After a short tour of Grand Central Terminal, Joe, Andrea and I moseyed over to the Museum of Modern Art. We brezzed through the fourth and fifth floors in a Greatest Hits tour (Dali’s Persistence of Memory and van Gogh’s Starry Night among them) and perused a special exhibit called Safe, which displayed many objects, futuristic and present, by which humans clothe, protect, shelter and transport themselves from elements such as harsh weather, harm, injury and death. (The exhibit brochure was well designed, with a circle graph on the cover that entertainingly ranked the top non-health-related ways in which humans can be killed, the most popular of which was sitting in a motor vehicle.)

The Modern, which includes a swanky dining room that isn’t open Sundays, and The Bar Room, the more casual dining and bar area where we ate. The chef, Gabriel Kreuther, created the menus for both rooms, and they’re different, with the Bar Room fare less expensive but just as innovative. I had a cactus pear margarita that emanated the strong woody odor of the tequila and was a vibrant purple color that made me feel slightly less of a man to drink. But I made the most of it.

I also ordered the pumpkin soup and the horseradish-crusted salmon, both excellent and attractively presented. I can’t say how much we all spent because I didn’t save a receipt and a menu I located online was out of date, but suffice to say it was costly but worth it.

In fact, below I’ve listed some handy menu keywords and types of phrases that you can search for to determine how expensive a restaurant is. If you spot at least three of them on a menu, it’s an expensive place, more so if there are a few in a single menu item description. If you can locate none of these words, or a menu at all, tip that cap back and settle into those dungarees, sir, because you are not in an expensive restaurant.

• anything baby (baby squash)
• endive
• crusted
• emulsion
• any French word
• wilted, but used in a positive fashion
• phrases in quotation marks and it’s not immediately clear why (“Potato Gateau,” a “Folly of Herbs”)
• foods normally meant for bovine consumption (chickweed, fennel pollen)
• Frankenstein-like taste combinations (mint-anchovy)
• items that don’t actually exist (white coco beans)

After realizing with a start that we had little time to spare, we avoided some tempting dessert options, paid, and crossed the street to the MoMA Design Store, which had in stock the two styles of Christmas cards that Joe wanted. I purchased them with my membership card for a mighty discount, along with some more Muji pens for myself.

We rushed back to the apartment so Joe and Andrea could grab their bags and take the subway to the bus to LaGuardia, and Andrea called later to say that they had just made their plane.

Good times!

The Modern

• 9 W. 53rd St. (between 5th and 6th Avenues)
• (212) 333-1220
• Meal 32 of 52: cactus pear margarita, pumpkin soup and horseradish-crusted salmon.

After grabbing some sweet and flaky Spanish pastries from a bakery on Dykman, we traveled via subway from the tip top of the borough to the very bottom, the Bowling Green station in Battery Park, to stand on line awhile for ferry tickets to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island.

I now know that in order to go up into the Statue, you need to reserve tickets in advance, because there weren’t any available. Fortunately, we were more interested in Ellis Island, so we didn’t even get off the first ferry stop at the Statue (although we took many photos, including of Lady Liberty’s be-robed ass), then departed at the Island stop.

We spent awhile at Ellis Island, poring over the exhibits, which go into every detail of immigrant life, covering who they were and where they were from, why they came to America (typically to join family already here or to get a job and make some money), what they ate, what they brought with them, the battery of medical and mental examinations they were put through, as well as careful consideration of their value to American society—quite often, the diseased, potential beggars and contract laborers were barred.

For lunch, I tried to locate the Cowgirl Hall of Fame (where Joe and I ate and had a rowdy time at almost exactly a year ago), but got lost and coincidentally ended up across the street from the Corner Bistro, an oldschool bar/burger shack in the Village I’ve been meaning to try. After a brief wait on line, during which we quaffed McSoreley’s Dark Ale, we got a booth in the back and ordered our Bistro Burgers, which come with bacon, American cheese, a slice of raw white onion, lettuce and tomato, served without pretense on a small paper plate. The shoestring fries were good, too.

After we were informed that a police investigation uptown was severely delaying our 1 train, we instead walked over to the A, during which time I pointed out Jimi’s old apartment and the various sex paraphernalia shops on West 4th Street. Uptown, we rushed through St. Patrick’s Cathedral because there was a service in session, then walked to Rockefeller Center where there were already folks ice skating. The giant Christmas tree is up, too, although it’s mostly shielded from view before its lighting on the 30th. After poking around the NBC gift shop, we went to the Top of the Rock in a glass-topped elevator, on which is projected a brief audio-visual show and through which you can see various theatrical colored lights bouncing around the elevator shaft.

At the top are some great views north and south, particularly of the Empire State Building. If you stare at the skyscraper long enough, you can see the camera flashes of tourists from that building’s observation deck, just as they certainly could see our own flashes. During the day, the view north would be a spectacular one of the entirety of Central Park, but at night, it’s a large, mostly dark rectangle. We also determined you can only see a sliver of Times Square, because surrounding skyscrapers block the view.

Coincidentally, sort of, we ran into a class from the school Joe teaches at, which was wrapping up its multi-day bus tour of the city. Joe was kind to take a group photo of the students, standing on the observation deck one story up from the kids to get an all-inclusive top-down view.

For dinner, we met up with Andie for an Italian dinner at the Upper West Side neighborhood-favorite, Celeste, topped by one of their famous ten-cheese tasting plates. Mmm-mmm, good!

Corner Bistro

• 331 W. 4th St. (at Jane Street)
• (212) 242-9502
• Meal 31 of 52: two mugs of McSorley’s Dark Ale ($2.00 each) and a Bistro Burger ($6.00).

You never know how much stuff you truly own until you cram it into cardboard boxes. Most everything I have fit into one smallish room, but seemed never-ending while I was packing it up, using heavy duty Ingram and Barnes & Noble boxes donated by Eric and Andie, and my noisy new 3M tape gun. All told, it took one full day last weekend and most of today to sort and box everything. I’m not labeling any of the boxes because I like to be surprised, like at Christmas, plus it will force me to unpack them sooner as I don’t know what’s in which box.

To wind down, I had dinner with Jimi, the Man and their housemate Michael at the Dallas BBQ in Chelsea. Dallas is the workhorse of the NYC BBQ chains, probably the most heavily advertised, large and basic, with a fast table turnover. The grub is moderately inexpensive and plentiful. I got a heavy glass goblet containing 20 ounces of Budweiser for a mere $4.50 and my entree featured a full rack of barbecued baby back ribs (with a sweet sauce heavily reminiscent of the Open Pit I remember from barbecues of my childhood), a huge cube of cornbread and a pile of fries.

Dallas BBQ

• 261 8th Ave. (at West 23rd Street)
• (212) 462-0001
• Meal 30 of 52: 20-ounce goblet of Bud ($4.50) and barbecued baby back ribs platter ($10.99).

After work, I went downtown to City Hall, an American restaurant in Tribeca on Duane Street¹ for some festivities with Jimi and his friends. If you’re a besuited middle-aged white businessman, this is your restaurant. But then, if you are, you probably already knew that, because the place was packed with ’em, making me feel like a potato-sacked hillbilly for not wearing a collared shirt.

Lots of rich wood paneling, track lighting and, lining the walls near the ceiling, backlit photos of historical New York street life, including several by Berenice Abbott.

Appetizers were plenty, including garlicky vegetable trays of pickles, carrots, celery, radishes, pickled tomatoes and olives, then there were dinner rolls and deep-fried onion strings. Whether our waiter was biding his time or it was just the regular way of things, the time it took to get our menus, and then our food after ordering, was glacial: literally two hours to get our menus, then another hour and a half for the food.

Several folks ordered the “High Rise of Shellfish,” a tower of oysters, clams, mussels, crab, shrimp, lobster and some other mysterious-looking crustaceans. I tried the grilled hanger steak, served with balsamic onions and drenched in port butter for extra heart-stopping richness, and served with one of those small piles of mystery greens that I’m never certain are there merely for decoration or are truly meant to be eaten.

I had a few forkfuls of Jimi’s dessert, which was red velvet cake, a treat I’ve always wanted to try. Tastes like butter. And correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the secret just a cup or so of red food coloring?

Afterwards, the group, which contained several well-dressed handsome gay men, decided to watch some go-go boys at a midtown club. I was informed that the difference between go-go boys and all-out strippers is that there’s no fucking around, as it were, with the go-go boys removing any clothing: they emerge fully clothed in a thong or some other sort of prurient undergarment, or perhaps nothing whatsoever. At any rate, I decided this jolly aspect of the evening wasn’t for me, so I bid the guys adieu.

City Hall

• 131 Duane St. (Between Church and West Broadway)
• (212) 227-7777
• Meal 29 of 52: grilled hanger steak ($25).

¹ Trivia Time: Just south of Duane Street is Reade Street. In 1960, that New York drugstore chain took its name from the two streets, which bounded its warehouse. [back]

My friend Tina, who moved to Florida recently, was in town on business, so I stopped by to visit her, appropriately enough for a toy inventor/designer, at the International Toy Center, a two-building complex at 200 Fifth Avenue and 1107 Broadway connected by an enclosed pedestrian bridge on the 9th floor.

The 1107 Broadway segment was built in 1911, and at 16 stories tall, was one of the highest buildings in New York. (This record means little as it was being broken rapidly at the time; the nearby 21-story Flatiron Building, for instance, was completed in 1915.) But the timing coincided with an influx of German toy manufacturers to the U.S. prior to and during World War I, shifting the industry from a European one to an American one by the end of World War II. By then, most toy companies were headquartered in the Madison Square area and New York was the toy capital of the world.

Of course, that’s far from the truth today. Lately, the building has served as temporary showroom and office space for toy manufacturers and suppliers in town for the Toy Industry Association’s trade shows held every October and February at the Javits Center, the International Halloween Show and the American International Toy Fair.

Then, in January, real estate developer The Chetrit Group bought the complex for about $360 million with plans to turn it into apartments starting early next year. (In March, a similar fate hit the 1 Madison Avenue complex located across Madison Square Park from the Toy Center. SL Green Realty Corp. bought it for $918 million and plans to convert its signature 50-story building, topped with a clock tower modeled after the one at St. Mark’s Cathedral in Venice, into luxury condominiums.)

When I checked in with the security guard in the Toy Center lobby, telling him I was there to see Tina in 1510, he squinted at me like I was an idiot. I saw why after I got off the fancy elevator (depicted above): the building now is mostly vacant in preparation for the gutting. I passed bank after bank of deserted offices, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the walls as I walked down the unlit hallway. I saw through some windows that the adjoining Toy Center building was empty, too. Tina had a small, unfurnished office in the back that she was using as a showroom for a new project and with all the packaging and the samples and prototypes of toys strewn about the room, it looked as if a children’s birthday party had exploded.

We headed out to a simple little restaurant with cozy booths, Mustang Sally’s, a block away from the Fashion Institute of Technology, and frequented by Tina during her time there. It was halfway decent, with a standard salad, sandwich and steak menu. I had a burger and fries, which were rather costly. Tina had the salmon and shrimp Caesar salad, which she said was tasty.

Parting at Penn Station, Tina gave me her paperback copy of The Inner Circle by T.C. Boyle. Because she’s on the Long Island Railroad much of her time in New York, she reads a lot and shockingly revealed to me that sometimes, as she finishes reading a page, will tear it from the book, so by the end, all that remains is a limp cover with a jagged paper spine. Less to carry that way, she explained. I was glad such a fate didn’t fall Inner Circle because so far, it’s a good read, even with the shrieking infant on the 1 train and his father who shouted shut up! enough that even the jaded New Yorkers were getting a little shifty in their seats.

Mustang Sally’s

• 324 Seventh Avenue (at W. 28th Street)
• (212) 695-3806
• Meal 28 of 52: Mustang Burger ($9.95) with sautéed mushrooms ($1.50 extra), fries ($3.95) and a Diet Coke ($2.75).

It was a dark and stormy night, and sitting at my table at Djerdan, an old-world Balkan restaurant in the Garment District, I kept imagining a spy resembling Alan Arkin, clad in a long gray overcoat, stumbling through the door, grazed by a bullet and grasping a rain-spotted manila envelope. “For the love of the republic, get this microfilm to Hasad,” he would rasp, pressing it into my hand. Then, before collapsing in a wet heap on the cracked tile floor, he would add, “Try the burek. It’s quite good.”

Well, Alan would be right. Homemade burek, a specialty at Djerdan, are large, flat slices of phyllo pie stuffed with spinach and cheese or ground beef. I tried the spinach variety and ordered some Turkish coffee that was strong enough to support my coffeespoon upright, as the bottom of the cup contained, I discovered upon draining it, a sludgy, mudlike layer of fine grounds.

Continuing my phyllo feast, I got a thick wedge of moist Baklava that had something like 30 flaky layers. Not only was it tasty, the desserts menu contains a full dozen intriguing-sounding choices, from tulumba and hurmasica, to oblanda and cupavac.

Consulting the menu while listening to the rowdy 20-somethings a few tables down speak rapidly in a thick, tangled Eastern European language, I noted that other specialties at Djerdan include beef goulash, stuffed cabbage and peppers and traditional veal dishes, including soup and kabobs. Good, hearty food, and cheap, too. They’re open for lunch and just a street down from where I work in Midtown. Tastily convenient!

Djerdan

• 221 W. 38th St. (between Seventh and Eighth Avenues)
• (212) 921-1183
• Meal 27 of 52: spinach burek ($4.95), Turkish coffee ($2.50) and baklava ($3.95).

Like Paris Hilton, the Shake Shack was born and bred in New York City but continues to confound and enrapture with an inexplicably meteoric rise to fame.

There are other Hilton connections; trust me as I break it down.

First, when you peel back the superficial glitz and fame, you see the Shake Shack is a simpleton of the food world—it’s a glorified burger stand.

But then there’s the pedigree. The Shack’s founder, celebrity chef Danny Meyer, also birthed and owns the storied Union Square Cafe, the Gramercy Tavern and one of my favorite BBQ joints, Blue Smoke, among five other restaurants in the city.

Then you’ve got more celebrity and a dash of controversy with conceptual artist Sol LeWitt. Sol doesn’t have anything directly to do with the Shack, but he erected his most recent installation, Circle with Towers, smack dab on the periphery of the Shack’s main eating area. In appreciation, Shack customers sit on the artwork’s concrete-block ring, an inviting three feet high and 25 feet in diameter.

You’ve got the primo real estate connection. As if being nestled snug in the southeast corner of Madison Square Park wasn’t enough, the Shack is also about a block from the Flatiron Building in one direction and, in the other, the business and social titans of Madison and Park Avenues.

You’ve got the adoring public queuing up and wanting more, and you’ve got the media with its ever-flowing coverage of the adoring public. This ranges from Owen Phillips’ snotty directive in The New Yorker that “the Shack needs to get rid of some fans if it’s going to survive. No burger stand can handle this kind of volume,” to Rob Patronite’s exhortation in New York magazine that despite his 37 minute and 8 second wait on line, he had nothing but “an emphatic yes for the best burger in town.”

So what about the burgers? They’re very good. I think the not-so-secret secret is that they’re made with a blend of fresh-ground sirloin and brisket. I ordered the Shack Burger, a “single-sized” American cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato and Russian dressing-like sauce, and the meat had a tang of added-saltiness and was still pink and juicy in the middle, surprising in this bacteria-busting age. When I bit into the thing, I felt like Jules tucking into his Big Kahuna burger in Pulp Fiction. I also quickly wished I would have ordered two. My 16-ounce chocolate shake was thick and rich and I don’t know what kind of ice cream they use, but it had one of the most realistic, non-bombastic cocoa flavors I’ve ever tasted. Great stuff!

And what do I think of the Shake Shack’s fame? No problem. I think it deserves it, and more importantly, it didn’t deter from my eating experience. The prices are reasonable for the area. The crowd’s comprised not of solid tourists, as I would have thought, but chiefly of giddy teenagers, as well as adults who looked as if they worked in the area and that getting a burger there was the highlight of their day; it was for me, particularly after the hour-and-a-half long work meeting I had on Park Avenue at 4:00 p.m. As for the line, it’s a great equalizer and makes it a joy to people-watch and scrutinize the extensive menu—they have Purple Cows! And deep-fried portobello mushrooms as burger toppings! Those who tremble over the excessive lunch lines need to suck it up come back later. At 5:45 p.m., my wait was only about 10 minutes and the place is open until 11 p.m. daily. But it’s only open seasonally, and when the cold weather sets in for good, the Shack closes for winter, so get on down there.

Shake Shack

• Madison Square Park (at E. 23rd Street)
• (212) 889-6600
• Meal 26 of 52: Shack Burger ($4.50) and regular-sized chocolate shake ($4.00).

While looking up the last restaurant in the 52 Meals Project, Lassi , I came across a review by a disgruntled restaurant-goer who found that place’s food O.K. but its lassis laughable, chiefly for their size-to-cost ratio. He reported that for truly tasty and inexpensive lassis, one needed to go to the Lower East Side to the Himalayan Cafe. So I did.

The place is small with four four-chair tables and, in the corner by the window looking out onto Houston, a couch draped with a regal purple cover flanked by two low chairs and a small table. It adds coziness to an otherwise scuffed and bare bones decor.

I sat facing the counter and to the right in the corner was a tall, ill-lit cooler containing cans of soda and what appeared to be some of the restaurant’s ingredients: a 25-pound cardboard box of Rome tomatoes, two gallon jugs of milk and assorted metal and plastic mystery containers. On the wall at my table was a small, framed poster of Shri Kalachakra Mandala, a Tibetan representation of the Wheel of Time, featuring a blue, four-faced deity with 24 hands and two legs.

I ordered a menu special from the large chalkboard above the counter, the shapta, a Tibetan spicy beef dish sautéed with ginger, garlic and onion, served with rice or bread. While waiting, I enjoyed the pleasant chopping noises, followed by sizzling coming from the kitchen, which I could see from my seat. My dish was made with both sautéed and fresh green onions and was nose-runningly spicy, which was fine by me. It was a generous portion that I thought nonetheless expensive at nearly $10, although the menu’s many vegetarian dishes are much more reasonable at nearly half that price.

And my mango lassi was refreshing and cheap. Served in a pint glass, it was only $2.50, compared to Lassi’s eightish-ounce serving for $4.75.

Himalayan Cafe

• 78 E. 1st St. (between First and Second Avenues)
• (212) 358-0160
• Meal 25/52: large lassi ($2.50) and shapta with rice ($9.99).

In the mood for something spicy but not too filling, I went down to the Village to try Lassi, a tiny Indian restaurant. There’s only small red neon sign with the restaurant’s name on the front window and the place is only six feet wide, as if someone decided to set up shop in a hallway. On one side is a narrow ledge and five stools, which I’m told get crowded during lunch, and on the facing wall, chalkboards promoting the day’s menu specials. I took a seat, listening to the Arcade Fire CD being played over the sound system, and noticed while waiting for my order that the place does a rousing takeout business.

With its small-sized servings of Indian street food at the inflated prices typical of the neighborhood, the place recalls a condensed version of Bombay Talkie. It’s tasty, but I’m sure frowned upon by “true;” Indian food fanatics.

Of course Lassi specializes in its namesake yogurt beverage, so I ordered the cardamom variety and it was cool and refreshing. Other intriguing flavors are mango, coconut, rose, coffee, lemon with roohafza (a rose syrup), “salty” and plain ol’ vanilla.

Lassi’s other regular menu specialty is six varieties of paratha, a flatbread that’s basted with oil and fried on a griddle. It reminded me much of Parisian crepes and it’s even served folded over in foil-backed paper so you can eat it on-the-go. I got the keema goat variety, which was served with fresh, bile-green mint chutney and it was delicious.

Each day, Lassi features a different off-menu entree, salad and dessert, each of which I’d like to try sometime, particularly the dessert, as Lassi’s owner was previously a pastry chef and I’ve read of the divinity in her pumpkin halwa, a creamy, spiced pudding topped with pistachios and golden raisins.

Lassi

• 28 Greenwich Ave.
• (212) 675-2688
• Meal 24/52: large lassi ($4.75) and goat paratha ($4.95).

As a guy who likes sushi, I could’ve done worse than moving to New York City, where, happily, “fast-food” Japanese chains are prevalent. Two of the most popular are Go Sushi and Teriyaki Boy. I’ve been to the Go Sushi in the West Village many times. It’s fresh, cheap, tasty and presumably more healthy than your average fast food, although the atmosphere in those places, with their low ceilings and poured-cement floors, make it seem as if someone just set up a few rickety tables and chairs in a parking garage.

The Teriyaki Boy branch I had dinner at tonight had just as much atmosphere. It was hot and stuffy in there and I swear they only turned on the air conditioning after I showed up (and was the only person in there at prime dinner time). Eventually, a few more folks came in, and it seemed as if TB did a brisk delivery business, in the tradition of most Asian food establishments.

I got the Maki Combo, six pieces each of California roll, Alaskan roll and Tuna roll, and it was delicious and filling, served unceremoniously on a Styrofoam plate upon a bright red plastic lunch tray. My can of Coke cost $1 but for future reference, I noted that the layout of the place—long and very narrow, with the soda cooler separating the front counter-area from the half-dozen small tables in the place—was conducive to sneaking in one’s own, more cheaply procured beverage of choice.

Teriyaki Boy

• (9 Manhattan locations)
• 483 Columbus Ave. (between W. 83rd and W. 84th Streets)
• (212) 874-5633
• Meal 23/52: Maki Combo ($6.99) and a can of Coke ($1).

This guy I work with, the one who frequents the fried chicken shack around the corner from the methadone clinic near our offices, stopped by my cubicle to check out what I was eating for lunch. He spotted my bag from Burritoville and exclaimed that he was unaware there was a Burritoville in the neighborhood. I told him I hadn’t known about it either, nor had I been to any of the local chain’s 10 other stores, but I was about to pass judgment by tucking into my nachos. “You can’t judge a Mexican place by its nachos!” he said. “You need at least a burrito for that.” But upon closer scrutiny of my nachos, which were topped with a delicious and fresh sprinkling of green, yellow, orange and red chopped chili peppers, he admitted he might be wrong.

They were indeed very good, equally black-beany and Jack-cheesy, but the small portion for more than $6 seemed excessive to me. It seemed I was paying chiefly for the nachos’ rugged snap-top disposable carry-out container, as durable and long-lasting as a ski boot. Though I couldn’t deny the chain’s popularity; the place was positively packed for lunch and they were conducing a rapid-fire carryout business.

Burritoville

• (11 Manhattan locations)
• 352 W. 39th St. (at Ninth Avenue)
• (212) 563-9088
• Meal 22/52: nachos ($6.29).

I ate at Virgil’s, another “big name” BBQ place tonight, with Jimi, his friend Mike from Cleveland, and The Man. I’d been putting off the place, which is located right off Times Square, because it seemed to be a tourist trap. (Indeed, I suspect anything within a block radius of Times Square is a tourist trap.) But the name kept popping on New York “best BBQ lists,” so I figured I should give it a try.

Right off I noticed the pork ribs weren’t very saucy at all. They had more of a “dry rub” texture of baked-in spices which unfortunately tasted mainly like salt. Very disappointing. And at nearly $21 for a standard 1/2 rack, two sides and cornbread, a far cry from my previous meal at Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, which was the same amount of food, for $7 less and was much better. Better atmosphere at Dinosaur, too. Virgil’s has too much open space—high ceilings, but for no good reason, and they crank the obnoxious country music up too loud. I won’t be going back, but I’m glad I at least gave it a try.

Not a minute after we exited the restaurant, a torrential downpour smacked down on Times Square. I’ve never seen that much rain start so quickly. People were screaming and running for shelter like it was battery acid. According to Gothamist, it ended up being 3.1 inches of rainfall (by Central Park measurements), shattering the old record of 1.74 inches set in 1873. 1873!

More than 50,000 homes and businesses in Massachusetts and more than 80,000 in New Jersey lost power, with thousands more in the NYC suburbs without power.

It doesn’t show up too well in my photo, but the rain was coming down inside the subway stations. When it rains, often there will be a few drips or a slow stream of water leaking down from the surface, but it was literally pouring down atop the subways, which made it quite an adventure to exit the car at certain points.

In fact, I took this photo after I exited the subway, which was suddenly cancelled because of flooding uptown on the 1 line. Everyone had to trudge over to the ACE trains and pack on like wet, cranky sardines.

Virgil’s

• 152 West 44th St. (between Sixth and Seventh Avenues)
• (212) 921-9494
• Meal 21/52: a Bass Ale ($6.50), 1/2 rack pork ribs with corn bread and two sides (greens and BBQ baked beans) $20.95.

I came across a link today to New York magazine’s annual “New York City Cheap Eats” issue and was drawn like a fly to honey-barbeque sauce to the article entitled “The Great NYC BBQ Battle.” Eight places were reviewed (none of which I would consider “cheap” by New York standards) and I was pleased with myself that I’d already eaten at half of them: Blue Smoke, Daisy May’s BBQ, Bone Lick Park and R.U.B. But what was this? Top honors had been lavished upon a place I hadn’t heard of, Dinosaur Bar-B-Que.

According to the restaurant’s official history, it “was started in 1983 by three bikers, bound together by the love of good food, a 55 gallon drum cut in half, and a serious case of wanderlust.” Ah, yes, those bikers, with their wanderlust and marketing degrees. They opened their first location in 1988 in Syracuse, followed by one in Rochester, then entered Manhattan in the winter of 2004.

Obviously I had to check this place out, so after work and a haircut today, I took the 1 train up to W. 125th Street, where it ramps up from underground into Harlem and becomes an elevated train. In time-honored tradition, I set foot on the street and instantly began walking in the exact opposite direction (east) I was supposed to go. I ended up taking a leisurely scenic route through the neighborhood and came across many of its residents having a grand time beating the 90-degree heat in the Sheltering Arms Pool, built on the grounds of an orphans’ asylum and one of Manhattan’s 12 public outdoor pools.

Back on track, I passed the brick industrial buildings, body shops and parking garages that comprise the ghost town of W. 131st Street between Broadway and the Hudson River. At Twelfth Avenue, under the giant, viaduct-like steel arches of the Henry Hudson Parkway, is Dinosaur Bar-B-Que.

The decor is all rough-hewn wood for the floors, walls, support columns and rafters, and all around are plastered old license plates and signs. The hostess was one of those women who can call you “sweetie” and get away with it. She gave me the somewhat dreaded option of eating at the bar, but it was early and not too crowded. That changed quickly. If you go, you definitely want reservations; although my food arrived less than 10 minutes after I sat down at 6:45, by 7:00, I overheard that the wait for a table was 20 minutes. By 7:20, this had skyrocketed to an hour wait, on a Wednesday, no less. The crowd was a busy mix of folks, neighborhood locals and other New Yorkers, young and old, and at least one gaggle of nattering middle-aged women that could have been a tour group.

I ordered a Guinness from the bar’s well-assembled list of 23 drafts, for $4. (Happy Hour, Tuesday through Friday, from 4:00-7:00 p.m., gets you $1 off all well drinks and drafts.) I got the 1/2 rack of barbecued pork ribs, which comes with two sides: I chose the BBQ beans, which were blended with shredded barbecued beef (I thought they’d merely be flavored with barbeque sauce) and “Syracuse style salt potatoes,” which were like red-skinned potatoes, except with normal potato-colored skins. And salted. The ribs were moderately saucy but with an excellent naturally smoked flavor, and were fall-off tender with not a bit of fat. Great!

Dinosaur Bar-B-Que

• 646 W. 131st St. (at Twelfth Avenue)
• (212) 694-1777
• Meal 20/52: two Guinnesses ($4 for Happy Hour version, $5 post-Happy Hour) and a 1/2 rack platter (6-7 barbequed pork ribs with two sides and a square of corn bread) $13.95.

If there was ever a nation unlikely to celebrate an independence day, it’d be Thailand, which was founded in 1238 and has managed to keep Europe’s damn hands off it ever since, which you can’t say for any other country in Southeast Asia.

So Thai food didn’t seem all that patriotic for my Fourth of July luncheon with Andie, but Brother Jimmy’s was closed and she had read a blurb on this Thai place in Time Out New York.

It’s called Land. It opened back in March and the chef, David Bank, previously slaved over the hot stoves of the Mercer Kitchen, the informal yet swanky 200-seat restaurant at the Mercer Hotel in Soho.

It’s been a while since I’ve eaten at a restaurant for The Project that’s been as overall good as this one. The place is clean and small but not cramped. The long, thin space has only enough room for about a dozen two-seat tables, but it has high ceilings and the whole front of the restaurant opens to the sidewalk in fine weather to let in the breeze and sun.

The streamlined decor includes putty-colored plastic chairs (with a booth stretching nearly the length of the restaurant on the other side of the tables). The red brick walls have little lights nestled in squared-out nooks. The small tables have a fake wood-grain pattern that somehow works. Andie appreciated the cigar-sized brown brick rests for the silverware.

The service was speedy. We received our dishes only after about 10 minutes after our order. The dish I was served wasn’t right but our server noticed the gaffe before I had a chance to flag him down. He whisked it away and a minute later had replaced it with the correct dish.

The price was right. The prix fixe lunch was $7, astoundingly cheap for Manhattan, and included an appetizer and an entree of satisfying proportions. I ordered two spring rolls and my favorite Thai dish, Pad See Ew, a mix of meat, seafood or tofu (I usually get the tofu, but I tried the beef variety today), flat rice noodles, egg, broccoli and cauliflower, and a sweet soy sauce. Andie got the vegetable dumplings for an appetizer and, for her main dish, the drunken noodle with chicken, which included wheat noodles, tomato, basil, water chestnuts, bok choy and chili sauce. We added a pair of Thai iced teas to the tab, a generous portion served in a glazed earthenware jar, for a mere $3 each.

The place was doing a bang-up business, turning over tables quickly, and we’re talking lunch on a national holiday. Here’s hoping not too many more people find out about the place, causing the fine prices to rise.

Land

• 450 Amsterdam Ave. (between W. 81st and W. 82nd Streets)
• (212) 501-8121
• Meal 19/52: two spring rolls and beef Pad See Ew ($7, prix fixe) and a Thai iced tea ($3).

After waiting in line for tickets for Shakespeare in the Park, Andie, Eric and I stopped in for brunch at the Popover Cafe. It’s not a coy name; you get a popover the size of Merlin Olsen’s fist served up with most brunch orders. They’re light and flaky, with a bit of strawberry butter on the side.

Eric and I, while waiting in line for the tickets, started talking about the tastiness of bacon for some reason, so I naturally had to order a side at brunch. And it was good. My egg-white omelette was made with fresh mushrooms, not canned ones (yay!) but was served somewhat cool in temperature (boo.). I forgot to write down the prices and their damn web site doesn’t list them, but I don’t recall the bill being all that reasonable for what amounted to basic fare (except maybe the popovers). Then again, you’re going to pay a lot for any meal—including brunch, the cheapest—in our neighborhood.

Popover Cafe

• 551 Amsterdam Ave. (on the corner of W. 86th Street)
• (212) 595-8555
• Meal 18/52: fresh mushroom egg white omelette, which includes a popover and strawberry butter, a side of bacon and coffee.

Sitting at home on a Sunday, as I’m wont to do, I had a sudden, intense craving for a mojito. So I downloaded the recipe from Bacardi’s obnoxious mojito site, bought my mint, limes, club soda and rum, made my “simple syrup” (essentially boiled sugar water) and whipped up a batch. Refreshing!

As I was drinking the first and already considering a second, I got a call from Andie inviting me out for dinner. I met up with her, her cousin Bill, Eric, Katie and other assorted friends and acquaintances at the Riviera Café in the West Village, which was still teeming with folks, cops, barriers and debris from the Pride Day parade. There’s certainly something for everyone on Pride Day and I’ve never seen so many shirtless men that were justified in being shirtless.

After some drinks, we moved up to Merchants Chelsea for some “contemporary American cuisine.” I was feeling neither adventurous nor hungry, so I settled for the Merchants veggie burger, which had Swiss cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles, herb mayo on an egg bun, served with tortilla chips and salsa on the side. And it was good. I discovered later by coincidence that the same management company that developed Merchants also came up with the dark and loungey Art Bar (52 Eighth Ave.), where I’ve been a few times for drinks.

Merchants Chelsea

• 112 Seventh Ave. (between W. 16th and 17th)
• (212) 832-1551
• Meal 17/52: veggie burger ($8.75).

Andie and I got dinner at Saigon Grill, a popular, sprawling restaurant in our neighborhood that’s billed as Vietnamese, but which touches on many aspects of Asian cuisine.

I got a Thai iced tea and the Sushi Tokyo because I was amused by its description as “chef’s inspiration.” It was strange and half-tasty. It included your more typical sushi, raw tuna and such, but also featured eel, which was like eating jellied sandpaper, only not as flavorful. Also present was one of those scary orange roe-topped pieces that tastes super-fishy. In addition, there were two largish, cone-shaped items fashioned from nori and stuffed with rice and either raw fish or avocado. Those were good.

But for the finishing touch, sushi chef Shinsaku Yamakage’s inspiration was to deep-fry a small sea creature (a prawn? a trilobite?), artfully preserving its many spindly legs and tiny, dark eyes, which regarded me unblinkingly throughout my meal as if to say, “Why did you deep fry me, Shinsaku? Why?”

I didn’t eat it and half-heartedly got it boxed-up to go. It’s still in the fridge but I don’t want to dispose of it just yet, as it may serve useful in some sort of prank.

Saigon Grill

• 620 Amsterdam Ave. (at W. 90th Street)
• (212) 875-9072
• Meal 16/52: random sushi plate ($19.50).

For lunch today, I took advantage of restaurant reviewer Robert Sietsema’s Cheap Chow Now! series for the Village Voice, which features capsule reviews of New York’s “100 best and most inexpensive restaurants.” Unlike similar guides to the city’s grub, Sietsema’s list includes places in all five boroughs and Jersey (only 35 of this year’s selections are in Manhattan) and spans a wide variety of ethnicities.

I decided to try his top-rated Tex-Mex place in Manhattan, which was Tulcingo del Valle Grocery, ranked #12 overall on the list. Here’s Sietsema’s review:

Named after a small town on the Oaxacan border, this humble Poblano hole-in-the-wall added a proper dining room recently. Skip the Tex-Mex in favor of the complex moles, of which the hometown version is really a soup, crawling with vegetables and dried chiles. Weekends, sample the superlative barbacoa (steamed goat).

The menu is large, so I asked the server what she recommended and ended up going with her suggestion, the mole poblano. The cocoa-based mole was rich and flavorful and the chicken was very moist. It was served with chips and nose-runningly spicy salsa, which you don’t usually get in a restaurant’s “default” salsa offering but which I appreciated. Large portions of pinto beans and rice accompanied the mole, as well as a basket of piping-hot tortillas.

The place isn’t great on decor or ambiance, but I was going for the food and the price, so I wasn’t too put-off by the depressing corporate-style drop-ceiling tiles or the strange choice of on-table greenery (bamboo plants unceremoniously stuck in water glasses).

I’ve noticed the best non-American food I eat is in restaurants that attract people the same nationality as the food, so it was a good sign when I noticed a lot of Spanish-speaking people chowing down. I was also pleased with a good sign of the restaurant’s cheapness: college students. There was a table of them near the door, loudly and excitedly discussing the benefits of cafe con leche, Lars van Trier and genetic manipulation.

Tulcingo del Valle Grocery

• 665 Tenth Ave. (at W. 47th Street)
• Meal 15/52: mole poblano, with basket of chips, salsa, rice and beans, and tortillas ($9.50).

In memory of our honored dead today, I wanted barbequed meat and alcohol at Brother Jimmy’s, but Andie convinced me to go with her to Niko’s Mediterranean Grill & Bistro for a late lunch. Both of us had walked by the place many times but never tried it. Inside, they’ve got televisions that broadcast woozy Greek tourism videos on a loop and there’s bunches of plastic grapes and Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling.

We found the food reasonably priced and tasty. The gorgonzola garlic bread appetizer was a hit with the cheese fanatics that we are—it was simply two big pieces of garlic bread with a bowl of melted gorgonzola for dipping. Andie made her patented yummy noises the entire time which at least meant she wasn’t coughing (she’s been having springtime sinus issues lately). Andie got the swordfish souvlaki while I got the beef variety. Both were large and filling, served up in pita and featuring tasty kabobs of wood-grilled meat and grilled whole, fresh mushrooms, mixed with dill, cucumber sauce, tomatoes and lettuce, served up with piping hot side of shoestring fries. If I return, I need to try the baklava.

Niko’s Mediterranean Grill & Bistro

• 2161 Broadway (at W. 76th Street)
• (212) 873-7000
• Meal 14/52: 1/2 load gorgonzola garlic bread (appetizer for two, $4.25), beef souvlaki ($8.50) and sangria ($3.25).

I had brunch today with Jimi and his boyfriend, known online by the Sex & The City-ish nickname of “The Man” at Eatery, a fun little restaurant near Jimi’s place. Jimi felt our waiter was just a bit too gay. But the food was good. The Man had French toast stuffed with chocolate and bananas, topped with ice cream and served with cinnamon syrup. You can’t beat that. It put my meal (French toast) and Jimi’s (omelet) to shame. I like that for brunch at Eatery, you get a small plate of coffeecake as the complementary “bread” item.

Afterwards, I accompanied Jimi and The Man as they did some shopping: light bulbs and assorted things from Home Depot, stuff at the Container Store and several furniture stores, including Design Within Reach, in an attempt to select some chairs and/or a sofa-type piece of furniture for Jimi’s main living area. They found a few they liked but the matter is still under consideration.

Eatery

• 798 Ninth Ave. (at 53rd Street)
• (212) 765-7080
• Meal 13/52: French toast with fresh strawberries ($8.95) and sangria ($6).

For dinner, Katie and I met at R.U.B., an idiot name for a restaurant that stands for “Righteous Urban Barbeque” and is the brainchild of one Paul Kirk, billed as a “Kansas City barbecue legend.”

The meal didn’t start off so well when our server informed us that, although they’d been open a month, they still didn’t have their liquor license. But, as she perkily explained, we could go next door to the deli to buy some beer and bring it back. Whatever. So I paid $11 for a six of Bass Ale, which is still cheaper than what we would have paid for beer had they had their liquor license, so I didn’t feel all that bad about it.

Our appetizer was deep fried onion strings, which were too crumbly and in tiny bits to be that enjoyable. Katie said her pulled pork sandwich was not barbecuey enough, although I suspect they use some sort of Napalm-based liquid smoke because it was really tough to get the barbeque smell off of us afterwards.

Only about half of my small order of rib tips were boneless, which irked me. They weren’t bad, but nothing special, and oddly presented atop slices of white sandwich bread.

But wait: for dessert we had fried Oreos. I didn’t think it was possible to make Oreos more tasty and less healthy, but this dessert item (curiously, the only one the restaurant offers) fit the bill. The Oreo filling even gets all rich and melty. Mmm.

Another positive thing to note is that the menu is large and all of the sandwich and entree items are barbecued meat, including beef, pork, chicken, turkey, ham, sausage and pastrami. (Barbecued pastrami?) Maybe our own dinner choices tonight were just wrong because that place was packed and lively by the time we left, everyone enjoying their ‘cue.

R.U.B.

• 208 W. 23rd St. (between 7th and 8th Avenues)
• (212) 524-4300
• Eat-in (cash-only), take-out or delivery
• Meal 12/52: onion strings (an order for two, $7), rib tips ($11.75), overpriced beer from the deli next door ($11) and deep fried Oreos (4 for $4.75).

The lovely weather this weekend got Andie and I out to Island Burgers & Shakes, a small burger joint near Jimi’s on Ninth Avenue. It’s so small, they use that as the excuse for why they don’t sell french fries, which is a damn near arrestable offense for a restaurant that offers more than 60 varieties of hamburger (and churasco, a chicken breast sandwich). They add insult to injury by also offering extra-creamy and tasty milkshakes. With buger and milkshake, creating a heavenly trifecta would require only fries; but there are none to be had. (“We like fries,” laments a notice on the menu. “We just can’t have them. Try a baked potato.”)

I had The People’s Choice burger, with swiss cheese, mushrooms and onions, and I would rate it very good, neither quite as big or tasty as the burgers at Big Nick’s, but delicious nonetheless. My strawberry milkshake was excellent; Andie clearly ordered a chocolate milkshake and got a vanilla one, which she sent back, all to the testiness of our waif-like server, who would probably be happier if she ocasionaly allowed herself a burger and milkshake. When I return, I want to try the blackened blue cheese burger (“The Black N’ Blue”).

Island Burgers & Shakes

• 766 Ninth Ave. (between W. 51st and W. 52nd Streets)
• (212) 307-7934
• Eat-in (cash-only), take-out or delivery
• Sat.-Thu., noon-10:30 p.m.; Fri., noon-11:00 p.m.
• Meal 11/52: The People’s Choice burger (with swiss, mushrooms and onions) ($7.25), strawberry milkshake ($4) and a can of Diet Coke ($1.25).

I had dinner tonight at a new place in Chelsea, Bombay Talkie. It was a timely choice because I’ve been pining for good Indian food since frequenting Cafe Tandoor, one of Cleveland’s best such restaurants.

It’s a small place, dimly lit and comfortable, with paintings on the walls celebrating scenes from Bollywood films. A giant widescreen above the bar in the back was conveniently displaying the drink menu in type small enough to be unobtrusive but large enough to comprehend after several drinks; apparently, on some nights, they use the screen to play classic Indian musical movies.

The food is billed as “Indian street food” but “nouveau,” which is to say artfully presented and probably a bit more expensive than actual Indian street food. But it was quite good.

I started with the mint-lamb kathi rolls; wrapped in foil, they were savory, exotically spiced and would make a good lunch item. I also got the spiced potato dosas, presented in a folded-over paper-thin crepe and served with assorted yogurt-based condiments. The mango-pineapple-vodka drink was tasty and perfectly balanced, the flavor of each fruit individually detectable within the alcohol, and probably the most conservative specialty drink on the menu; I noticed one drink improbably included Cocoa Puffs as an ingredient which I definitely need to try next time. For my entrée, I got the clay-oven chicken kabobs, roasted in a clay Tandoori oven and colored a brick red from the spices. For dessert, I got the chocolate ganache, made with SoHo’s own MarieBelle chocolate. Yum.

Bombay Talkie

• 189 Ninth Ave. (between W. 21st and W. 22nd Streets
• (212) 242-1900
• Meal 10/52: mint-lamb kathi rolls ($7), potato dosas ($8), nargisi kofta ($15), chicken kabobs ($15).

I stopped by Jimi’s new apartment after work today and checked out his progress of moving in, which he’s all but fully done. He’s eating, but strangely. The assorted dogs, cats and computers are in place and acting normally. (Although with only one cat carrier, he had to move the cats one at a time, via cab.) The walls are painted vibrantly and look great. A lot of Jimi’s stuff is still boxed up or needs to be stored or relocated to the proper room, but it’s already shaping up to be quite a pad, better than the last, I dare say.

We got dinner at Mangia & Bevi nearby and it was as great as both Katie and Jimi said it was. Fresh basil and mushrooms on my pizza. The perfect salad. Really hot espresso, just the way I like it, and what Jimi and I agreed is archetypical tiramisu (which is a complement); it’s like the tiramisu you think of when you think of the dictionary definition of tiramisu: not too firm/dry, not too moist, and the perfect balance of espresso/liquor and cocoa.

You’ll like the place, too, if you can stand the occasional bursts of the Chicken Dance Song or that obnoxious clubsong that starts out “Y’all ready for this?” that they play for birthdays. It’s a popular place for such celebrations, and groups in general, I can say that. But great food and reasonably priced. And with paper tablecloths and little cups of Crayolas, it’s fun for everyone.

Mangia & Bevi

• 800 Ninth Ave. (at W. 53rd Street)
• (212) 956-3976
• Meal 09/52: insalata mista (salad) ($5.95), pizza al funghi (fresh mushroom pizza with mozzarella and fresh basil) ($11.95), espresso ($2.50) and tiramisu ($6).

For dinner tonight, I headed down to Bone Lick Park, a BBQ restaurant that opened late last year in the Village and was named in an apparent riff on Big Bone Lick Sate Park.

It was quite good and satisfying. I ordered a combo platter of ribs, which was a good thing, because I preferred the pork ribs over the beef ones. Both varieties were well trimmed of fat, lightly sauced, and fall-off-the-bone tender with that perfection-cooked pink layer near the surface of the meat. The meat itself was flavorful and smoky, having been cooked and smoked in a pit over hickory and fruit woods. The atmosphere is diner-ish, with tile floors, vinyl-topped metal stools for seats and a giant Coca-Cola sign over the bar. Afterwards, I grabbed a Guinness at the candlelit Art Bar (52 Eighth Avenue).

Bone Lick Park

• 75 Greenwich Ave. (between Seventh Avenue and Bank Street)
• (212) 647-9600
• Meal 08/52: onion rings ($5.75), baby back ribs/beef ribs combo plate, with one side (string beans) and cornbread ($14.95), coleslaw ($2) and a pint of Sam Adams ($5)

It was high time to fire up the long-languishing 52 Meals Project. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do, and thought I’d restart the project with lunch at a local place I’ve been meaning to try.

From March 1844 to August 1845, Edgar Allan Poe lived in a mansion on the northwest corner of W. 84th Street and Broadway; it’s still a residential building but now there’s a Coach store on the ground floor. Other than this dubious honor for the dead poet, W. 84th Street is also known as Edgar Allan Poe Street, and between Broadway and West End Avenue is Edgar’s Cafe.

I wasn’t a big fan of the decor; inside, the walls and ceiling are designed and painted to resemble the interior of a dilapidated house, with patches of open stone poking through the plaster on the walls and high, steeply angled ceilings painted to look like there were holes in the roof. There are about 25 marble-topped tables with cast iron chairs. Despite the cheesy design, the place is warm, well-lit and comfortable (and open until after midnight most days). It’s probably a more fun place when you’re with a small group, enjoying one of the many coffee drinks off the menu and one of the many desserts from the glass display case near the entrance. One Zagat’s reviewew notes it’s a quieter alternative to Cafe Lalo, and although Edgar’s is lacking in that comparison, it is much quieter and more spacious than the typically jam-packed Lalo.

I ordered a strawberry milkshake and it was appropriately creamy and berry-flavored. My turkey sandwich was on the small side for $11.50 (argh!) and it seemed as if the cheese had been melted in a microwave. Not much taste to it, either. Unbelievably poky service and a server that never bothered to return; I had to flag her down with some effort to get her to finally bring the check.

Edgar’s Cafe

• 255 W. 84st St. (between Broadway and West End Avenue)
• (212) 496-6126
• Meal 07/52: smoked turkey sandwich on pumpernickel with melted Gruyere cheese and mixed greens side salad ($11.50) and a strawberry milkshake ($5.50)

A weak week for the the 52 Meals Project. My excuse is I had to work until after 8:00 p.m. Wednesday through Friday this week and I felt whipped most of the weekend. Hence, an easy Sunday dinner, at Hale & Hearty Soups, a New York chain.

I got a large serving of the Three Lentil Soup to go. You get either a slice of bread with it, or a bag of crackers, and I tried the seven-grain bread. Tasty.

Was my soup hearty? Yes. Pleasantly think and spicy, too. Was my soup hale? I suppose it was free from illness, although I don’t know if that’s something a restaurant would necessarily want to promote.

Hale & Hearty Soups

• 2262 Broadway (at W. 82nd Street); locations across Manhattan
• (212) 721-4900
• Meal 06/52: large Three Lentil Soup with slice of seven-grain bread ($4.75)

I purposely avoided including Yaffa Cafe and Celeste, which I ate at earlier this week, as part of The 52 Meals Project because I had made reservations for an unusual restaurant, Duvet. Unfortunately, I would have been better off including either Yaffa or Celeste for the Project because this place was disappointing.

Duvet’s concept is a gimmick yet intriguing: you eat your dinner in bed. There’s 30 of them, complete with 400-count sheets, plenty of pillows and a stationary lazy Susan embedded in the center of the mattress on which you can put your food and drinks; each course is also served on a tray, so you’re not as likely to knock stuff over. And you get a fruity little pair of slippers, should you want to get into full Hugh Hefner mode. Most of the beds are in little nooks that offer a wall or two upon which to lean against while sitting; it wouldn’t be as easy to eat in bed upright otherwise.

The food, like the restaurant itself, comes across as interesting on paper, but ultimately fails to please. First off, the rules: each person in your party is required to order an appetizer, as well as an entree. Also, you’re only allowed to stay in your bed for two hours, after which, you’re apparently asked nicely to leave. These rules may have made more sense had the food been worth our while and money.

My drinks—a White Satin Mojito (mint, vanilla bean, yuzu juice, Mount Gay rum and Moët & Chandon champagne) and a pear margarita—weren’t noteworthy because the alcohol content stamped out the more intriguing flavors. For appetizers, I got the dragon roll sushi, which was oversized and tasty. My beet salad wasn’t very flavorful, despite the spiced walnuts and selles sur cher (even goat cheese sounds sexy in French). Because the place specializes in seafood, I got the bass, which was glazed with caramelized citrus and garnished with pistachios but didn’t taste like much of anything.

I had an awkward time seeing the couple in the bed across from mine repeatedly lunge at one another for vigorous makeout sessions. Other stimuli to experience included sleepy hipster lounge music, filmy curtains skirting the bed areas, fiberoptic lights that slowly changed color, a tank filled with dozens of tiny fluorescing and pulsating jellyfish, and plasma screen TVs mounted throughout the restaurant that displayed tranquil footage of swimming fish, which is a strange thing to watch while you’re eating fish. The trendy omnisex restrooms came off as alarming, particularly the gentlemen’s urinal, which was, in concept, one of those long, metal trough-like contraptions, but which was sculpted and decorated to such a degree that I felt guilty peeing in it, as if it was an arty fountain and the restroom attendant was going to unexpectedly turn the corner and cry “Oh my god, what are you doing?”

Also disturbing was the bridge-and-tunnel crowd that seemed to be congregating in the bar area for a Sopranos reunion special, starring a bunch of slope-browed goombahs in black leather jackets and ditzy chicks in bad shoes.

The two-hour time limit nearly up, I fled to the Flatiron Lounge (37 W. 19th St. between 5th and 6th Avenues), which was coincidentally the Best New Bar/Lounge and Best Cocktail List winner of Time Out New York’s Eat Out Awards last year. Flatiron specializes in infused drinks and the Spiced Pear drink I got (vodka infused with Bartlett pears and clove) was tasty and generous enough to warrant a second.

Duvet

• 45 W. 21st St. (between 5th and 6th Avenues)
• (212) 989-2121
• Meal 05/52: line-caught wild stripe bass with caramelized citrus and pistachios ($26), organic beet salad with spiced walnuts and selles sur cher ($12), pear margarita ($12)

Jimi pointed out that, according to the menu at ONY, which is the Japanese noodle place we ate dinner at tonight, the restaurant’s name is an acronym for “Original Noodles for You.” We decided that’s right up there with the best “loose translations” that Asian restaurants seem to excel at. So at least we could assume to be prepared for some authentic Japanese food.

Although their specialties are soup noodle dishes, which both Jimi and his friend Rickey ordered and enjoyed, I opted for the sushi. When asked if the sushi was made on the premise (which is not an unusual request; similar to baked goods and desserts, some restaurants “import” their sushi from off-site and it’s not as fresh), our server got combative and almost threatened to push us back into the kitchen to meet the sushi chef. After he calmed down and poured our water, Jimi, Rickey and I chatted about Jimi’s apartment search and about Idol Forever!, the American Idol fan board Rickey just launched.

Upon arrival, my spider rolls were the right mixture of warmness and coolness. There were five rolls, each a good 1.2- to 2-inches across. Filling and tasty! The miso soup and sake were basic but good, the small portions reflecting the small prices. I still think I like the no-nonsense atmosphere and slightly cheaper prices at Go Sushi, even though the stores in that small chain (or at least the one in the Village) have all the warmth and charm of an unfinished basement. ONY has warmth, charm and bonus West Village Trendiness, so we got what we paid for.

ONY

• 357 Sixth Ave. (between W. 4th Street and Washington Place)
• (212) 414-8429
• Meal 04/52: spider roll ($10), miso soup ($2), hot sake ($5)

During some of those trips to Harry’s Burritos with Jimi, I wondered why I’d never tried the Mexican place right across the street from his apartment, Burrito Loco.

So I tried it today. Eh. It was OK, I guess. The Enchiladas Guadalajara I got (two corn tortillas, one filled with cool guacamole, the other with hot cheese) came with salsa, a big, piping hot basket of chips, and a generous serving of black beans and rice. Not especially noteworthy, but filling and inexpensive. The margarita I got, however, tasted like it might have been made with one of those Flavor Aid packets you got with the Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine.

Harry, I am sorry I second-guessed you and your burritos.

Burrito Loco

• 166 W. 4th St. (between Sixth and Seventh Avenues)
• (212) 675-1977
• Meal 03/52: Enchiladas Guadalajara with chips and salsa, rice and black beans ($7.95), margarita on the rocks ($6.25)

In the concise, BS-free and link-rich guide for tourists wondering what to do when visiting Manhattan published in The Morning News this Friday, there’s a sentence that clarifies how I now feel about the Zagat Guide, previously lambasted on these pages: “We recommend using the Zagat Guide for its only redeeming value: restaurants organized by neighborhood.”

Sure enough. I cross-referenced the Greenwich Village section with the “Brunch” section, somewhat surprised that there weren’t many restaurants that overlapped. One was Café de Bruxelles, on Greenwich Avenue, and I walked on over to give it a try. It’s Belgian food, so naturally I ordered the Belgian waffle with strawberries, along with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. The waffle, presented in two Big Boggle-board sized pieces, was very crisp and rich tasting and the sliced strawberries were summer-fresh. Included was a basket of sliced French bread with butter and flatbread crackers, a basic leafy green salad with a vinaigrette, and a serving of well-presented pommes frites with a slightly spiced side of mayo. You get the fries with everything at Bruxelles, even with already super-starchy entrees like waffles.

The ambiance is relaxed and cozy, other than the occasional muted underground rumble of the subways from the W. 14th St. stop. There are lace curtains in the windows, tastefully worn wooden chars and floorboards and window-boxed poinsettias on the inside ledges. In the far corner is a bar with a hammered zinc top, behind which are a wide selection of beers and wines, presumably many of them Dutch, including the tasty line of Lindemans lambic ale, a sweet, fruit-flavored beer.

Bruxelles features reasonably sized portions and great prices, for the neighborhood. The place is famed for its mussels, so I may have to return sometime for dinner.

Café de Bruxelles

• 118 Greenwich Ave. at W. 13th St.
• (212) 206-1830
• Meal 02/52: Belgian waffle with fruit, basket of bread, salad and fries ($8.95), fresh-squeezed OJ ($4.25)

I’ve been walking by this place on my way to work for awhile now, but BBQ shacks aren’t typically open for breakfast. I was mesmerized by the slowly rotating “BBQ” sign outside and the giant cheesy billboard for the place, inexplicably posted right across the street.

The neighborhood is a ghost town, nothing but car dealerships, a monolithic UPS distribution center and a bunch of slab-like far West Side warehouses and mystery-industry buildings. Inside the restaurant, it’s not much more hospitable, a cocoon of light wood paneling and a long deli-style counter with the food. Across from the counter, lining the window is a very narrow ledge upon which to lean and enjoy your food, should you choose “to stay,” as New Yorkers say. In weather unlike today’s, you can opt to sit at one of the picnic tables parked outside on the sidewalk.

But about that BBQ. Mmm. The guy in front of me ordered the Kansas City Sweet and Sticky Pork Ribs, and the countergirl hollered “One sticky, order in!” Then and there, I knew I’d like the grub. I got the Texas chopped beef brisket sandwich, the name of which alone makes my mouth water. It’s a heady combo of moist, melt-in-your-mouth, smoky-sweet chunks of beef juxtaposed with crisp onions and dill pickle slices, oozing from a thick sesame roll, all wrapped snugly in foil. At $8, it was steep, but worth it, and better than Brother Jimmy’s. Plus they give you wet-naps—a must for a two-hand sandwich like this one. Outside, in the dark and a light drizzle, I wolfed it down while sitting on a damp picnic table bench as taxis and 18-wheelers swished by on 11th.

Consulting the Fixins’ portion of the carryout menu when I got home, I saw I missed out on the mashed potatoes with red eye gravy, creamed spinach and peaches in bourbon. Mercy! I shall be returning to Daisy May’s.

Daisy May’s BBQ

• 623 11th Ave. at W. 46th St.
• (212) 977-1500
• Free delivery with $15 min. order in the sqaure formed by 7th Ave. and 12th Ave. & W. 23rd St. and W. 72nd St. (damn)
• Mon.-Fri. 11 a.m.-8 p.m.
• Meal 01/52: Texas chopped beef brisket sandwich ($8), can of diet Pepsi ($1.25)