Sunset Pig

Back to northern California, this time for a full week. After A. picked me up from SFO, we drove directly to the Mission for pizza and French pastry. At Delfina, we ordered a sausage and red onion pie, which was pleasantly crisp and nearly as good as the best Neopolitans we get in New York. A plate of roasted cauliflower was lacking some texture, owing to mise-en-place that had been held for too long, but the roasted flavor--nutty, nearly charred--redeemed the textural issues. Warm marinated olives, bathed in oil and heated lemon zest, made for a perfect non-appetizer. Minutes later, we walked down the block to Tartine Bakery. In the past, I have only hit Tartine at night, and by then they are always out of their famed croissants and cakes. But not today. In fact, the case was even filled with open faced crostini with ham and cheese and local asparagus, a perfect lunch for someone who hadn't just eaten. Instead, we ordered a double pain au chocolat, so named for its size, roughly the size of a human hand. It was flaky and buttery and piped with just enough chocolate, a perfect example of pate feuilletee done right.

For dinner, it was off to the venerable Zuni Cafe. A fritto platter was little more than hyped-up onion rings with the occasional flash of fried fennel, but the light batter and accompanying lemon wedge could do no wrong. So, too, with the pillowy gnocchi and crunchy Caesar salad; at Zuni Cafe, it is okay to order the dish you would most likely see anywhere else. Chicken for two really should have been billed as chicken for three, but never mind. It was moist and crisp on the outside and brightened by a vinaigrette that soaked into torn baguette under the bird. The pork chop we ordered, as a result, fell to the wayside, nearly uneaten, though we plowed happily through a tier of salty shoestring fries. For dessert, a play on ile flotante--moist meringues--and a chocolate cake did not last long.

By sunset the next night, I was up in Napa Valley, where I stopped in for dinner at Michael Chiarello's Bottega in downtown Yountville. My "onion soup" was mushroom dominant and complimented by a sunny-side-up hen's egg. It was surprisingly inspired, as was a pasta course of bucatini with whole prawns. I ate the sweet heads, too. I shared a spring risotto--asparagus, spring onions--with a thin paillard of lamb as well as a fun take on chicken marsala. Mushrooms were the theme of the night, appearing in nearly every course. Ricotta donuts, in folded newspaper, arrived hot and were gone before the check appeared.

Then, it was time for lunch at The French Laundry, where we were escorted into a private stone room with a window to the wine pull. Two amuse bouche: gougeres and salmon tartare coronets. And then the parade began. A bowl of caviar, garnished with flowers and candied kumquat, masked a perfect bone marrow custard beneath. Our salads of hearts of palm were garnished with cucumber, red ball radish, avocado, micro mizuna and a black sesame puree. Cobia was a thick fillet, cooked medium and served with conch, a warm corn fritter, celery leaves, and a tomato cream. The largest sea scallop I have ever seen nestled against radishes, beets, Nicoise olives, and poached baby fennel. The duck may have been my favorite, with a full half inch of fat atop a sous-vide puck of meat, a flawless ball of sauteed spinach stretched taut, sunchoke cocottes, and a mandarin orange sauce. By the time the veal, a thick filet with a short rib raviolo on the side, arrived, I was too full to finish the carrots or black trumpet mushrooms bathed in Sauce Bordelaise. Cheese stuffed with truffles was nearly overkill, though I ate it all, including the fried potato croquette and pickled ramp. Sherbet, made from yogurt and served over pomegranate seeds, honey, and granola, was satisfying and reminiscent of breakfast. And dessert in the theme of Meyer lemon, with Oregon huckleberries, poppy seed ice cream, and a brown sugar custard, brought just enough acid to the table to prevent me from feeling the weight of my own excess. Finally, our server brought a coffee semifredo with foamed milk on top and a plate of beignets. To go, she packed six different chocolates and three tins of sugared shortbread.

But by dinner time, I was ready to do it all again, so my friends and I headed to Redd Wood, the new Napa pizza place. Can a person really ever get too much pizza? Or wings, for that matter? We did order wings, of course, big fat ones that were a good Buffalo replica (very very spicy, crisp, doused in Frank's Red Hot), even if they came without the requisite blue cheese and carrot sticks. Flash fried Brussels sprouts were very delicious, but fat spears of asparagus swimming in oil and mint and lemon juice and marked with the appropriately dark remnants of a grill, were not to be outdone. Bucatini in red sauce with guanciale made me remember how much pork fat adds to a dish. And the pizza? For California, it was surprisingly good: crispy, chewy, etc. We got a plain pie, my nod to the pizza gods, as well as a white one with sausage. For dessert, we indulged in a butterscotch semifredo with whipped cream.

Pre-race day brunch took place in downtown Napa at the Oxbow Market, where we found the Kitchen Door, a restaurant tucked into the back. I ate McDonald's style fries--my favorite--and a livery, crunchy, salty and sweet duck banh mi. Back in Carneros, we ate an early dinner at Farm: a half portion of the Maine lobster risotto with al dente kernels of rice, and a full portion of chicken, over butter beans.

When the race was over, all bets were off. I went directly to the Boon Fly Cafe for fresh donuts, each the size of two half dollars. Then it was off to ad hoc, Thomas Keller's family style joint in downtown Yountville. The menu is set and changes nightly and on this particular night we were treated to a salad of warm butter beans with escarole and bacon, a rack of pork over mushrooms and skinny asparagus, and creamy polenta with a bacon and tomato compote. A cheese course came with pickled fennel and then, for dessert, the largest tiramisu I have ever seen, served in a cast iron serving dish. The meal, in its layered simplicity, may have been my favorite.

On our way back from Calistoga the next afternoon, we stopped for California burgers (lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles and special sauce), a half bottle of Shafer Merlot, a Cherry Coke and garlic parsley fries at Gott's Roadside, where we sat at picnic tables in the sunshine. And then, for our final Napa Valley meal, it was back to Yountville for bone marrow in a grenobloise sauce and a rib-eye for two over trumpet mushrooms and a baked macaroni and cheese at Bouchon. For bistro fare, it does the trick, but only if you're willing to fork over a pretty penny in the process.

Back in San Francisco, with twenty-four hours left of west coast fun, I hit up Mission Chinese, where, in my excitement, I vastly over ordered. Tiny clams in black bean and garlic sauce were pretty and perfect. Spicy cucumbers slicked in oil provided requisite crunch and cooling. The food was spicy--even fatty pork belly needed a thin cucumber salad beneath it and a dish of tofu skins and bacon benefitted from the chewiness of pan fried rice cakes. Cumin lamb came on the bone, and scented the entire dining room. A rich soup of brisket and broth and wide noodles was simple and sumptuous. Crisp chicken wings came in a light dusting of star anise. It was a winning meal, by every stretch of the imagination and left us with just the right amount of leftovers. For dessert, we trekked to Humphry Slocombe for Vietnamese coffee ice cream and brown butter ice cream with butterscotch and amarena cherries.

In the morning, before my flight, I took one final trip to the Mission for Dynamo Donuts, one chocolate rose (like a perfect specimen of the northeastern classic chocolate glazed donut) and an apricot cardamom. The donuts are small enough for a two-per-visit indulgence. The diet starts now.

*

Delfina Pizzeria

3611 18th Street

San Francisco, CA 94110

415.437.6800

*

Tartine Bakery

600 Guerrero Street

San Francisco, CA 94110

415.487.2600

*

Zuni Cafe

1658 Market Street

San Francisco, CA 94102

415.552.2522

*

Bottega Napa Valley

6525 Washington Street

Yountville, CA 94599

707.945.1050

*

The French Laundry

6640 Washington Street

Yountville, CA 94599

707.944.2380

*

Redd Wood

6755 Washington Street

Yountville, CA 94599

707.299.5030

*

Kitchen Door

610 First Street

Napa, CA 94559

707.226.1560

*

The Farm at The Carneros Inn

4048 Old Sonoma Highway

Napa, CA 94559

707.299.4880

*

Boon Fly Cafe

4048 Old Sonoma Highway

Napa, CA 94599

707.299.4900

*

ad hoc

6476 Washington Street

Yountville, CA 94599

707.944.2487

*

Gott's Roadside

933 Main Street

St. Helena, CA 94574

707.963.3486

*

Bouchon Bistro

6534 Washington Street

Yountville, CA 94599

707.944.8037

*

Mission Chinese Food

2234 Mission Street

San Francisco, CA 94110

415.863.2800

*

Humphry Slocombe

2790 Harrison Street

San Francisco, CA 94110

415.550.6971

*

Dynamo Donuts

2760 24th Street

San Francisco, CA 94110

415.920.1978

Empellon, Redux

Alex Stupak, doing his due diligence in the NYC restaurant scene, has already opened his second Mexican outpost. His first solo spot, (Stupak was once the venerated pastry chef at both Alinea and Wd-50) Empellon Taqueria, opened last year to rave reviews. This reviewer ate there early, on a rainy Tuesday night, and found it lovely if a little expensive for souped-up tacos. Empellon Cocina is a truly different experience, a high end take on low brow Oaxacan food, plated in a palpably two-star way. The food is small, precious, and a little too proper for the neighborhood, the dregs of the east village on first avenue. But with some misses, it seems clear that this place will be a hit in the future.

Chicharrones with a tomatillo and caper salsa were actually still crackling when they arrived at the table and thin planes of masa with accompanying salsas--creamy, spicy, and not at all what I expected--were true to both the roots of the cuisine and Stupak's high star ambitions. Ruby red shrimp with a masa cracker, micro greens, and a lovely cream reminiscent of pimento cheese may have been the highlight of our evening, a sure crowd pleaser and loads more satisfying that a later pork dish. Billed as a "queso," but served cold and with no real trace of cheese, the thin slices of hazelnut-fed pork tasted best when wrapped in hot, fresh, flour tortillas.

An empanada oozed yellow egg when cut open over chorizo and sweet potatoes; the dish was called a gordita, but it was small and not at all fat, as the word means in Spanish. Manila clams with puffed beef tendon (a bit too similar to those earlier chicharrones) arrived swimming in a sauce best described as the bathtub for a perfect Buffalo wing. Spicy and rich, it cleared our sinuses and prepared us for the ribs we had been expecting.

But... no ribs! Our expeditor brought skirt steak instead. We had corrected our waiter once before, when he had double checked our order and repeated steak back to us. No, ribs, we said. We sent the steak back. Our waiter blamed the mistake on us. "You said you had a nut allergy and the ribs are covered in nuts, so I thought you meant the beef ribs." Except that there were no ribs in the beef dish, and he hadn't mentioned anything about nuts in the ribs in the first place (I'm pretty sure he made this up to buffer the blow of his mistake). We ordered duck on the fly as a replacement and it came out a few minutes later, nicely cooked and in the company of sliced avocado and baby potatoes. But it was not the sticky ribs we had expected and, indeed, ordered.

In that vein, our waiter was an example of what not to do. He recommended dishes before we even had the chance to ask, and the items he pointed to all hit the highest price point on the menu. His suggestions, too, were not always what I would have chosen and I didn't really feel like I needed his input, anyway. The drinks took forever to arrive and for a while I was convinced that he had forgotten my margarita or my Mexican Coke inspired drink sweating at the bar. When I opted for that margarita, by the way, I felt like I was disappointing him, since it wasn't one of the drinks that he suggested I order. It was too much pressure with too little reward.

Desserts were too conceptual and too savory for my liking. This happens often in fine dining establishments, where a pastry chef wants to tread the line between salty and sweet. But a chocolate cake had meant one thing in my mind and another thing when translated on the plate, a dry jelly roll of sponge cake with too many sesame seeds. Empanadas were thin and dry and filled with a dehydrated pineapple that reminded me of healthy candy.

There are kinks to be worked out, of course. I hope, for one, that our eager beaver waiter is eventually put in his place and stops blaming his mistakes on the guests. In the meantime, I'll wait for the critics to catch up before I hit Empellon again, even though I know it will likely rise to the occasion.

*

Empellon Cocina

105 First Avenue

New York, NY 10003

212.780.0999

The New Three Star Is The Old Two Star

I'm not sure what it means these days, the vaunted three star rating handed down to a restaurant from the powers that be at The New York Times (most recently, those "powers" are the provenance of one man, Pete Wells). Three star used to signify a certain dining dignity, a certain excellence not only of food but also of service. It used to connote white tablecloths and, on a good night, crystal. Not these days. I wasn't disappointed by the actual food at Il Buco Alimentari e Vineria, the most recent recipient of a fine three star review, but I was disappointed about what such a review means for the future of restaurants. The plate of in-house cured meats that arrived at our table was subtle, nuanced, slick with soft fat, and quite possibly the best plate of such that I have ever enjoyed outside of Europe. My agrodolce cocktail lived up to its namesake, both sour and sweet. The chewy, dense, full-flavored bread that came--only after we asked for it, of course--was rich with raisin and whole grain and ten times better than the best of the saltless Tuscan varieties.

But a server who delivered our charcuterie could not name the meats on our plate and it took an inordinately long time for said cocktails to arrive at said table. We asked for share plates twice and finally they arrived, but by then we were mostly done eating the things we had so carefully ordered. A server kept asking, "are you still working on that?" even when there was still visible food on our plates. She might as well have told us that she had been cut and wanted to go home.

For me, baccalao missed the mark. I got nothing but flaky fish beneath the flaky exterior, as opposed to the milk/cream/salt cod mixture I was expecting. And baked eggs, taken a minute too far in the oven, were overrun by shavings of bottarga that turned the dish into a fishy mess. Not so with the slick spaghetti with bottarga, though, which was a complete marriage of texture and taste. Also perfect was the porchetta sandwich--roast pork, crisp skin, chewy bread, salsa verde, and a side of pickled carrots. And desserts, generally not the highlight of any Italian meal, were surprisingly impressive. A bitter orange polenta cake kept its moisture from a nearby scoop of amaretto gelato and a roasted pear tasted better with a scoop of creme fraiche gelato. I was happy, too, that I had splurged and ordered a separate cup of salted caramel gelato, as creamy and unctuous as it is on the streets of Umbria.

The food is delicious; about that I have no question. But does the elevation of peasant food to three star cuisine do anything for New York restaurants that David Chang hasn't already? To that I offer a resounding no.

*

Il Buco Alimentari e Vineria

53 Great Jones Street

New York, NY 10012

212.837.2622

Surprise of the Year

I am so frequently let down by New York restaurants that a genuinely delicious experience often sends me reeling. Twice now in the past two weeks I have found elusive culinary grandeur in humble Italian roots. Two weeks ago, it was Il Buco on Bond Street. This past week, I found a similar transcendent experience at Maialino.

Maialino divorces itself from the pomp and circumstance that is the Gramercy Park Hotel, where the rustic, full, and comfy restaurant lives. If the hostess takes you toward the back, know that you are in capable hands and are heading to a row of low, linen-backed banquettes, which make a person feel like she is eating in someone's really nice and comfortable Restoration Hardware-outfitted apartment.

Immediately, cheesy and crispy breadsticks arrive, along with crusty bread that is nothing like the saltless version offered up in Tuscany. Maialino has a wide selection of charcuterie, and on the night we were there they were offering a recently cured bresola, thin sliced-beef that usually has the consistency of rubber tire. But not at Maialino, where the careful plate came with olive oil and lemon juice and salt--nothing more. The tender beef, more akin to a lovely roast than an old steak, required no more frill than that.

A plate of fried things included brains, sweetbreads, and artichokes. Artichokes, rarely my favorite, sang through the light batter and bright squeeze of a lemon. Brains were regrettably gooey and undersalted and reminded me why such things should only be served at their best (I was brought back to a memory of eating them fried in a wine cellar in Spain). But sweetbreads redeemed the plate.

Then a pasta duo, one with a starchy sauce of salt and pepper and cheese and one of stuffed shells with Italian sausage and deep green kale. The plates are small enough to keep a calorie count intact and encourage sharing in favor of ordering other dishes on the menu. We wiped our plates clean, breathless by the time our final course--the restaurant's signature suckling pig--came out. Pressed under the weight of a crispy shingle of skin, the meat was tender and juicy, complimented by a side of crispy Brussels sprouts.

We attempted two desserts, donuts with apple glaze that were delicious if ordinary, and a bread pudding made from chocolate croissants. The latter stole my heart, as did so many things at Maialino.

*

Maialino

2 Lexington Avenue

New York, NY 10010

212.777.2410

Happy Italian

For years, I have been meaning to eat at tiny, rustic, romantic Il Buco on Bond Street. But the place almost never has a reservation available. So imagine my surprise when I snagged a prime table during the busiest part of the evening, one half of a communal table under shelves of ceramic bowls and hanging copper pots. It might be one of the loveliest dining rooms in New York, with its dim lighting and candles and Tuscan feel. I remembered a trip to a ski chalet in the Valley d' Aosta and bowls of warm polenta. One of the greatest compliments I can pay Il Buco is that it took me back to Italy.

But then, the food. I had limited expectations, but a mackerel crudo blew me away. It was salty and spicy and thick, without even a tinge of the fishiness that mackerel so often imparts. It arrived on a puree of sunchokes. We cleaned the plate. Ditto for a creamy burrata with paper-thin persimmons and a juicy Mangalista pork sausage over toothsome white beans with mushrooms.

Then: a handmade pasta with thick strands of rabbit and parsnips that tasted exactly like my mother's chicken soup, in the best way possible. The noodles came just al dente, the rabbit rich and earthy. I would go back for seconds, but Il Buco's dinner menu changes nightly.

Porchetta did not disappoint, either. Sliced thin and served with a plume of crispy skin, we ate through the tangle of salty Swiss chard and the accompanying beans with as much gusto as the meat itself. The first time I saw porchetta was at an open Tuscan market, where a man sold it sliced directly from the pig and where, in the summer sun, I ate that meat with my hands from a wax paper wrapping. Il Buco was an experiment in recreating my fondest Italian memories.

Finally, the creamiest panna cotta I have ever eaten arrived, decorated with a splash of balsamic vinegar. A grape cake with creme fraiche and almonds tasted of a holiday cake my grandmother used to make. For these things, I would go back again and again.

*

Il Buco

47 Bond Street, #1

New York, NY 10012

212.533.1932

Terrible Twos

Well, maybe not terrible. But not great, either. I hit the East Village twice this week, once for a pricey meal at Hearth and once again for a steal at Apiary, even though we splurged on wine. At Hearth, we ordered a massive charcuterie board for a staggering $45, but most of the offal offered was a little too livery for my taste. By the time my delicious quail appetizer arrived--over a vinegary bed of grains--I was almost too full to enjoy it. A spatlese riesling to begin left me wanting more great wine, but a premier cru Burgundy disappointed, as did a dormant 2000 Bordeaux suggested to me by an enthusiastic sommelier. My main course--a selection of meats of which I can only clearly recall a smooth and lovely tongue--was too rich and ineptly composed. I couldn't figure out how to eat it or what to compare it to, besides a hard-up pot au feu. I had wanted the spaghetti and meatballs; next time, I'll go with my gut.

Donuts were average. I left very disappointed and a little broke. Apiary broke my heart a little less. Our seven-course tasting included a bright and clean tranch of hamachi, served with micro greens and hearts of palm. But, like so many of the following courses, it was undersalted. Hake had a perfect crust and came in a creamy pool of razor clams and potatoes and bacon. Papparadelle with rabbit and tomatoes and basil was toothsome and satisfying, even if it defied the season a little (who garnishes with fresh basil in January, anyway?). Sweetbreads, though overcooked, came bathed in a sticky, salty, and sweet sauce and over a fine puree. Duck was perfectly cooked, but the accompanying cabbage had no seasoning whatsoever.

A composed cheese plate offered three cheeses, fruit bread, and a trio of honeys. It was nice, sure, but a little basic for a full course of seven. And the chocolate lava cake was reductive, as was the overwrought and chewy apple puff pastry provided at meal's end.

But Apiary has an enviable wine list, something it has in common with Hearth. Both lists can bring a person closer to Bordeaux with some funk and age than any of New York's other prize places. A 1982 Prieure-Lichine was actually in our price range, believe it or not. And so we escaped tough puff pastry on the back of old Bordeaux. Next time, maybe I'll stick to the bars at both haunts.

*

Hearth

403 East 12th Street

New York, NY 10009

646.602.1300

*

Apiary

60 Third Avenue

New York, NY 10003

212.254.0888

Brooklyn Rustic

These places are opening all over now: local, sustainable, rustic, small. The restaurant is tiny and equipped to handle minimal crowds. We lucked out in scoring a three top right when we came in.

Cocktails are delicious, if a little too small. A tart, red drink tasted like sour cherries or currants, or a mix of the two.

A crispy kale salad was filled with crunch and salt and sweet (and a noticeable tang of fish sauce), but was, regrettably, overdressed and beginning to wilt. A cauliflower soup was thick and rich and bettered by candy sweet Nantucket bay scallops.

Veal sweetbreads a la meuniere was my favorite dish of the night, perfectly cooked and crispy outside with a grenobloise and crunchy romaine lettuce on the side, along with a caesar-y dressing. Pici with mushrooms and pea shoots brought me back to Tuscany and I could have used a bigger plate. But linguine with crab, though fine in its execution, didn't bring much to the table.

Desserts were kind of a failure. A fennel panna cotta was overrun by lemon rind that provided too much texture in a grainy, gross kind of way. A pear clafouti was overcooked and beaten to death by cinnamon cream. Next time, I'll go for the standard chocolate caramel tart.

*

Battersby

255 Smith Street

Brooklyn, NY

718.852.8321

Daniel

The dining room is large for a four-star, with a raised platform around the perimeter featuring Grecian columns. A cocktail at the bar came with a round ice cube filled with flower petals. Nice touch.

We were VIP-ed.

A six-course tasting menu was actually twelve, since my companion and I each chose one of the two options. A duck liver terrine with marcona almonds, apple confit, and a glazed date was a perfect example of foie done well. A mosaic of duck and parsnip with poached quince and Champagne grapes was an equally well-conceived match. The dishes came with a Prum Kabinett Riesling from the Mosel.

Then: a trio of tuna (tartare with caviar, cured with compressed celery, en confit with anchovy dressing and a small puck of white anchovy); a delicious cured fluke with shiso and beets and an edamame coulis that was too difficult to eat. With it, we drank a Gruner Veltliner from Domaine Wachau.

A sea scallop, crusted in Buddha's hand and pine nuts meshed well with the accompanying celery mousseline. Artichoke and squid ink raviolini--neither a favorite ingredient of mine--surprised me with their character, delicacy, and depth. The wine pairing, a white Chateneuf-du-Pape from Chateau Monpertuis, was a small failure in pairings, overriding the delicacy of the food.

A white truffle course! Tiny pasta pockets stuffed with porcini mushrooms in a cream sauce with a quarter ounce of truffles shaved on top. We drank an impressive 1993 Heredia white Rioja.

Bacon wrapped swordfish was next, with spaghetti squash and cipollini onions. It wasn't my favorite; I felt a poached monkfish tail with toasted cashews worked better. A single vineyard Copain Pinot Noir from Sonoma was a lovely pairing.

Four Story Hill Farm squab may have been my favorite dish, cooked medium rare and served with a crisp top skin and sunchokes. With it, we enjoyed a pretty little Barolo from Sperino Lessona.

Our main courses underwhelmed me. A duo of beef (short rib and tenderloin) with chanterelles and cauliflower was ordinary. A veal plate of cheeks, sweetbreads, and tenderloin disappointed me entirely; the sweetbreads were woefully overcooked. But we drank with these my favorite wine of the evening, Chave "Offerus" Cornas from the Rhone.

Four desserts were next: apple, pineapple, chocolate, and coffee. They were fine, but better were the Chateau Pajzos Tokaji and Rivesaltes that we drank with them. Petit fours included chocolates and warm madelines. And then the night was over.

It was an impressive spread and, in some ways, more manageable than dinner at per se. Alcohol portions were too big, and I had to get out of my own way a few times. My memory is not as clear as it should have been. Alas.

*

Daniel

60 East 65th Street

New York, NY 10065

212.288.0033

Chinese Two Ways

It started on Sunday night with a trip to Chinatown's Peking Duck House. This venerable duck spot is always crowded, never has reservations available, and allows patrons to bring their own wine (Riesling and Burgundy for us). Really, there is only one thing that you must get here: Peking duck (duh!).

Soup dumplings were a misstep, with a flavorless filling and an over boiled dumpling wrapper. Chinese broccoli--closely resembling broccoli rabe--in oyster sauce was good enough, fulfilling the need for something green. But the real star was the duck, carved away from our table and brought back in clean, lacquered slices. It was fatty and chewy and crispy and arrived with a julienne of cucumber and scallions, along with thin pancakes and hoisin sauce. We ate the whole duck.

Later in the week, I had a dumpling craving that required satisfaction and so found myself at the recently renovated (but still dirt cheap) Nom Wah Tea Parlor on Doyers Street, where a truly overabundant meal set me back twenty-five smackers--and where I should have shown restraint and ordered less. House special dumplings, pork and shrimp, came in a crisp, pan seared package. Shrimp and pea shoot numbers were in a thinner, gooier rice paper wrapper, equally delicious. Vegetable dumplings were the size of hacky sacks. Shrimp filling wrapped in bacon came deep fried and impossibly crunchy. Rice rolls--one with vegetables and one with beef--surprised us with their incredible texture and depth. A pork bun the size of two adult fists gave way to chunks of real, toothsome pork. And turnip cakes with Chinese sausage and dried shrimp were crisp outside and soft inside, a welcome departure from that old stand-by, scallion pancakes. I never even made it to the fried crab claw, which came with shell intact (a minor turnoff, to be honest). The evening's only real disappointment was a plate of "sweet and sour" spare ribs, more closely resembling a withered, soggy tonkatsu.

But for dumplings, well, it's worth the trip.

*

Peking Duck House

28 Mott Street

New York, NY 10013

212.227.1810

*

Nom Wah Tea Parlor

13 Doyers Street

New York, NY 10013

212.962.6047

Corton

Surprisingly, Paul Liedbrandt's highly recognized TriBeCa haunt was nearly dead on a recent--though rainy--Wednesday night. The dining room is spare anyway, in varied shades of white, so the emptiness feels even more obvious when the place isn't full.

Corton strives to be a four-star restaurant, but sometimes it misses its mark. Service is scattered and servers don't know the answer to obvious questions (like where their proteins come from, for instance). Utensils were often ill-suited for the task at hand (and I had to use my butter knife to scoop the sauce from one small bowl, left spoonless). My wine glass was near empty until a sommelier deigned notice. A series of amuse bouche--pastry filled with Sauce Mornay; a warm croquette; an egg custard with black truffle gelee that needed salt; a weirdly smoked quail egg; and a successful albacore tuna skewer with charred lime--underscored the ambition of the evening, even if they didn't all work.

Our first course of a puck of foie gras wrapped in beet, was dainty and beautiful, but not the best I've ever had. A course of monkfish was admirable cooked and sparely plated, with an accompanying warm oyster laced in foam and a lentil and onion soup.

A Wagyu beef course was a painting in black: a circle of beef crusted in black toasted brioche; a black oval of sunchoke; black truffle sauce on the plate; a square of short rib in more brioche; charred sweet onion; and a side of potato with a melting sauce inside.

Next: a gorgeous sesame custard with concord grape sorbet that surprised me in its elegance and restraint. Caramelized sesame on top offered the necessary crunch. Finally, an apple composition arrived, puff pastry filled with apples and a side of white coffee ice cream. It might not last forever in my dessert memory, but it was nice while it lasted, as was the parade of final notes: pate de fruits; chocolates; and macarons. I held court with a perfect glass of 1982 Coteaux du Layon.

The food is good, if a little too conceptual for its ilk. We'll see if it grows or shrinks with age.

*

Corton

239 West Broadway

New York, NY 10013

212.219.2777