Farm To Table

My family and I were supposed to visit Blue Hill at Stone Barns on Saturday night for my sister's birthday, but inclement weather relegated us to a pot-luck dinner in my bedroom instead. Luckily, the incredibly generous and accommodating staff of BHSB allowed us to switch our reservation to Sunday instead, and even pretended not to hate us when we showed up a half-hour late (we literally got stuck behind a bulldozer).

Blue Hill at Stone Barns can probably be credited for bringing California "farm-to-table" cuisine to metropolitan New York, even though the restaurant is in Westchester. Their sister restaurant, in the west village, sources most of its food from the Westchester working farm, and both spots have been doing so for some years now, starting well before local restauranteurs touted the virtues of heirloom tomatoes. So there.

As is customary at Stone Barns, we began the evening with a bit of local produce. Winter may be ending, but root vegetables still abound. Our amuse bouche began with baby carrots and bok-choy, both lightly salted. Next came deep-fried salsify and proscuitto, a tiny shredded vegetable tart, caramelized onion bread with whipped lardo and cottage cheese and butter and carrot salt, roasted beet sliders, chilled carrot soup, and a plate of coppa and speck. We opted for the five course menu rather than the eight course ordeal, the first of which was a lovely beet salad--red and golden--atop pine nut butter and served with greenhouse greens.

To underscore how much Stone Barns caters to the whims and wishes of its guests, I point to our wine selection. My father no longer drinks, which left only two adults, one of whom was driving. We didn't want to invest in a bottle and we don't really share similar wine tastes. My stepmother told Thomas, the Stone Barns Wine Director, that she prefers buttery chardonnays, like Kistler's "Les Noistieres." Presto: a bottle of the wine appeared at her side, with the friendly invitation to drink as much as she liked. That hundred-dollar bottle of wine cost us a mere $25.

As for me, I allowed Thomas to serve whatever he saw fit. That meant a 1989 Ehrhard riesling from the Rheingau, followed by a ribolla from Movia (a Slovenian cult wine), and a 1998 Brunello di Montalcino. With dessert? A 1979 Pedro Ximenez Sherry. All this for--you guessed it--another $25.

But back to the food. Beets gone, waiters arrived with round glass pyrex dishes containing one large Maine sea scallop and a cream broth with fennel, celery, octopus, mussel, and rock shrimp, a superior take on chowder. Our egg course, enjoyed by four of us, was an egg-circulator egg in a broth of mushroom and broccoli. One stab to the egg yielded orange runny yolk. Before the course, our server had brought to us a glass basket of different colored eggs from the farm's hens, some of which gleamed green and blue, the color specific to breed.

My father hates eggs, so he had salt-baked rutabaga instead, kind of like the best sweet potato you've ever had. Entrees were slabs of pink Berkshire pork, brined in something sweet, like cider, and served with more of that tender baby bok-choy.

Dessert arrived in waves. First, honey with tofu and bergamot; next, chocolate mousse with apricot jam and frozen raspberry cream; finally, moist carrot cake with fromage foam, cream cheese, and vanilla ice-cream. They put a candle in my sister's cake and brought petit fours of chocolate, yogurt marshmallow, and sesame candy. Stone Barns remains one of the most worthwhile meals in New York.

*

Blue Hill at Stone Barns

630 Bedford Road

Pocantico Hills, NY 10591

914.366.9606

Eye-Tal-Yun

On Monday, I went to Locanda Verde, where I've been wanting to eat for a while. Reviews from friends have been mixed. Last week, one friend told me not to order any of the pastas, but that the antipasti and secondi were worth a try. Saturday, a different friend disclosed the opposite. "The pastas are fantastic," she said. Well, whatever.

The dining room is massive and it was incredibly loud, even for someone like me who has worked in far louder environments. We sat at 9:30 and I expected that, for a Monday, the crowds would be dwindling, but that wasn't the case. In fact, our food came so quickly, it was clear they were pushing our table for yet another seating. Rushed would be the polite term for how the evening went.

To start, we ate steak tartare with cornichon, walnut, and a quail egg. The steak lacked salt and the bread was a bit thick and eggy for the meat. The star of the evening came next, blue crab and jalapeno crostini, spicy and salty and briny and perfect. The sausage and pickled ramp crostini were nice, too, though the pickled ramp receded a bit into the background.

Pastas were good but not life-changing. The rigatoni with lamb and ricotta and mint tasted bright and fresh and somewhat reminiscent of the love letters at Babbo. But the "grandmother's ravioli" was a disappointment. It was billed as ravioli filled with pork and beef, but it could have been filled with anything; the prevailing taste was that of the sauce, a fresh tomato and basil that would have made a more appropriate compliment to a less-complicated pasta. In all that tomato, I couldn't taste even a hint of meat.

For dessert, we ordered a lemon tart, the filling of which mostly tasted of lemon meringue pie. Buttermilk ice-cream was nothing to turn one's nose up at, but the real winner was the flaky pie crust. Karen DeMasco uses lard in her crusts, which is probably the secret to foolproof flakiness. Our server offered biscotti as a petit fours, but we waited longer for our check than we had waited for any of our four courses. Perhaps I would feel better about the experience if the "get them in and get them OUT" mentality hadn't been so completely pervasive, but we were finished with our meal in a scant hour, certainly not my idea of a relaxing evening.

*

Locanda Verde

377 Greenwich Street

New York, NY 10013

212.925.3797

Pork Barrel

I was looking for a dinner spot that wouldn't break the bank and, more importantly, could accommodate me and a very pregnant friend. So we headed to Ardesia, where my friend (who happens to be the chef) agreed to hold a table for us. Ardesia is equal parts wine and snack bar. The most expensive menu item--the duck banh mi--weighs in at $14, assuming you don't count the plate of all house cheeses, which is $30, but a lot of food. That makes the spot cheaper than Casellula, though no less enjoyable.

We ate Brussels sprouts topped with fried shallots and tasting of something bring, possibly fish sauce. They were perfect, as was the skewered garlic shrimp, four to a skewer, eight to an order. Pork belly bites were cubes of fatty pork atop sweet apple, richness and salt matched by lean, crisp fruit. Surprise! The duck banh mi boasted a glorious layer of liver pate, along with the usual suspects of pickled vegetables and cilantro and the unusual suspect of cured duck.

Next up: bacon lardon, white bean, and frisee salad, but this bacon was fattier and thicker cut than normal salad bacon. And then, tiny house-made cocktail sausages, served with crusty white bread and spicy mustard, a vast improvement over the sticky barbecue sauce ones my grandmother serves in her ancient chaffing dish (no offense, Grandma). Two cheeses--both pasteurized for my preggy friend--were served with candied lemon and bread.

Chef sent dessert on the house. Three open-faced s'mores came atop what amounted to tiny gingersnap cakes--an homage to the graham cracker. The marshmallows, bruleed, tasted better than any traditional campfire. Finally, a square sandwich, wrapped in wax paper, announced our final dessert: a cookies n' cream ice-cream sandwich on chocolate cake. The alternate flavors, we later learned, were peanut butter and vanilla.

The nicest decor detail? The backs of the bathroom doors are painted with blackboard paint and there are nubs of chalk in the bathrooms for high-end note-writing, nothing like those bar bathrooms of yore. Also, to keep you company, a real, live goldfish swims in his glass bowl on a stool in the corner of the loo. No worries, Mr. Fish isn't on the menu. Ardesia is a restaurant for meat-eaters, with only a spare nod to marine life.

*

Ardesia

510 West 52nd Street

New York, NY 10019

212.247.9191

Playing With My Friends

Another stress fracture has me grounded, which means less time with my running sneakers and more time doing... something else. I have to remember to exercise restraint with food during the next two months, or I'll be forced to wear nothing but leggings while my skinny jeans writhe in protest. Yesterday wasn't a good start to period of said restraint.

I was invited to see my favorite married couple for bloody marys and burgers. In addition to burgers--ground beef, short rib, and chorizo--we ate pizza pomodoro from the Jim Lahey bread book and cookies from City Bakery and these weird cheesy balls that came from a packaged Brazilian bread mix. That, paired with the leftover cookie dough I ate for breakfast (give me a break--it was whole-wheat dough) would have probably racked up enough calories for the day, but I was hungry, hungry, hungry by the time I made it to Mad for Chicken in Koreatown at ten o'clock.

Mad for Chicken is like the worst nightclub you've ever been to that also happens to sell the best fried chicken. You have to wait for an hour for your table. The bartenders are beyond incompetent. The drinks--a lychee mojito for me--are doused in sugar and bad rum. The clientele is "Asian club kid." If you aren't familiar with that clientele, no need to be.

But then, you sit at one of the Mad for Chicken tables and they bring you insanely spicy crunchy kimchi chicken wings with pickled daikon and celery sticks and this weird cheese and rice-cake casserole that kind of tastes like Spaghetti O's and larger plates of non-spicy-but-equally-crunchy drumsticks and Mexican corn rolled in mayonnaise and queso and chili powder and pretty much everything is okay with the world. In our case, they also brought these ridiculous glass kegs of beer that were topped with dry ice, creating the illusion that the beer was smoking. Each keg was five liters. Our group drank three of them. I won't get into the mathematical possibilities of that, but suffice to say that our bill came to a whopping thirty bucks a person, including tip, so if you want to eat really good fried chicken and drink until you think that playing dominoes is normal and socially acceptable dinner behavior (as two of my co-eaters did), head to K-town asap.

*

Mad for Chicken

314 5th Avenue, 2nd floor

New York, NY 10001

212.221.2222

I Hate Saturdays In NYC

And yet I somehow manage to put myself in the middle of the fray. I don't want to go to restaurants on Saturdays, I really don't. But sometimes that's just the way things go--battle the Bridge and Tunnel for a decent bar spot, while you wait an hour for a "table," no bigger than a nightstand. Ugh.

Well, anyway. Saturday snobbery aside, Txikito was a decent place to spend the night. Sure, three people at that nightstand of a table was a little ridiculous, but the menu just about made up for it. Gluttony, I have not left you behind. Small plates are the downfall of any good foodie, and this was no exception. We started with white asparagus with black truffle olive oil and chopped egg, served cold. Spring is on our heels. Next up: miniature mushroom and shrimp grilled cheese sandwiches. Meh. I couldn't really taste the ingredients, aside from the cheese. The sandwich of chorizo hash was more successful, pretty much the tiniest baguette I have ever seen in my life.

Then: shredded chorizo and a sunny side up quail egg on toast, perfect in its execution. Followed by: blood sausage-filled eggrolls (more eggroll than blood sausage, but still delicious), lamb meatballs with "minted broth" (more lamb than mint, but I don't tend to badmouth meatballs), cross-cut braised spare ribs with red and green peppers (very delicious), and salty head-on shrimp (no surprises here, but who really cares?). Finally, the highlight of the meal arrived, a suggestion from our waiter, who recognized our meat-heavy order--seared veal jowl terrine with a sweet onion vinaigrette. Imagine the fattiest rib-eye fat, pressed into a terrine mold and then pan seared and that's pretty much what we ate. The consistency vacillated between unctuous fat and crispy sear and the onions offered a sweet respite from all that density. I wouldn't have ordered the dish without being pushed in that direction, mostly because veal is something I try to eat very little of. But I would have missed the point entirely if I had left without eating it.

For dessert, we shared a very average cheese plate, all sheep's milk, all sliced a hair too thin and served with pedestrian quince paste. Fine. The blue satisfied my cravings, even if the dish as a whole failed to impress me. Ditto a chocolate pudding with sherry whipped cream, though I would eat that again simply because I love pudding.

*

Txikito

240 9th Avenue

New York, NY 10001

212.242.4730

I Didn't Watch The Superbowl

I went out for Korean barbecue instead.

1. I am vehemently opposed to the Tebow ad that was scheduled to run and that was funded by Focus on the Family, a group I detest.

2. I was even more upset by the fact that Planned Parenthood and MoveOn.org were denied advertising spots on CBS.

3. I wanted New Orleans to win, but the again, I didn't really care all that much.

We went to Madangsui, on 35th Street. First: jap chae, or slimy rice noodles, cooked with beef and onions and probably a lot of MSG, not that I cared. With that, steamed pork dumplings that were, to be honest, a little dry and tasteless. As for the actual barbecue part, well, I know I've been really anti-beef lately, and I continue to remain true to my values, but this was some of the tastiest meat I have ever had. saeng galbi and bulogi, both marinated. One is essentially shaved beef marinated with a bunch of delicious stuff, and the other is fatty pieces of short rib, also marinated, and cut off the bone by a deft waitress yielding giant scissors. On the grill, too: large circles of white onion and halved button mushrooms.

Part of the genius of Korean barbecue is all the stuff that comes with it: kimchi soup (good), chawan mushi or something to that effect (I had no room for this), sweet pickled vegetables (addictive), two types of kimchi--daikon and cabbage (yum), nori (fine), really spicy radish and peppers (they weren't kidding when they warned us), a salad of shaved onion and celery (perfect for crunch with the beef), and lettuce for wrapping. If I omitted any delicious snacks, I apologize. Wrap whatever you feel like combining with meat and lettuce and you have teeny little ssams. My friend used rice in hers, but I preferred the unadulterated taste of the meat. I'd like to go back with more people and eat more of the menu; as it stood, two beef selections, a noodle dish, and dumplings were the outer limit of what we could eat--and I had run fifteen miles that afternoon.

Well, anyway. I'll be back.

*

Madangsui

35 West 35th Street

New York, NY 10001

212.564.9333

The New Adventures Of Old Cuisine

After an evening run on Thursday, followed by a quick stop at the New York Sports Club, which I often consider my public shower, I found myself in the city with time to kill before meeting a friend downtown. Wandering the wasteland that is midtown at 8 pm on a weeknight, I ruled out the following: bad pizza from one of the many take-out joints on Lexington; a bad sandwich from one of the ubiquitous, lunchy chain restaurants; anything from McDonald's. It was cold and I was hungry and then hungrier when I happened to duck down 45th Street, passing a small Japanese restaurant that advertised ramen on a plastic-covered menu affixed to the window: Menchanko-tei. Ramen seemed the perfect antidote to a cold and hungry midtown night. I found a place at the bar.

Like Ippudo, Menchanko-tei serves a variety of different types of ramen. They have tsukemen, broth made from roasted pork bones, my personal favorite. They also have soy and chicken-based broths, also traditional species of ramen. I ordered a plate of cucumber pickles, briny and salty little disks. I ordered a plentiful bowl of pork bone ramen, toothsome noodles floating in a milky broth and topped with a tea-smoked egg, pickled bamboo and ginger, sesame seeds, scallions, and a rolled slice of cooked pork belly. I was surprised at the soup's quality, noodles just as fresh as the Ippudo version. The broth was sufficiently porky and the restaurant, as a whole, doesn't suffer from the relentless popularity that makes a trip to Ippudo tantamount to waiting in line for Space Mountain.

On that aimless walk that night, I also happened past a place I've been reading a lot about lately, a French import by the name of Le Relais de Venise L'Entrecote. Please don't ask me to pronounce that. It seemed to fit the bill for what I had planned Saturday, an inexpensive meal with my sister. In Paris, throngs of people line up nightly for L'Entrecote's $24 prix fixe menu, which includes a salad dressed with mustard vinaigrette and walnuts, crunchy French bread, an abundant plate of French fries, and a thinly sliced steak. Oh, and the sauce. Don't forget the sauce. The sauce is shipped from Paris and the ingredients remain secret. I could identify lemon and pepper and butter and something darker and earthier, possibly liver. If you ask for a list of ingredients, restaurant workers will not divulge, so don't bother. It would be worth it to come back just for a $24 jar of sauce.

The steak at L'Entrecote, something approximating a hanger steak, comes very thinly sliced and bathed in that sauce. At meal's beginning, a waitress, wearing a French maid uniform (black top, short skirt, tiny white apron) asks you how you like your steak and then writes your answer on the paper tablecloth covering your place setting. After your salad is cleared, the steak and frites arrive, served twice. Until you are ready for your second helping, the steak and potatoes stay nearby, atop small candles on a metal chaffing dish. The dessert menu makes up for the lack of variety posited by the restaurant's set playlist. Given over ten options, we chose three tartlets: cherry, lemon, and chocolate. They were small tarts indeed, buttery and fine and hard to justify sharing. Lemon tasted of a meringue pie filling and cherry was topped with three plump versions of the fruit. At night's end, our bill was so low, I considered staying for an encore.

*

Menchanko-tei

131 East 45th Street

New York, NY 10017

212.986.6805

*

Le Relais de Venise L'Entrecote

590 Lexington Avenue

New York, NY 10022

212.758.3989

The Carnivore's Dilemma

One of my more recent decisions regarding what I eat involves cutting meat from my diet. It would be a lie to say that I don't eat meat at all; in fact, I live in a culture where meat is everywhere and where avoiding it, especially at restaurants, is almost a full-time job. I'm not one of those crunchy vegans, who thinks that killing animals is wrong. I do not, for the record, have any real ethical problem with killing animals for food. I do, however, have a problem with the food system as it currently exists. I don't want to eat Purdue chickens that are buckling under the weight of their own breasts, dying in droves, and picked up and tossed by low-paid workers in middle-of-the-night raids. I don't think that commercial beef cattle, for the short time they spend on this planet, should be standing knee-deep in their own waste, eating corn, which the bovine stomach simply isn't biologically engineered to digest. When I know the provenance of my meat--when I know, for instance, that my cows had access to real pastures, that my chickens saw actual sunlight--I feel much better about being an omnivore. But when I think about the compromised ethos of the meat industry, a calculated strategy of animal-torture designed to bring this country more protein that it will ever really need, I feel safe in my decision to eat mostly vegetables.

My local grocery stores do not carry local or organic meat, so, at home, I don't eat it. The restaurants I choose to eat at usually list the farms their cuts come from. On Sunday, I went to Minetta Tavern. Even though they don't list it, I know their beef purveyor, Pat Lafrieda, takes great pride in his meat. Most of the cows are pasture-bred and fed. These days, that's the best you can hope for.

I went to Minetta Tavern because I was able to score a last-minute reservation, yes, but also because I was dying for steak, weak from iron deficiency. My friend was in the mood for bone marrow, an item featured on a handful of city restaurants. We called, they had a table, and that was that. We began with cocktails, mine a crisp cucumber number without too much sweet stuff going on. It was supposed to have rhubarb in it, but if it did, it eluded me. Three large prawns arrived atop a cocktail sauce/mayonnaise and with three delicate artichokes. When it was gone, we had time to concentrate on our 1982 Prieure-Lichine, a steal for $300. According to the wine director, (who's attention we caught after having ordered a 60 ounce steak for two and an ancient bottle of Bordeaux), auction wines are practically free these days. Three-hundred is way out of my personal budget, but dinner was on my friend, just this one time.

The cote d' boeuf was glorious, and made me glad that I still eat beef once in a while. It had a solid, crunchy crust, born of heat and butter. The meat was cool and red in the center and the steak was flanked by three long bones, cut lengthwise so we could spoon the marrow onto our steaks. The dickle was so rich, I couldn't finish even my share. We managed to complete the steak, aside from that last bit of dickle and the rib bone itself, which, in hungrier moments, I would gladly have lifted to my mouth and gnawed on, even in a fine restaurant.

For dessert, we ate coconut layer cake and a chocolate "bomb" that didn't resonate. It didn't matter, anyway. The steak was the point and it absolutely delivered, needing no sauce, but only a hefty appetite. And perhaps our crowning achievement, having impressed the old boys at "impossible-to-get-into" Minetta, was the issue of two business cards with the restaurant's private phone number on it. Our names and telephone numbers were taken at meal's end, and we were added to a list of elite who can actually get a table on a normal night. They'll be disappointed to know, at my next visit, that $300 bottles of wine usually ain't my bag.

So, the rest of the week had to be cleaner. I had a lunch date with my cousin yesterday and I was thinking comfort food, meat-free. We met at Keste, where everyone I know had been telling me to go for a good Neapolitan pie. If you're a fan of a small, doughy pie, with fresh ingredients, a slightly soggy middle (that's how they do it in Naples), and a charred crust, go here. You won't be disappointed. I could have taken down two or three margheritas. The buffalo mozzarella practically disappeared, it was so light. I love a good, crispy New York slice, but this pie, on flavor alone, outdid half the artisanal pies in NYC. I'll be going back for another meat-free adventure.

*

Minetta Tavern

113 MacDougal Street

New York, NY 10012

212.475.3850

*

Keste' Pizza and Vino

271 Bleecker Street

New York, NY 10014

212.243.1500

Return To Big Apple

It was necessary to separate the Miami trip from all other food news, so please excuse the double-post. Upon my return to the City, my bf made good on his belated Christmas gift to me: dinner at Tudor City's Convivio. It used to be L'Impero, Scott Conant's baby. I never ate at L'Impero, though I did dine once at Alto, Conant's other midtown gem (which he abandoned when he abandoned L'Impero two years ago). I was expecting good things.

Of course we ran into someone we knew there. Of course. Sometimes I think I can't go anywhere. Good thing I wasn't wearing sweatpants. Convivio has what I consider to be one of the best deals around: four courses OF YOUR CHOICE for $62.00. That means that, rather get roped into some tiny portion fixed menu in which you choose between chicken and beef (snore), you get to look at the menu and actually decide for yourself. And the portions are appropriate human portions, not those silly pixie helpings they give you on most set menus.

We were given sparkling wine to begin, an expense saved that we immediately devoted to "snacks," which are extra. We ordered green olives with lemon zest, but we also received rich, thick-cut salami, marinated shitake mushrooms, and risotto balls that could best be described as Kraft macaroni and cheese rolled into a ball and deep-fried. In a good way. For our set menu appetizers, we ordered chicken liver crostini, which was almost liquid and served with divine caramelized onions, as well as hamachi crudo with delicately chopped peppers and herbs. My pasta course, hand-cut spaghetti with mussels, clams, and shrimp, lacked flavor, but my companion's rich carbonara made up for it. And then there was the fusilli, sent from the house. It came in a rich tomato ragu of cubed pork shoulder and made me forget all about my boring little seafood pasta.

He had a piece of dorade, served with delicate mushrooms. For me, the lamb, two small chops served over a bed of white beans and tomatoes. By then, the beans were too much; I ate one chop and donated the second. I wanted room for dessert and the remainder of my 2001 Taurasi (the wine list focuses on southern Italian wines, with an estimable Taurasi list; don't waste your time looking for Barolos here), and that wasn't a mistake. A gingerbread cake was topped with a light spiced cream and poached pears. The panna cotta, served in a glass, came with lime yogurt gelato and huckleberries. And the house again sent their regards, this time in the form of a parfait made from amaro gelato and a fresh shot of espresso. Not that we needed it.

*

Convivio

45 Tudor City Place

New York, NY 10017

212.599.5045

Bienvenido A Miami, ETC.

I spent the week following Christmas in Miami with my mother. Ever wonder how long it would take for your parents to drive you insane? I estimate one week. She would probably say the same about me.

I will run through the many worthy dining experiences I enjoyed during my week in the sun, though it bears noting that the so-called "local" food movement does not exist in Florida. I understand that the climate is warmer and that produce is seasonal for more of the year, but isn't this citrus season? Why, then, were tomatoes such a prominent part of every menu? Hudson Valley foie gras down south? What's the point? When I did see the word local used--and it was few and far between--it generally referred to corvina, snapper, or grouper. Yikes.

Which isn't to say that the Miamians aren't doing good things with food, because they are. But my trip south codified my belief that New York is lightyears ahead of all other American food cultures. Argue amongst yourselves.

Our first night warranted a trip to Sra. Martinez, Michelle Bernstein's tapas restaurant in the Design District. A plate of "pickles" was hardly enough to nibble on, though I'll forgive the mistake because the deep-fried eggplant disks were so good. Korean short ribs were, indeed, Hagi-style, with the bone in and the grill marks intact. You eat them with your hands. Don't confuse these with the Americanized "fall off the bone" version. I could have done without the overly sweet duck sausage, which came with large white beans, but I never would have passed on the charred and lemony Brussels sprouts--their aioli might have made the meal. Head-on prawns were messy, but worth it. The flan was entirely ordinary (and not my first choice).

Next up: News Cafe for lunch. I was underwhelmed with my extremely expensive egg-white omelet. I did enjoy watching the Ferraris on Ocean Drive, which may be the only reason this place is full all the time.

Then it was Wish for dinner. They serve their frozen mojitos (thumbs-up) in martini glasses with glowing green ice-cubes, an ecto-cooler for adults. Sliced hamachi was heaven: fresh, complimented by the modest heat of jalapeno. My scallops drowned in a sea of squash and (gasp!) whipped cream. That turned me off. Plus, the portions were too big. Maybe I'd stick to appetizers next time, and, of course, the lovely vanilla panna cotta, which arrived with a basil reduction. Delish.

Night three: Douglas Rodriguez' Ola. Lovely ceviche of cobia over Asian pear granita. It might sound weird, but it worked. The waiter dropped the ball on our second ceviche, which arrived with our entrees (boo!), and it wasn't as good as the first, anyway: tuna, corvina, and salmon served over sweet potato. It lacked something. Our foie gras empanadas didn't sit right with me. Something about the idea of eating foie gras as a quasi-eggroll turned me off. I passed on my second half. But our pork Milanese was just as good as the best veal versions I've had. And the yelpers who recommended the deconstructed key lime pie were right on. It came with a separate crust and charred marshmallow. Not to be missed: the watermelon mojito.

For lunch the next day, I dragged my mother to little Havana for a Cuban sandwich at Versailles, the opulent Cuban diner on the far outreaches of Calle Ocho. It was the perfect sandwich (pork, ham, cheese, mustard, pickles, supple-yet-crusty white bread), complimented by sweet Cuban coffee. On the way out, I bought a buttery guava jam cookie. The caramelized sugar on top stuck to the inside of my mouth like the best peanut butter ever.

For dinner, it was Michelle Bernstein again, but this time her high-end outpost, Michy's. Brilliant concept: offer half portions of everything. This way, people like me can eat more. I had sweetbreads (fried) with mushroom escabeche, while my mother guarded her polenta/soft-cooked egg/lardon/truffles with her life--she allowed me one glorious bite. We shared a decadent carbonara, pasta made in house and decorated with crispy proscuitto and other porkiness, as well as a massive churrasco. For dessert, I insisted on jam and chocolate-filled donut holes. Pedestrian, but worth the trip down nostalgic "New York desserts of 2006" lane.

On Wednesday, it was Emeril's, our worst meal by far. My shrimp appetizer, served with a tiny biscuit, was too sweet, owing to the over-generous helping of barbecue sauce. My whole fish--a "local" snapper--was the best part of the meal, de-boned but served with head and tail and complimented by tagiasca olives, lemon, tomatoes, and summer squash (isn't it the wrong season?). My mother's duck, however, was massive--her plate was the size of a proper Thanksgiving serving dish--and sickly sweet, served over even sweeter mashed sweet potatoes. Our banana cream pie tasted completely pre-fab and the table in front of us had an absent sense of propriety, having arrived at dinner in very, very short jean cutoffs. Worse, a table in front of us remained uncleared and dirty for over an hour. Gross. I won't be trying my luck with Mr. Bam again anytime soon.

Thursday was New Year's Eve, and we ate at La Marea at The Tides. This meal, a holiday prix fixe, was not, I don't think, representative of the restaurant's potential, and so I will not mention it here. Suffice to say that New Year's Eve is a rip-off no matter where you dine.

I had been looking forward to our last meal, at Michael's Genuine Food and Drink, all week. This place has gotten a lot of press, so I thought I would be amply impressed. Not so much. Ok, the country pate with spicy mustard and cornichon was great, but it was also pretty boring. A rice cake (kind of like a fried risotto patty) with rock shrimp and egg was confusing. Tuna tartare with a quail egg was too finely chopped and really had no taste. The double-yolk wood-oven cooked egg was good, but very basic. Crispy slivers of fried pig ears may have been the best part of the show. I liked the chicken wings, but they were kind of sweet-and-sour saucy, a bit too much "sweet" for my taste. The Mounds Bar tart was the meal's redemption, served with a miniature root-beer float (most of which my mother drank).

Conclusion: Miami ain't New York.

*

Sra. Martinez

4000 NE 2nd Avenue

Miami, FL 33137

305.573.5474

*

News Cafe

800 Ocean Drive

Miami Beach, FL 33139

305.538.6937

*

Wish

801 Collins Avenue

Miami Beach, FL 33139

305.674.9474

*

Ola

1745 James Avenue

Miami Beach, FL 33139

305.695.1925

*

Versailles Restaurant

3555 SW 8th Street

Miami, FL 33135

305.441.2500

*

Michy's

6927 Biscayne Boulevard

Miami, FL 33138

305.759.2001

*

Emeril's Miami Beach

1601 Collins Avenue

Miami Beach, FL 33139

305.695.4550

*

La Marea at The Tides

1220 Ocean Drive

Miami Beach, FL 33139

305.604.5070

*

Michael's Genuine Food and Drink

130 NE 40th Street

Miami, FL 33137

305.573.5550