorgeous, they’re inviting. Though you’ll complain, you’ll secretly relish the inevitable wait for your table amongst the attractive New Yorkers. You’ll order a drink, maybe even a cask beer to get you in the mood, and take in the scene.

Decorative pigs adorn the walls. On your way out you’ll realize they were taunting you, smiling and whispering: “you are what you eat!” You’ll also wish they could be conjured to life to help with the sloppy service.

We oohed and ahhed at the pork scratchings’ packaging just to discover it was a hog in piglet’s clothing. The Scotch egg, fried in a batter of sausage and breadcrumbs, was too bloated with its own crust. Thankfully, The Breslin-coined scrumpets of twice fried lamb were worth the calories and the dill pickle juice that accompanied the raw oysters was something of a revelation. Pearl, Mary, Ed – are you listening?

One doesn’t go to The Breslin for fish. Even the lamb burger seemed too healthy a choice. Once you’re seated and resigned to your porkful fate, it’s near impossible not to be wooed by the pig’s foot. Don’t believe the menu’s claim that it feeds two. Four of us were hard-pressed to finish this behemoth.

The foot is generously stuffed with ground pork before it’s – yep, you guessed it – fried. At our table, the feeling was unanimous: the texture was unappealing and the flavor underwhelming. This was not a star trotter.

The smoked pork belly was the meal’s savior, reminding us that pork deserves its time on the throne. We somehow managed to squeeze in an order of thrice fried chips and a side of cabbage & bacon.

For dessert, we simply couldn’t stomach the donuts and instead focused on toffee pudding and chocolate. We had our fill of oil. We were fried.

Meatballs are the new cupcakes. Or something like that. Somehow the classic Sunday night fare originally meant to fill bellies has become trendy. Italian grandmothers everywhere are rolling their eyes. They’ve known this is the good stuff for generations.

Enter The Meatball Shop – a new EV eatery with a menu dedicated to yes, you guessed it, meatballs. It’s been open less than a week, but it’s already packed. Last night we managed to squeeze ourselves into one of the communal tables with just enough table space between us to sample every type of ball the The Meatball Shop offers.

The balls: beef, spicy pork, chicken, salmon, veggie, and the daily special. The sauces: parmesan, mushroom gravy, tomato, and spicy meat. You order your balls in slider form (above) or in a bowl. If you’re looking for a sampler, the slider route is the only way to go.

While it was fun to try them all (yes, even the meatless balls of salmon and veggie) I can save you the trouble. It’s all about the chicken which is insanely moist and flavorful. Italian grandmothers everywhere will be asking for the recipe (if they can be heard over the excruciatingly noise level). The side dishes – which can also be served under your slider-less meatballs – were surprisingly tasty. The white beans with bread crumb topping were cassoulet-esque while the creamed spinach (a daily special) will make wolfing down your greens easy (and your aforementioned grandmother very, very happy).

The Meatball Shop also has a build-your-own ice cream sandwich dessert menu. Get the walnut meringue cookie with vanilla ice cream. Don’t ask. Just listen. You’re welcome.

On February 14, 2001 I attempted to make my then boyfriend, now husband, a special Valentine’s meal of pan roasted duck breast. I had never cooked duck before and for some reason didn’t think it would be all that different than cooking chicken. How very wrong I was. The tough and chewy meat resulted in a serious case of duckphobia. So serious, in fact, that duck didn’t make another appearance in my kitchen until nine years later.

We had received a gift certificate for a home cooking instruction and when I perused the catalog of recipes, it was hard to overlook the duck with cherry port jus. I was game for the challenge. The fine chef who came to our apartment demonstrated the proper way to pan roast duck and in turn I learned what I had done wrong back in 2001: absolutely everything. The skin needs to be scored. The meat needs to be cooked on low heat for a very long time. The fat needs to be poured off throughout the cooking process. Under professional instruction we turned out an outstanding duck breast. But could we do it on our own? Our annual home cooked Valentine’s Day meal seemed like the ideal opportunity to find out. The picture tells the tale:

A perfect medium-rare. A crispy skin. A decadent sauce.

We served our scrumptious duck with a creamy and nutty farro risotto and broccoli rabe. My days of duckphobia are officially behind me!

Ever since reading a New Yorker article about Canada’s greasy spoon favorite, poutine (pronounced “poo-tsin”), I’ve been hankering to get my fingers into a pile. A recent trip to Calgary provided the perfect opportunity. Classic poutine is a heap of french fries loaded with brown gravy and fresh cheese curds. Over the years dozens of variations have emerged, making me feel it’s a not-so-distant cousin of America’s beloved stuffed spud. As for our version below, a poutine pundit would quickly notice that it was loaded with shredded cheese rather than cheese curds. In many circles this is surely a Canadian party foul, but I’m pretty sure we got the gist. I don’t covet either french fries or gravy, but together they managed to create something tasty.

[Food:3/5]

It’s been three months since I dined at a restaurant in its opening week. My last such experience was at Trigo, where I thought there was a chance at longevity. Even though it only took two months for Trigo to secure a spot in the NYC restaurant graveyard, that won’t stop me from making a prediction about Table 8: it’s here to stay.

With outposts in both Los Angeles and Miami, Govind Armstrong, Table 8’s chef and proprietor, has a successful track record. For his NYC debut, Armstrong has found a home in the already-hip Cooper Square Hotel. The pairing appears prosperous.

We definitely experienced a handful of kinks and miscues, but nothing that won’t get ironed out as Table 8 finds its’ footing. But as opposed to other newbie restaurants, whether or not they’re ever corrected probably won’t alter Table 8’s fate. It’s just one of those places. A place to see and be seen. A place where people will be drawn to eat, regardless of the food. A place where success is in the cards.

The music was so loud, yelling across the table was required. The restaurant was so dark, we passed around our single votive like a torch, so we could actually see how each dish had been plated. Women bore cleavage and stilettos. Men sported gel-infused coifs and shirts with one too many buttons undone. If I hadn’t just walked off the Bowery, I would have sworn I was in Miami, or maybe Los Angeles. Go figure.

Armstrong’s menu is varied and well thought out. He demonstrates cooking ingenuity and prowess. But the atmosphere prevents diners from appreciating these accomplishments, and from what I observed, the patrons are looking for more scene than food. With a couple Table 8s already under his belt, I assume this is the atmosphere Armstrong desired.

Armstrong’s menu features a Salt Bar (think amuse bouche-size bites), a flat bread, Starters, Entrees, and Small Accents (aka sides). We sampled Venison and Fluke from the Salt Bar. Both were flavorful and pleasing. For $4, there were no complaints about the generous portion of flatbread.

While there was nothing extraordinary about our Scallop and Quail starters, both were prepared expertly and both were very, very good.

Armstrong’s culinary capabilities were most evident in the Halibut entrée. Though its description is over-simplified on the menu, the halibut arrives two ways – smoked on a buttered and crispy baguette and as a small filet. The dish was delightful.

The Bone-in Skate, served in a spicy saffron broth with cockles, was also different than any skate preparation I’ve previously had. The broth was more salty than spicy, but once you mastered eating the skate without getting a mouthful of bones, the reward was luscious fish.

The Grilled Baby Chicken was the night’s only disappointment. It was grilled until rubbery, all its succulence depleted. The accompanying Short Rib Hash, however, should get the opportunity to be its own entrée.

If you can bear to stay for the final course, reward yourself with the Coffee Parfait.

While the scene at Table 8 is far from my preferred dining experience, and I’m not compelled to return, I have little doubt that there are countless others to take my place.

Table 8

www.thecoopersquarehotel.com

25 Cooper Square

New York, NY 10003

(212) 475-3400

[Food:3/5]

Pizza has always been a New York City staple, but these days, it’s enjoying a newfound resurgence. The mainstay pizzerias seen on more street corners than Starbucks are making way for destination pizza restaurants serving Neapolitan pies. Artisanal bread is the new thin crust. Homemade sausage is the new pepperoni.

In these modern times, technology is also playing a larger role. Costly pizza ovens are being specially designed and flown in from far away places. Owners and chefs are engaging in machinery-inspired machismo: My oven is bigger! Mine is hotter! It’s no surprise that since opening in January, Co. (short for Company) has been as blistering as its wood-fired oven (about 900 degrees).

Co. is a Jim Lahey production, a man who has carved – make that, rolled – out his place in the Manhattan baking scene. Lahey’s no-knead pizza dough is the sturdy foundation for his pies. His Sullivan Street Bakery churns out some of the most highly touted breads in the city.

Co.’s decor, made up of light woods and communal dining tables, is undeniably laid back. Co.’s staff, made up of characters (think surfer-dudes and actors), is undeniably quirky. They appear to be having fun, even if they don’t appear to be professionals. They shimmy to the loud music. They cluster in groups and giggle. They talk to one another about what party they’re hitting later.

Co. is not the place to grab a quick slice. Co.’s mostly-round pizzas, from which there are nine to choose, come individually sized. In addition to the pies, the menu offers three salads, cheese and charcuterie, and a selection of toasts.

On our first visit, the waiter explained that Co.’s pizzas come with a slightly blackened crust. My husband, forever asking for his pizza to be well done, was thrilled when the promise of charred edges was fulfilled. The crust was somewhat mind-boggling; it’s singed and crispy, yet also soft and chewy.

On our most recent visit, our pizzas’ edges were only baked golden brown. Without the crunchy and doughy contrast, the crust wasn’t nearly as impressive.

One doesn’t go to Co. for the Margherita pizza. It would be like going to Cold Stone Creamery and getting a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Lahey must have it on the menu for the pizza laymen. Don’t be one of them.

On the menu, the Popeye ingredient list reads long: pecorino, gruyere, buffalo mozzarella, spinach, black pepper, and garlic. Though its description sounds frenetic, its appearance and taste are subtle. Scorched spinach leaves top a pleasing combination of cheeses, leaving a most elegant pizza in their wake.

True to its name, the flambé was more robust. Bechamel, parmesan, buffalo mozzarella, carmelized onions, and lardons create a salty and sweet pie you’ll be craving in a week.

The leek and sausage pie is also quite good. Spicy bits of sausage mingle with leeks and soothing buffalo mozzarella on tomato sauce. Whatever Lahey creation tickles your fancy, will likely please your tastebuds.

The pie is on the rise and Co. is at the top of its game.

Co.

www.co-pane.com

230 Ninth Avenue

New York, NY 10001

(212) 243-1105

[Food:3.5/5]

Scott Bryan got my attention when he was at Veritas. I wasn’t alone. Since his departure, many of us have been watching; waiting for his next project. There have been rumors and false speculation. Patience has been a requirement.

When it was announced that Bryan would take over the kitchen at Apiary I was elated and again, I wasn’t alone. It has been crowded with Bryan-followers. Compared to the lukewarm reception of his Apiary predecessor, his East Village welcome has sizzled.

The restaurant, designed by Ligne Roset, is modern and somewhat forgettable. I’ll admit that the lights that cast shadows of chandelier silhouettes onto the walls were cool. Very cool.

The odd Apiary moniker is contained to a handful of bee illustrations on the menu. They appear to fly around the dish descriptions, as if telling you the food is irresistible. I get the impression that Bryan is a straight forward, no nonsense kind of guy. The cutesy bees, dancing around his food, have definitely got to sting.

Apiary aptly describes the frenetic noise level. Even when not filled to capacity, the restaurant is buzzing. The clamoring atmosphere disconnects diners from Bryan’s refined cooking; the din is too intense for the subtle food. The somewhat unpolished service was another distraction. Our server was kind, but nervous and unsure of herself. We waited an eternity for our entrees.

At Apiary, Scott Bryan is doing what Scott Bryan does best – New American with a hint of French. His focus on quality ingredients is unfaltering. His dishes are skillfully prepared.

Bits of silky avocado accompanied melt-in-your-mouth Hamachi. The dish had the perfect bite of acidity, a feat that Bryan prides himself on.

Flawlessly balanced Tuscan White Bean Soup was another example of Bryan’s ability. It was somehow delicate, complex, hearty, and elegant.

The not-so Crispy Sweetbreads were the night’s biggest disappointment. Devoid of punch, the romesco was too tame a foil. Nothing in the dish popped. Apparently Bryan is human.

The entrees were vintage Bryan. The Chatham Cod, with bouillabaisse broth, chickpeas and a piquant rouille was only out done when compared to the Skate, with a golden brown crust and duo of bacon and razor clams. Both were cooked to moist and flaky perfection.

Both duck preparations, the breast and the leg confit, were again, cooked with aptitude. The breast was reminiscent of the best-duck-ever at Gramercy Tavern. An overpowering parsnip puree could have been better appointed.

Between the noise and the service, it was hard to give Bryan’s talent and expertly prepared dishes the appreciation they deserve. Maybe I’ll forever be hoping for those long-ago dinners at Veritas, where the food, service, and atmosphere congealed into a heavenly trifecta. But maybe my version of Bryan-style dining isn’t his. Even if he doesn’t like the bees, it’s possible Bryan likes the buzz. We’ll see if the swarm continues to hover around his Apiary.

Apiary

www.apiarynyc.com/a>

60 Third Avenue

New York, NY 10003

(212) 254-0888

[Food:2.5/5]

For as long as I can remember, my Dad has swooned over El Faro. More specifically, he has had a thirty-five year love affair with El Faro’s Chicken Villarroy.

To appease his hankerings, during their forty-year marriage my Mom has agreed to eat there. On occasion. For a woman who rarely strays from the fish section of a menu (ordered with no extra salt), her ingestion of anything from El Faro’s menu could only have been driven by love.

According to my father, she would order the Mixed Seafood with Egg Sauce. While she picked out all the seafood, he would dollop the Egg Sauce onto his rice by the spoonful. Love, indeed.

When the rare opportunity arose for my Dad and I to eat alone a couple weeks ago, there was little question as to where we would be dining. After three decades, I would finally get to eat at El Faro. Despite its place in my father’s heart, I had never been.

El Faro has been in the far West Village, on Greenwich Street, since 1927. Yep, that’s 81 years. The wooden tables, rickety chairs, and fading wall mural are likely unchanged.

The Sangria is light on the fruit, and leans more acidic than sweet. At $21 a carafe, it’s hard to pass up. The wine glasses are tiny, and for the two of us, the carafe felt bottomless.

We shared some of the chewiest fried calamari I’ve ever had; pulling and tearing were required.

In contrast, the silky smooth Croquetas melted in our mouths. The secret ingredient? Béchamel. There were three types of Croquetas – cod, ham, and spinach – each individually mixed with béchamel before being breaded and fried. The result are two-bite treasures.

Béchamel is an El Faro staple. It permeates more dishes on the menu than your arteries care to know. The classic sauce of scalded milk, flour, and butter can transform any dish into decadence.

It’s no surprise that the Chicken Villarroy, my Father’s culinary love, relies heavily on this creamy magnificence. Chicken cutlets are battered in béchamel and then deep-fried. The chicken remains moist and juicy. Its golden crust is rich and crispy.

Though I can’t be sure, I’m confident that béchamel is also incorporated into Shrimp in Green Sauce. There is some spinach, to give it a luscious green color, and to fool you into thinking the thick and creamy sauce might have some nutritional value. The shrimp were plump and tender. It’s easy to hide mediocre proteins in rich sauces. El Faro pulls no such punches.

After eating at El Faro it was easy to understand my Father’s love affair and perhaps, to even start one of my own.

El Faro

www.elfaronyc.com

823 Greenwich Street

New York, NY 10014

(212) 929-8210

[Food:2.5/5]

In Manhattan’s vast dining landscape, Lusso won’t likely register a blip on the Richter scale. But in SoHo (my stomping ground), the magnitude could be much greater. Who doesn’t anticipate a new restaurant opening in their neighborhood? We’re always hoping it’s going to be the new go-to place; our Thursday night savior.

Lusso is located on the corner of West Broadway and Grand, SoHo’s mecca of mediocre dining. Its neighbors include Felix, Diva, and Novecento. And those are just the ones within spitting distance. Relatively speaking, culinary superiority should not be too difficult a feat.

Dark wooden tables, exposed brick walls, and flickering votives create an attractive ambiance with a downtown vibe. Though the bar area is small, much attention has been paid to the drink menu and a plasma television sits atop the liquor shelves. The way the tables are situated, most diners can’t see the screen, but you know it’s there, and its hard not to wonder whether new-owner Michael Carpinillo is more concerned with wooing drinkers or diners.

The Crostini with chicken liver heightened our expectations. Decadent, smooth, and rich pate was generously slathered atop slices of bread that were both soft and crusty.

The Gnocchi that followed was not as impressive, but for pasta that is often made with too much heft and not enough finesse, Lusso’s was very good. While its dressing of cream sauce, and garnish of peas, bacon, and mushrooms, weren’t novel, it was an earthy and pleasant dish.

It was the next set of dishes that lost their foothold.  A crock of Lasagna with lamb, celery root béchamel, and spinach pasta was soupy and bland. The overcooked lasagna noodles were limp and lifeless. The less-than-robust marinara sauce was thin.

The sight of the Anatra, roasted duck breast perched atop brussel sprouts and farro, falsely elevated our hopes before dropping them back on West Broadway. The duck was drastically under seasoned. The menu’s promise of cherry agro dolce was limited to a few whole cherries that we desperately cut into small pieces to disperse among our otherwise dull and flavorless bites.

Full, but not content, it was the homemade ladyfingers that convinced us to order the Tiramisu for Two. When it arrived in the same crock the lasagna had been served in we experienced a distasteful dining déjà vu. But one bite of the balanced confection had us swooning. Both the texture and density were idyllic. The cream was lavish.

Lusso also gets praise for attentive and friendly service; both were superior to what we’ve recently experienced in restaurants across Manhattan. In that sense, Lusso was a very good neighbor. But will the neighborhood return the sentiment? Only time will tell.

Lusso

www.lussonyc.com

331 W. Broadway

New York, NY 10013

(212) 431-0131

[Food:2.5/5]

Pork. Pig. Swine. No, I’m not calling you names; I’m describing the foundation, the essence really, of Ryan Skeen’s menu at Irving Mill.

When I last dined at Irving Mill, the kitchen was under the tutelage of John Schaefer. The meal was enjoyable, but too many lukewarm reviews spurred a helm change. Enter Ryan Skeen. Formerly of Resto, Skeen is renowned in omnivore circles for his burger and porkified dishes. A couple of weeks ago, I returned to Irving Mill to see if Skeen was worth squealing about.

Irving Mill’s burger is a magnificent compilation of beef and pork. Fatback, beef cheek, and aged flap steak are all ground together for a truly extraordinary taste. Every glorious bite is worth its weight in saturated fat. It’s also worth every penny. (At $15, it’s extraordinarily priced.)

The soggy potato wedges that accompany this masterpiece are an embarrassment beyond comprehension. There’s definitely a fryer in the kitchen. And, definitely a lot of lard. That doesn’t leave room for a lot of excuses.

We stayed in the pigpen for a couple more “bites:” the Salt & Pepper Ribs and the Pork Toast. The ribs, sweetened and spiced with soy and sugar, are deep fried. Despite their crust-like exterior, the meat dutifully separates from the bone.

From its description, the Pork Toast sounds ingenious. Its appearance and flavor, however, failed to impress. Square pillows of mashed pork-jowls are deep fried and topped with egg salad and caviar. The toasts look like miniature potato knishes from a plastic bag in the frozen food aisle; that’s also how they tasted.

Skeen’s pork-colored glasses even shade some of the fish dishes. The Hamachi is decorated with crispy slivers of chorizo and bits of grapefruit. The cleanness of the fish created an ideal palate for the salt and citrus foils.

The Crudo of Fluke, adorned with beets, grapes, and pecans, was not nearly as triumphant. The only way I can aptly describe it, is funky, and not in a good way. My dining companions deemed it inedible.

The Pistachio Crusted Snapper, other than a tasty helping of Ratatouille Panzanella, was dull. Dare I suggest the addition of pork?

The desserts were swine-free, but sinful. The parfait, served in a bountiful glass, layers banana ice cream with macaroons, vanilla custard, and chocolate. It’s smooth. It’s crunchy. It’s sweet. The warm pecan tart with brown butter ice cream and Wild Turkey caramel sauce was worthy of admiration.

If you go for the burger and stay for dessert, you’ll leave pot-bellied and happy.

Irving Mill

www.irvingmill.com

116 E. 16th Street

New York, NY 10003

(212) 254-1600

[Food:3/5]

We were in a restaurant death spiral, plummeting towards the point of no return. Service had been abysmal. The first course was middling. The lengthy wait for our entrees had turned painful. Our shoulders sagged. Regrets that we had decided to eat at a week-old restaurant were voiced. Someone suggested we cut our losses and bail.

But then the seemingly impossible happened; the free fall was stopped mid-plunge. The arrival of our entrees commenced an unprecedented turnaround. But more on that later . . .

Trigo’s stunning interior of steel latticework and floor to ceiling windows has a warehouse-meets-train station feel. The setting was eerily fitting for our absent server. Had he caught a train to Poughkeepsie? Gotten lost in the vast space? We had to ask for menus. We had to ask for water. We had to track him down to order.

We were never welcomed, nor thanked, for choosing to dine at Trigo in its opening week. No one explained the menu, a potentially confusing compilation of eight sections. When I got home I visited Trigo’s website and learned they offer “a shared plate menu” with “accessible Mediterranean-influenced dishes prepared with market-driven ingredients.” Who knew?

We chose a variety of dishes from Trigo’s antipasto listing and then everyone selected their own entrée. Whether this is what Trigo’s chef and owner envisioned, we’ll never know.

The cured meats (from the butcher block section) and cheeses (from the cheese board) were all fine and good, but far from exciting.

All the room temperature antipasto dishes from the fish market and farmstand sections were like science experiments gone awry. Marinated olives were gingered. Pickled pumpkin was raw. Roasted mushrooms were stripped of their earthiness. Octopus confit was chewy and fishy.

It was the from the hearth section of the menu that rescued the first course; a beacon in an otherwise dreary sea. It was the ingredients that wooed us to this part of the menu; we didn’t know (read: weren’t told) that every dish in the section was cooked on the same rustic flat bread. The lamb with chilies was divine. The onion tart was very, very good. My post-dining research revealed that Trigo has an earthen oven on premises. Seems like a tidbit of information worth sharing with your restaurant patrons.

It very well might have been the flat breads that keep us buoyant, our heads above water, as we waited for our entrees. When they did finally arrive, it was as though we had been transported to a completely different restaurant. We took our first bites and looked at each other, stunned.

Subtle and sublime spices tantalized our taste buds. The aromatics were triumphant. Juicy Guinea Hen was roasted with African spices. The lamb duo, a combination of ribs and loin, was prepared expertly. The lamb ribs were charred, the meat falling off its bones. Scallops were seared to perfection and propped elegantly on cauliflower puree. Every plate was licked clean.

While a side of vegetables was delectably roasted, its contents of mostly onions and carrots were disappointing. An order of mushroom fries was delightful, the only downside is that the standard Idaho variety is mixed into the pile as filler.

At this point, the dining crowd had thinned and we were receiving much better service. Our server even took the time to recommend a dessert or two while our water glasses were refilled.

The desserts, which arrived expeditiously, pushed Trigo farther down the redemption path. Bomboloni, warm chocolate donuts served with vanilla mascarpone and crunchy chocolate bites, are a must. The chocolate “Candy Bar,” made with halva, chocolate mousse, and butterscotch was decadent without being hefty. The lemon mousse and fennel cake was light, but not on flavor.

As I’ve said before, “any new dining venture is bound to have its handful of issues.” If Trigo can fix theirs, they might cross the finish line a winner.

Trigo

http://www.trigorestaurant.com

268 West Broadway

New York, NY 10012

212.925.1600

[Food:2.5/5]

Mara’s Homemade, a family-run Creole restaurant in the East Village, radiates Southern hospitality; it’s congenial and relaxed. Mara is the owner, head chef, and chief marketer. She weaves her way through the small dining rooms, chatting with patrons, urging them to drink more, to order an extra dessert, and to join her mailing list.

I’ll listen to any sales pitch for a slice of her sumptuous Crawfish Cheesecake; a savory concoction with a breadcrumb crust and a filling of crawfish tails, andouille sausage, and cheese.

In addition to Cajun cuisine, the menu also contains a full page of Arkansas BBQ. The geography is odd, but so it Mara’s. She discovered her love for New Orleans cuisine via weekend trips from Dallas. At some point she lived in LA. If she has ever set foot in Arkansas I didn’t hear about it; I was happily eating my Crawfish Cheesecake.

Our minds were swimming with various Catfish and Crawfish dishes from the overwhelming menu when our chatty server (Mara’s daughter, of course) started telling us about the specials. It was as though she was throwing us a line, saving us from drowning in difficult decisions.

The Shrimp Special, described by Mara’s daughter as fantastic, was also described as an ideal sharing platter. We got reeled in. The shrimp were mealy, difficult to peel, and dressed in sauces not worth detailing.

Gator bites (popcorn shrimp for the self-proclaimed adventurist), were eagerly consumed. But, what isn’t compelling about cornmeal breaded, fried, nuggets dunked in Remoulade sauce? The fried okra, similarly battered and crisped, confirmed the hypothesis: these dishes had little to do with Mara and much to do about the fryer.

Coaster-sized Louisiana oysters on the half-shell were plump, but mild. The Oysters Rockefeller, spiked with Anisette liquor, had an odd sweetness.

A special Artichoke and Oyster Soup piqued our curiosity and satisfied our taste buds. Mara gets credit for the ingenuity.

While the Creole Catfish was generously dusted with Cajun seasoning, the preparation felt sloppy and lackluster.

The Berry Cobbler, Key Lime pie, and Bread Pudding all slightly misshapen, were the epitome of homemade. Every last bite of their deliciousness was devoured.

The four of us left full and jolly. It was only later that I realized the meal was more fun than the food was good. But, there’s no doubt my stomach will urge my return for some of Mara’s Cajun treats. As for my heart, it might just urge me back for a little bit of Mara herself.

Mara’s Homemade

http://www.marashomemade.com

342 East 6th Street

New York, NY 10003

212.598.1110

Before publishing a restaurant review, professional critics will dine at a restaurant at least twice. Well-known reviewers aim for a triple visit. The likes of Frank Bruni and Adam Platt have the influence to move a restaurant’s pendulum between failure and success and multiple visits are part of their duty. I’m not that powerful.

Over the past two weeks, however, I broke practice and went to Freemans for the second and third time. (The first time was over the summer.) Unfortunately, I can’t tell you a thing about the food.

On my first and second visits we bailed after the hostess informed us of the 1.5 hour wait for a table. (Freemans does not accept reservations.) On this third visit, my two dining companions and I were ready for the challenge, ready to wait it out. We were not alone.

The two bar areas were packed with patrons waiting for tables. A constant flow of people approached the hostess, asking questions, and pointing to their watches. When the three of us had already been waiting an hour and a half, and had seen multiple parties of four leave their tables and be replaced with people I was certain had arrived after us, I approached the hostess. “Oh, we don’t seat parties of three at four tops,” she said with condescending sympathy. When I asked her to clarify, she explained that parties of three are only seated at tables for two. She pointed to a nearby table where a third chair had been pulled up to the side. Third wheel indeed.

At the two-hour mark, I spoke with the hostess again, repeating my dissatisfaction with their seating policy and a wait that was much longer than she originally stated. A party of six shuffled by her podium and exited. She offered us their vacant table by the door. Starving and weary, I agreed.

The three of us sat down at the oversized table. We had to lean in deeply to talk. We had to put on our coats and scarves to fight the icy draft. Could the Artichoke Dip be that good? Were the Striped Bass and Roasted Chicken going to be that much better than the hundreds of other restaurants in NYC serving similar dishes? It didn’t seem possible.

So we got up and left. We broke out of the prison and I vow never, ever, to return.

I am a free woman.