Restaurant review, Brushstroke: The Feast From the East.

Think Alice Waters and Dan Barber were the original artists of the locavore movement? Try again. It arguably started centuries ago with the Japanese. With ornate ceramic tableware as canvases, their craft took shape in the kaiseki meal. This procession of dishes aimed to capture Japanese cuisine's five tastes (salty, bitter, sour, sweet, and umami, or savory) and showcase foods from the mountains, sea, rivers, and fields. All while deploying only the most seasonal of ingredients.

Brushstroke, a noteworthy new collaboration between David Bouley and the Tsuji Culinary Institute of Osaka, marks one of the few spots in New York City where you can enjoy such feasts. Located in Tribeca—as if D.B. would shack up anywhere else—the restaurant occupies the former digs of his Austrian hot spot Danube (and briefly Secession). Stripped of their former gilt and opulence, the environs are now decked out in reclaimed timber, stone, salvaged steel, and a muted color palette designed to keep your eyes transfixed on the plates. But make sure to steal glimpses at the chefs perfecting their craft while you sit at the long L-shaped bar—a real treat, given the nearly unnatural serenity pervading the open kitchen.

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Restaurant review, 900 Degrees' Pie in the Sky.

In retrospect, the onrush of restaurateurs into the pizza biz was entirely predictable. We all know the reason for it: The ingredients are cheap and the mark-ups spectacular. No sooner had small and ridiculously expensive Neapolitan pies descended on Gotham a few years back, with their plainish taste and pedigreed ingredients, than Roman pizza floated in, like thin, low-carb crackers. Seeking to outflank them in healthfulness, New Age pies flaunting crusts of spelt and tofu "cheese" arrived with a dull thud, as dollar-slice places demonstrated how cheap pizza can be. There are now too many types and subtypes to accurately count. It was also inevitable that a restaurant would try to make them all at once, yearning to create a one-stop pizza destination. Sounding more like an online university than a pizzeria, that place is 900 Degrees. The restaurant hunkers south of Sheridan Square in a doomed space that was once a Thai bistro, and before that an Indian tapas bar. With French doors propped open to catch Hudson River breezes, the dining room is wide but shallow, and a pair of ovens—one gas, one wood—rise like flaming robots behind a prep counter. 900 Degrees is an offshoot of San Francisco's Tony's Pizza Napoletana, helmed by American pizzaiolo Tony Gemignani. San Francisco telling New York how to make pizza? The end is near, my friends.

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Restaurant review, The Astor Room Noshes on Nostalgia.

Why do certain foods fall out of fashion? That's the question posed by the Astor Room, a new restaurant located in the former commissary of the still-active Kaufman Astoria Studios. The spot is a throwback to the moviemaker's glory days, when Rudolph Valentino, Gloria Swanson, and the Marx Brothers trolled these grounds. The menu is intriguing conceptually, and the staff is both friendly and knowledgeable (you'll undoubtedly learn that J.J. Astor became the neighborhood's namesake after investing $500 there—but never actually stepped foot in it). Unfortunately, owner Chris Vlacich fails to re-create the unbridled bliss of the Roaring '20s. The main problem: the décor. Some natural light filters in, but the subterranean space borders on depressing. While architectural elements like the original multihued tiled walls and an early-20th-century fan add quirky charm, the office-like, exposed-grid drop ceiling and drab, patterned carpet scream hotel dining—and we're talking Ramada, not Ritz-Carlton.

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Restaurant review, Phayul: Up You Go!

Mention Jackson Heights, and Indian boutiques and restaurants instantly spring to mind. But gradually the neighborhood has been changing, as businesses from Nepal, Bhutan, and Tibet have moved in. Latest to arrive is Phayul ("Fatherland"), a Tibetan café that occupies a second-story space at the corner of 37th Road and 74th Street, a yak turd's throw from the subway stop. Though the banner flapping high up above is easy to spot, finding the restaurant is more of a challenge: An obscure door on 37th Road leads past computer-repair and beauty-product stalls, up a steep, cluttered stairway that bends acutely to the right. Having completed the upward trek, you find yourself in a veritable Shangri-La, where tables vertiginously peer down upon the colorfully dressed shopping throngs below, as a framed photo of the Dalai Lama beams benevolently from the wall above the cash register.

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Restaurant review, The Dutch Takes an American Road Trip in SoHo.

What does "American cuisine" mean? Andrew Carmellini, the chef at the Dutch, a new Soho restaurant, might argue that if someone has ever served a dish in the United States at any point in time, it's American. Perhaps tiring of the simple art of Italian cooking at his highly regarded Tribeca restaurant, Locanda Verde, Carmellini has branched out to the former Cub Room. His bill of fare hopscotches across our mighty country while giving props to Japan, Mexico, Italy, and beyond. Yet the space feels quintessentially New York: cream-painted brick walls reminiscent of subway tiles, wooden banquettes and clubby booths, oversize windows fronting Prince and Sullivan streets, mid-century-esque chandeliers (inspired by those at Waffle House!), a flash of Keith Haring on the wall.

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Restaurant review, Chelsea's Banana Leaf Sails to the Island of Strange Starches.

At the heart of every cuisine lies a starch or starches. In many cases, the leading contender is obvious, as in Italian (pasta), Nigerian (pounded white yam), Thai (rice), Mexican (tortillas), and Irish (potatoes). But in some cuisines a lead actor isn't always apparent, and the underlying starches constitute an ensemble cast. One of those is Sri Lankan. Hanging like a teardrop below the Indian mainland, the island once known as Ceylon lies along trade routes that have connected East and West since ancient times. It was colonized in turn by the Portuguese, Dutch, and English before achieving independence in 1948. While the predominant religion is Buddhism, there are sizable Hindu, Muslim, and Christian populations. Clearly, the island enjoys one hell of a lot of culinary influences.

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Restaurant review, Monument Lane's Statue of Limitations.

Monument Lane might be New York City's trendiest restaurant. Not that it caters to the likes of Jen and Justin, or that you get a never-ending busy signal when calling for reservations. Instead, it indulges almost every major food fad of the moment. Gourmet comfort fare (pork belly! Fancy meatloaf! Pot pie!)—check. Artisanal cocktails—you betcha. Complimentary house-made sparkling water—yep. A colonial motif, complete with pull-chain toilet in the bathroom—obviously. All that's missing is the hybrid food-truck pop-up parked outside. The restaurant's name harkens back to ye olde days when this stretch of Greenwich Avenue was called Monument Lane, a reference to the nearby statue dedicated to James Wolfe, a British army officer who helped defeat the French in Canada. The décor, too, reinforces the theme—reclaimed doors function as tables, framed vintage maps adorn the walls, and aged wooden beams hang overhead. If only Old Sturbridge Village had been this visually captivating, I wouldn't have spent my school trip there bemoaning my Game Boy left on the bus.

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Restaurant review, Jones Wood Foundry Puts Some English On It.

When the first gastropubs hit town, they mainly cobbled their menus together out of goosed-up American and Italian fare, rather than reworking colorful Englishisms like bubble and squeak, toad in the hole, Welsh rarebit, and spotted dick. But just as the institution was being remade in Gotham's image, a few real U.K. gastropubs managed to sneak into the city, including Ulysses and the Breslin. Now along comes Jones Wood Foundry, secreted on a side street in Yorkville, and it might be the most perfect facsimile gastropub of all. A project of an English chef and a French co-owner, the name acknowledges one of the neighborhood's earliest monikers—Jones Wood. Prior to the Civil War, its rolling hills were the site of picnic grounds, beer gardens, and donkey rides for pent-up urbanites living to the south. As the restaurant's website informs us, the building first saw use as a hardware store and foundry belonging to the Eberhardt family, who still own the property. Clearly, the place's identity has been carefully groomed to appeal to proud neighborhood diners.

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Restaurant review, The Trilby: The Cooper Square Hotel Tries It One More Time With the Food.

Only a few years back, hotel dining rooms were strictly for tourists and banquets—places where you wouldn't want to eat unless forced to. But gradually, restaurateurs realized these spaces were undervalued: They came at least partly subsidized by the hotel itself and, in the case of the city's glitzy new hostelries, furnished with a captive, upscale clientele. Suddenly, celebrity chefs were enthusiastically signing on to write menus and supervise dining rooms. While generally successful, the idea could sometimes backfire. Such was the case with the Cooper Square Hotel, a modernistic 21-story structure that teeters like a pile of dirty dishes on the eastern edge of the square. It first recruited Los Angeles chef Govind Armstrong. Spouting locavoric jargon, while obsessing over exotic international salts and squirting mayo on nearly everything, he created a menu at Table 8 that virtually no one liked. Next up to bat was local fave Scott Conant. While his signature Italian creations formed the core of Faustina's bill of fare, he also distracted us with a sushi bar; charcuteries and cheeses; and separate bar, late-night, lunch, and breakfast menus.

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Restaurant review, Not Your Mama's Momos.

As noted in my recent review of Phayul, a new Tibetan café in Jackson Heights, the blocks surrounding the 74th Street subway and bus station have dramatically filled with Himalayan businesses in the past decade. The area currently boasts 11 restaurants serving food from the craggy borderlands between India and China. Each slings its own unique combination of specialties from Tibet or Nepal, or both. A pair of Nepalese establishments that appeared not long ago, Bhim's Café and Lali Guras, provide an interesting contrast in culinary outlook. The mother of all Nepalese restaurants, of course, is Thakali Kitchen on 37th Avenue, which offers the cuisine of the Mustang region in north-central Nepal, along with crisp napery and fine flatware.

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Restaurant review, Ahoy, Pinoy! Sa Aming Nayon's Home-Style Filipino.

In the 1990s, the East Village was a veritable little Manila. Filipino businesses congregated here, partly because many area hospitals had hired workers from abroad to fill their staffing needs. But over the past decade, many of the old-time Pinoy eateries—like Elvie's Turo-Turo, Krystal's Café, and Pistahan—shuttered, and getting one's fix required riding the No. 7 train to Woodside. Thanks, though, to Sa Aming Nayon (which means "in our hometown")—a new casual spot on First Avenue—home-style Filipino cooking has triumphantly returned to the neighborhood. You won't encounter the two sparsely decorated dining rooms—each seating about 20 and painted electric red—in Architectural Digest anytime soon. But fear not. Trek to the back patio, where you'll be greeted by a pergola wrapped in verdant foliage and a resplendent selection of potted plants. This tranquil space easily ranks among the city's top restaurant secret gardens. Order a couple of refreshing coconut juices ($2.50)—which come with jellylike slivers of the young fruit—and you've got yourself a little piece of island living. Just pretend the humming of nearby air conditioners is the sound of Pacific waves.

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Restaurant review, Daniel Boulud Goes Cruising.

In front, find a sparsely furnished barroom, seating perhaps 40 walk-ins, with a luxurious amount of room between tables. Beyond that, a deep dining chamber with a ceiling that undulates in great waves, as if you were standing on your head and gazing seaward. The décor is spiffily European, defined by parallel rows of striped banquettes. At the end of the room, a pair of impressionist landscapes that look like Napa Valley might have been done by Cézanne—if he'd ever visited California. Apart from those oases of brilliant color, nearly everything else is beige. Most remarkably, a narrow window looking into the kitchen runs the entire length of the dining room, revealing the boogying shoulders of the 10 or so cooks and little else.

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Restaurant review, Malled by Food in Flushing.

Chinese food courts continue to be wildly popular dining destinations in Flushing, where eight have debuted over the last decade. Some, like Golden Mall, have been ramshackle affairs, while others, such as the one in Flushing Mall, might be at home in any shopping center in the nation—if not for the Asian chow. But a Moby Dick among Chinese food courts has recently surfaced, located in a brand-new mall that replaces the long-derelict Caldor at the corner of Main Street and Roosevelt Avenue. Sounding like real estate developed by Christopher Columbus, New World Mall features a humongous JMart supermarket; a restaurant simply called the Grand that seats 1,100, making it the second largest in the city; a floor of small stores selling goods shoddier than you might expect; and—approachable by only the Roosevelt Avenue entrance—a basement food court. But what a basement! Shaped like a fat, stubby L, the chandeliered room is accessed by long escalators that descend like disembarkation chutes from a spaceship. The court is ringed by 28 eating establishments, and tables in the center provide seating for 520. Wow!

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Restaurant review, Qi Bangkok Eatery: The Thais That Bind.

"That Pichet Ong," a friend of mine quipped, "he sure knows how to open restaurants, but he doesn't know how to keep them open." Indeed, the vaunted pastry chef who once presided over the dessert menu at Spice Market, and frequently appears on TV, has left a string of smoldering wrecks in his wake. Not long ago, year-old P*Ong—a place that merged sweet and savory into a single menu—closed unceremoniously in the West Village. His next project, Village Tart on Delancey Street, offered fantastic baked goods in a clubby, coffeehouse setting, with a pub-grub menu tacked on. It lasted six months. Along the way, the chef did some random consulting, creating desserts at pan-Latin diner Coppelia that were demonstrably better than the regular menu there.

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Restaurant review, The Beagle Celebrates the Dog Days of Eating.

In The Voyage of the Beagle, Charles Darwin writes of a delightful liquid he encountered during his travels—the "cool pleasant fluid of the cocoa-nut." At the Beagle, a new restaurant-bar in the East Village run by Matthew Piacentini, the drinks are much, much stronger. Happily so. You'll still find the spirit of the British naturalist here—his name marks the men's room door (the women's reads "Emma," his faithful wife). The space, too, evokes an old-fashioned Anglo sensibility, with blue-and-white wallpaper and framed turn-of-the-century book pages. These touches help signal a conscious coolness, catering to the well-coiffed, slickly dressed kids who don't mind shouting to converse or making dinner reservations by e-mail—or, alternatively, waiting two hours for a table during prime hours.

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Restaurant review, Cupola Samarkanda II Speeds the Plov.

A hobo stands at the door, palm extended for a handout. Well, not a real hobo, but a life-size fiberglass one, and he slouches between you and the front door of Cupola Samarkanda II, a Uzbek restaurant under the F tracks on Brooklyn's McDonald Avenue, in what might be Gravesend, or maybe Bensonhurst—even the locals aren't certain. Later, after we sat down, the waiter instructed a Russian-speaking friend, "You're supposed to put a quarter in the hand, for luck." In spite of not having pressed money into the derelict's palm, my guests and I were very fortunate that evening, because we enjoyed some of the best Uzbek fare in the city. The food is cooked with a flamboyance one doesn't find in the kosher Uzbek spots of Rego Park. In fact, Cupola has no detectable religious underpinnings—which, in Uzbekistan, would mean Jewish or Muslim. How can I tell? Well, because you can order a fatty pork shish kebab there ($3.50)—anathema to both religions—grilled over charcoal and as smoky as a fireman's glove.

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Restaurant review, Salinas: Some Spain, Some Pain.

Eating outside in New York City can be a challenge. Diners must inhale bus exhaust while squeezing into tiny tables on crowded, noisy street corners. Or worse, dodge scurrying rats on makeshift back patios. Despite all the obstacles, we'll still flock to any spot offering a cool summer breeze. Which explains the instant buzz around Salinas, a new Spanish restaurant in Chelsea. Its back dining room features a retractable ceiling and large fireplace, setting the stage for al fresco romance and adding instant conviviality. Meanwhile, in the adjacent interior dining room, hanging glass lamps dangle above plush blue seats and many banquettes, while grotto-like stone walls lend a touch of faux rustic chic—think Manolo Blahnik hiking boots. Indeed, a nightclubby vibe fuels the restaurant, which clearly draws crowds from the nearby Meatpacking District.

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Restaurant review, Neely's Barbecue Parlor Tries to Rib New York.

I've never been to Neely's Bar-B-Que in Memphis, but I've visited Interstate Barbecue, an older place in the same city owned by Pat Neely's uncle. It was there that the handsome and affable co-star of Down Home With the Neelys learned to smoke meats after he moved to Memphis from Detroit, according to Food Network lore. Guess what? The 'cue at Interstate—two kinds of ribs, chopped brisket, sage sausage, and pulled pork, all of it gobbed with a thick, sweet sauce—was terrible. Fast-forward nine years, and I'm squirming at the Showboat Casino in Atlantic City. In progress is a Neely-hosted event called Brews, Blues & BBQ, sponsored by the Food Network. 'Cue is loaded into steel tubs with spirit flames underneath. Little cards next to the containers say Neely's Barbecued Ribs, Neely's Barbecued Spaghetti, and so forth. Resting in brackish water, the pork ribs have achieved a shade of medium gray that only a Navy ship-painting crew could love, and the so-called barbecued spaghetti is worse—overcooked pasta inundated with a cloying red sauce. Pat and wife Gina sit not 10 feet away, smooching for the cameras, as their adoring fans line up for autographs. How can they not care that the nearby food attributed to them so obviously sucks?

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Restaurant review, The Wild Brew Yonder at Birreria.

It's been nearly six years since Mario Batali and Joe Bastianich opened a real restaurant in the city. Yes, they are nominally responsible for all of Eataly, which includes a series of perch-and-dine culinary counters, each focused on a single set of commodities, and Manzo, an excellent refectory in a drafty hallway that sometimes seems like a promotional stunt for beef. But now the pair has premiered the unpronounceable Birreria, a beer garden on the roof of the office building that houses Eataly. There's something off about it, too, but at least it feels like a real Batali-Bastianich production.

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Restaurant review, Left Bank: A Trip Down Meh-mory Lane.

The Left Bank isn't just the part of Paris where the intellectual elite (and their wannabes) debated Sartre and chain-smoked Gauloises. It's also what we used to call the West Village. Bohemians and radicals once flocked there, too—before software moguls and celebrities nabbed up all the real estate. A new restaurant in the heart of the 'hood—the corner of Perry and Greenwich streets, to be exact—pays homage in name to that era of revelry and rebellion. Formerly housing Braeburn, the bright space has been stripped down for a subdued yet modern feel. There's very little décor of note, save for a smattering of charcoal portraits in the barroom depicting the likes of Diane Keaton (circa Annie Hall) and "Prop Joe" from the TV show The Wire. (The owner is a fan, I was told.) An austere setting can work if the kitchen's output requires every millisecond of your attention (à la Per Se). But that's not the case here. Although the food and exceptionally friendly service more than pass muster, the culinary creativity is, well, lacking.

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Restaurant review, Belly Up to Taiwanese Specialties.

Formerly known as David's Taiwanese Gourmet, then Lin's Taiwanese Gourmet, the long-running Elmhurst restaurant with the green awning at the corner of Broadway and St. James, just two blocks south of the LIRR tracks, is now called Taiwanese Specialties. The nation officially dubbed the Republic of China boasts one of the world's great fusion cuisines, along with Sri Lanka, Malaysia, and Sicily. What do they have in common? All are islands located along ancient trade routes. When I first wrote about the restaurant in 1998, it specialized in the Japanese aspects of Taiwanese cuisine and featured a décor that highlighted a sushi bar flaunting unusual nori rolls, an antique rice-polishing machine, and photos of kimono-clad women.

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Restaurant review, Rosarito Fish Shack: Ayup, It's a Seafood Shack.

Rosarito Fish Shack is an establishment that, perhaps too cannily, mixes a pair of current trends into one restaurant package. The first is the mania for fish tacos, found on dozens of bistro, gastropub, and margarita-mill menus around town. The second is the notion of a rustic shore café, the kind you stumble on in Maine or Maryland, then rave about to your friends back home. The idea received one of its earliest evocations here at Mary's Fish Shack, situated in the West Village though supposedly set in Florida, but there have been many imitators. Mexico's Baja Peninsula is the fantasy locale in this case—which is also the place where fish tacos were invented. It's like two old pals finally being reunited.

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Restaurant review, Maharlika: Imelda Gets Her Brunch Spot.

What do you call a pop-up that gets a permanent home? A plop-down, perhaps? It's a timely question, since Maharlika has gone brick-and-mortar on First Avenue in the East Village after spending much of 2011 as a temporary, roving Filipino restaurant. The eatery is just a few blocks south of Sa Aming Nayon, another Filipino newcomer that was featured in these pages in July. While its northern neighbor specializes in casual home-style cuisine, this spot bills itself as "Filipino moderno." Now, "moderno" is often a code word for "high prices for small portions of gentrified food," but that's not to say everything here has been altered for American appetites: You'll still find balut ("third-trimester aborted duck," as a dining companion called it) and cheese-flavored ice cream.

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Restaurant review, The Cardinal: NYC Tar Heels Get Happy.

You can't get porkier than the "smothered and fried pork chops" ($18) at the Cardinal, a new East Village café named for the state bird of North Carolina. A pair of substantial Heritage Pork beauties malinger in their crunchy, chicken-fried crust, moistened with red-eye gravy, infused with coffee to a mellow beige. Crushed black peppercorns dot this classic sauce, and, as an unexpected bonus, a thick slice of bacon rides on top like a balsa-wood glider that has just landed on a dune at Kitty Hawk. Really, what dedicated carnivore wouldn't be delighted with this capacious entrée? It comes with two sides, and I guarantee you'll be hard-pressed to decide which two. When it first appeared a couple of months ago, the Cardinal didn't seem promising. For one thing, the menu looked too much like Pies 'n' Thighs—minus the pies. The immediate lure was fried chicken, the bird done in the identical way as its Williamsburg model: by having the skin "untimely ripp'd" from the carcass, as Macduff famously said in Macbeth. The skinless bird is then brined, giving the breast an unfortunate marshmallowy texture—yes, chicken can be too tender.

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Restaurant review, Beecher's Handmade Cheese: Some Cheddar in Your Martini?

Occasionally, the union of two delicious foods leads to a triumph greater than the sum of the parts—think bacon doughnuts or Fluffernutter sandwiches. The grilled cheese martini? Not so much. But that's not stopping mixologists at Beecher's Handmade Cheese, a massive new culinary complex in the Flatiron district. They prepare this cocktail by infusing vodka with grilled cheese sandwiches for 24 hours, then slosh it into a martini glass with a tomato-juice ice cube, rimming the chalice with reduced balsamic vinegar and crumbled crispy prosciutto. At $15, though, it's little more than a pricey gimmick reminiscent of a weak Bloody Mary. Even sillier, you won't find this "signature" tipple listed on any menu—it's limited to those "in the know."

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Restaurant review, He Nan Flavor: Noodle on Down.

The spate of northern Chinese restaurants crowding into town has made the gastronomy of the world's most populous country the most exciting in Gotham. While Flushing now has nearly a score of places representing such far-flung locales as Tianjin, Qingdao, Lanzhou, Henan, Xi'an, Dongbei, and Beijing itself, Manhattan—still in the thrall of Cantonese and Fujianese food—has followed slowly, like a wayward child. Starting 11 years ago, dumpling stalls began appearing along Eldridge and Allen streets, endearing themselves to immigrants, students, and foodies by providing their opulent, pork-stuffed purses at the bargain-basement price of five for a dollar. There was nary a grain of rice in sight. Sesame flatbreads amazed diners weaned exclusively on over-rice stir-fries, and what a contrast the thick-skinned dumplings made to the delicate har gow of the southern-style dim sum parlors!

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Restaurant review, Catania Makes Brooklyn Heights Taste a Little More Sicilian.

When you first set foot in Catania—a newcomer on the edge of Brooklyn Heights named after Sicily's second largest city—you might assume it's a restaurant. Seating on either side of the door provides views of the borough's first Arab neighborhood, as if you were standing on the island of Sicily looking across the strait toward Tunisia. Just inside, a counter faced with gleaming white tiles extends deep into the room; tables run parallel along a wall of exposed brick. The lighting is artistic—though way too bright for romance. Much of the food, including oil-slicked vegetables, exotic pizza-dough creations, lushly sauced pastas, and diminutive main courses, is displayed in glass cases.

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Restaurant review, The Cannibal: Let's Meat Up.

Good, fully developed veal: That's apparently what human flesh tastes like, according to William Buehler Seabrook, a New York Times reporter, occultist, and adventurer who lived at the turn of the 20th century. During one of his travels, he feasted on man's rump steak and loin roast, proclaiming them both surprisingly tender, even delectable. Alas, at the Cannibal, you won't find the limbs of any Homo sapiens on the table, but you will discover a wealth of other carnivorous delights. Adjacent to Resto, a Belgian restaurant in Murray Hill, this tiny new eatery also functions as an artisanal food market and craft beer shop—a bodega for trustafarian foodies. Like its neighbor, the menu champions a nose-to-tail philosophy of chowing down, yet the vibe here is more casual and geared toward nibbling. Seating is at one of two counters (on tall, uncomfortable stools) or at two small picnic tables out on an uncovered back patio. So if you're in a group, go early in the evening before it fills up.

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Restaurant review, RedFarm: Dim Sum and Then Some.

"Is that place any good?" a man asked as some friends and I descended the stairs from RedFarm. "It's not bad," one of my companions replied. "Basically, it's Chinese for people with money who are scared to go to Chinatown." I nodded in agreement. Indeed, you won't find chicken feet at this new dim sum and Cantonese-style eatery, located on the second floor of a West Villagetownhouse. Instead, like so many chefs these days, Joe Ng and Far Eastern food guru Ed Schoenfeld are championing a "greenmarket sensibility." However, save for the odd brussels sprout or asparagus spear tucked into an entrée, this doesn't really come through in the food. The decor, though, is certainly imbued with rustic charm. Potted plants and candles hang from poles above the two long (and cramped) communal tables. You'll find whitewashed brick walls, old crates stacked on lofted shelves, and wood beams crossing the ceiling.

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Restaurant review, La Mar Cebicheria Peruana: Raw Power.

There are lots of cheap Peruvian restaurants in Queens that serve great renditions of Andean classics like aji de gallina, papas Huancaina, and seco de cordero—but also manage to turn out terrible ceviches, made from off-tasting frozen seafood. Now it's time to turn the tables. How about an upscale Peruvian place with perfect ceviches and mediocre everything else? Your prayers are answered at La Mar Cebicheria Peruana. Located in the old Tabla space on Madison Square, the restaurant is the brainchild of Peruvian chef Gastón Acurio, who has transformed ceviches from peasant fare to haute cuisine. Our branch is the eighth in his Lima-based chain, which already boasted clones in Madrid, Panama, and San Francisco.

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Restaurant review, Banana Leaf: Here's Your Skanky Wallop.

Although it sounds like a pervert having his way with a shapely evergreen, the name refers to a shrub native to Southeast Asia, also known as pandanus. Ripped down the middle to release their savor, the long, shiny leaves tie up the fried chicken wings ($7.95) at Banana Leaf—a new restaurant in Sunset Park—imparting astringency and adding vanilla notes to the skin and flesh. Then there's petai, sometimes called stink bean, a bulbous legume about the size of a lima, with a firm-but-creamy texture and slightly obnoxious smell—much milder than a ginkgo nut stepped on in the street but in roughly the same vein. Enjoy it in a garlicky cook-up of shrimp, onions, and peppers in sambal petai ($12.95).

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Restaurant review, Tertulia: Erin Go Tapas.

In the '90s, if you told friends you were going to a tapas bar, they'd look at you funny and wonder what the hell you were talking about. Yes, the city had tapas, but they represented a limited collection of salty snacks encountered in the fusty, red-upholstered barrooms of the city's most ancient Spanish restaurants. These places were often located on obscure side streets in Greenwich Village or Chelsea, and dated to the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War. The tapas were restricted to a handful, including toasts draped with pale pickled anchovies or cured Serrano ham, a small serving of garlic shrimp, or—if you were lucky—a chorizo that the waiter set aflame with brandy.

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Restaurant review, Hot Kitchen is a Hot Pot Hot Spot.

Midway through our meal at Hot Kitchen, my friends and I looked at each other and grinned. Our cheeks flushed a rosy pink as our eyes began to smart. Beads of perspiration formed at our temples, matting hair to scalps. "Yep," I said. "We officially have Spicy Face." Such a pleasant (though homely) condition occurs when eating copious amounts of warming and spicy food, which is exactly what you'll find at this new Chinese restaurant in the East Village, run by the owners of Old Town Hot Pot. This locale is decorated more tastefully, with whitewashed brick walls showcasing colorful paintings, red beams traversing the ceiling, and simple black tables. The menu, featuring more than 150 items, is also much more expansive. Yet for the best Spicy Face experience, you'd be wise to get the Chengdu-style hot pot. (Reserve ahead, because only a few tables accommodate this do-it-yourself dining experience.)

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Restaurant review, Mas (la grillade): The Will to Grill.

Restaurants focusing on a sole foodstuff have taken New York by storm. The Meatball Shop and Meatball Factory offer orbs to packed houses. Queens Kickshaw, Melt Shop, and Little Muenster perfect the art of the gooey cheese sandwich. And Tommy Lasagna sells its namesake in eight versions. But Mas (la grillade), a new offshoot of Mas (farmhouse), poses the question of whether a restaurant can successfully champion a single cooking style.

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Restaurant review, The Indian Clove Plays Its Drums of Heaven.

If you were riding a bike to the restaurant, you'd toil uphill on curving Victory Boulevard past Mexican bodegas and Sri Lankan lunch counters to the top of the precipice, where high-rise apartment houses look down on Staten Island's glimmering Silver Lake. After admiring the view from the colonnade, your ride resumes with a breathtaking descent, while you clutch desperately at the brakes. Nearly at the bottom of the hill, pull up at Clove Lake Road and park. Before you stands the Indian Clove.

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Restaurant review, Il Buco Alimentari & Vineria: Rustic Never Sleeps.

In my book, a good first-date restaurant offers three key things: First, an intimate setting with soft, glowing light to flatter one's face. Second, a lively ambience. And finally, a good—but not necessarily challenging—menu. Italian joints usually fit the bill and are a good barometer of taste. If you can't appreciate a bowl of rigatoni and a bottle of Barolo, you simply aren't worth shacking up with. Il Buco Alimentari & Vineria, the smaller, cheaper spin-off of Il Buco, is about as good a rendezvous spot as you can get. The new Noho eatery doesn't give you anything you can't find elsewhere in the city, but even if your date's a dud, you'll still be charmed by the rustic-chic atmosphere.

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Restaurant review, Onegin: Meanwhile, on the Russian Front.

How would Eugene Onegin, the title character of the Russian lit classic, feel about his new namesake restaurant on Sixth Avenue? He was a bit of a dandy, so he'd certainly be into the over-the-top decor and extravagantly priced menu. A narcissist, too—likely he'd dig all the Alexander Pushkin references, from the author's gigantic ceiling portrait to the reproduced notebook scribbles and lines from the novel-in-verse fashioned on the place's walls and wooden tables. And having experienced a tragic downfall (he killed his bestie and rejected the woman who loved him only to be spurned by her later), he might have some words of caution for the overstretching eatery.

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Restaurant review, Gregory's 26 Corner Taverna: Attica! Attica!

A block south of restaurant-crammed Ditmars Boulevard—Astoria's Greek main drag—there's another street of slightly more concealed Attic eateries, hideaways frequented by Manhattanites who brag to their friends, "You've got to try this place I've found way off the beaten track." These include Stamatis and Telly's Taverna, but go beyond them farther west on 23rd Avenue. There you'll discover, in a residential neighborhood, a genuinely rustic Greek spot situated on the ground floor of a white frame house. Gregory's 26 Corner Taverna has a few chairs out front under an awning where, even in cold weather, patrons sit sipping ouzo and smoking cigarettes. Fishermen come to this patio straight from their Long Island berthages to offer the proprietor catches of porgy and baby dogfish shark, wrapped in brown paper and glistening with seawater.

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Restaurant review, Calyer: Greenpoint Counterpoint.

Many restaurants have splashy openings fueled by flittering publicists and camera-ready chefs. Not Calyer, the latest eatery from the team behind Anella, St. Vitus, and Jimmy's Diner. It debuted in Greenpoint at the end of the summer and has remained under the radar, some evenings hosting only a scattering of diners. But that doesn't mean you should skip this one. No, siree. The decor seems to be modeled after a Midwestern hunting retreat: A forest-green sloped ceiling creates a cozy vibe, while wood-paneled and brick walls lend rustic charm. Tufted banquettes curve around the room for primo canoodling. The simplicity jibes with the working-class Brooklyn neighborhood. But it's all the more surprising when you consider the food: highly inventive, artfully presented, Latin-American small plates.

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Restaurant review, Allswell: Nate Smith Won't Play B-17.

Carrying the gastropub banner forth into battle, Spotted Pig alumnus Nate Smith didn't have much of a chance at the Dean Street Tavern massacre. Early this year, his one-month tenure as chef there ended in a dispute with the management over a loud jukebox and his propensity for developing recipes too creative for a corner bar in Prospect Heights—or so the owners thought. Now the talented Smith has opened a new spot in Williamsburg called Allswell, and he's working unencumbered.

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Restaurant review, La Promenade des Anglais: France Gets Loud.

It's fitting that La Promenade des Anglais, a new restaurant whose name recalls Nice's famed Mediterranean boardwalk, is located next to New York City's most beloved stretch for strolling: the High Line. Ensconced in the vast London Towers apartment complex in Chelsea, this classy Art Deco–ish eatery from chef Alain Allegretti champions the cuisine of Southern France. Flavors recall those at his now-shuttered Flatiron restaurant, Allegretti, only with a slightly lower price point (au revoir, $36 entrées).

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Restaurant review, Kutsher's Tribeca: Pseudo Summer in the City.

On my most memorable visit to Kutsher's Tribeca, I went with three generations of a family who might be seen as Catskills royalty. The grandparents came up from the bungalow colonies—where many Lower East Side Jews summered in the '50s and '60s—and later bought a vacation home for themselves and their children in Smallwood, a resort community built in the log-cabin-style southeast of White Lake. Their youngest son, now middle-age, was bar mitzvahed at Kutsher's Resort just outside of Monticello and eventually worked there as a waiter. I asked him what the food was like back then, and without pausing, he snorted, "Not too great."

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Restaurant review, Battersby: Food Talks, Mouths Listen.

On first glance, Battersby looks like every other twee Smith Street eatery. The narrow, brick-walled space can hold no more than 30 diners—a young neighborhood crowd who enjoys gabbing and knocking back bourbon-based cocktails under flickering candlelight. Overlooking what's quite possibly Cobble Hill's tiniest restaurant kitchen, a long mahogany bar anchors the flow. Plates of artfully rustic food grace the tightly clustered wooden tables.

But something's different. A peek at the menu reveals none of the holier-than-thou artifice that often mars the Brooklyn dining experience. Bucolic-sounding farm names and heirloom vegetable varietals aren't advertised. Nothing is described as being "foraged" or "rooftop-grown." Sure, some of it might be—but the mentality here doesn't force-feed you the dogma. The food speaks for itself.

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Restaurant review, Taste of India and Thali (Food) Court Jersey City.

Out of necessity, you've probably eaten in lots of shopping-mall food courts. You're tired, hungry, and footsore, and rather than hitting the streets with help from your smartphone, you simply succumb to desiccated nori rolls, limp greasy fries, and the supremely trashy but weirdly fascinating wiener stuck in a tube of pretzel dough. And the rule that all food-court grub must suck, like some 11th Commandment, becomes firmly implanted in your mind.

Well, every rule has its exception, and that exception is Jersey City's Newport Centre Mall, just above the Newport stop on the PATH train. For whatever reason, the mall partly caters to middle-class Indian shoppers who seem to be rather picky about what they eat. A fast-food restaurateur called Creative Food Group—which also operates Jamba Juices in airline terminals—has established two Indian food counters side by side. One caters to vegetarians, the other to flesh-eaters. If you're omnivorous, I urge you to try both.

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Restaurant review, Parm: Munch a Bunch of Lunch.

You scour the city looking for the perfect logs of deliciousness, but something is always wrong. They're rubbery with a plasticky snap. You detect a lingering freezer burn. The batons arrive overly greasy, weighed down in batter. You lament the watery marinara sauce to your friends.

But then, after nearly giving up hope, you meet the perfect specimen: pliant and gooey with a whisper of crunch, yet astonishingly creamy and milky. Your love affair begins at Parm, the new spin-off of Torrisi Italian Specialties, located next door to the original Mulberry Street restaurant in Nolita. Chef-owners Mario Carbone and Rich Torrisi's sequel is more laid-back, with a vintage coffee-shop look. Tiny Formica tables are clustered around an open kitchen in the center of the restaurant, which is decked out in 1960s cocktail-print wallpaper.

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Restaurant review, Land of Plenty: Old Money Burns Its Tongue.

At the end of the last century, who could have predicted Manhattan would someday be speckled with Sichuan restaurants? Cantonese carryouts were installed in every neighborhood back then, patronized by customers long accustomed to their wonderfully bland, greasy output and as addicted to egg rolls and stir-fries as to cheap prices and speedy delivery. But as old-school takeaways vanished, pricier Sichuan places appeared in Chelsea and Midtown, where the core menu was not only unfamiliar to most diners, but also hot as hell. Take Land of Plenty. It's one of four Sichuans I've visited on the Upper East Side and its outskirts, once a Cantonese stronghold. The establishment is situated east of Bloomingdale's in the Mia Dona space—where proprietress Donatella Arpaia sold meatballs from a pink pushcart on the front patio. Little has changed, decor-wise. Antique farm implements still splay on rough off-white walls. Swathed in fabrics, the interior is sumptuous in a starchy, Old Money sort of way. The staff speaks excellent English, and the dining rooms are quiet enough for a whispered conversation.

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Restaurant review, Sottocasa: Pie (Oven) in the Sky.

It's not every day you see a 4,000-pound oven flying three stories above Boerum Hill. But that's how Luca Arrigoni had to install the stove at Sottocasa, his new Brooklyn pizzeria. The wood-fired beast had to be crane-lifted over the building and lowered into the backyard because the old floors of the brownstone space on Atlantic Avenue couldn't handle the weight. Walls were then built out around the hearth so that the pizzaiolo could whip up the types of Neapolitan pies he learned to make while working at Kesté; in Greenwich Village.

Families gravitate to the sparsely decorated, whitewashed brick room, along with couples celebrating date night and groups of friends downing prosecco and divvying up slices. Solo diners linger over the newspaper in the afternoon when the sun streams in through the windows and bounces off the tight clusters of tables. Indeed, you'll find everyone in the neighborhood. You won't discover life-changing pizza or much you can't nosh on elsewhere, but the chefs here prize high-quality ingredients, resulting in the type of tasty, cozy spot you're more than happy to have around the corner. (And yes, they also deliver.)

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Restaurant review, Elza Fancy Foods: Big Mash-Up in Brighton Beach.

In the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–05, the emperor stuck it to the czar. Japan tightened its grip on the Korean peninsula, and Korean refugees flooded Primorsky, the Russian maritime province to the north. Eventually, some transmigrated to far-off Uzbekistan and obtained work in the vast cotton fields. I can almost hear them singing, "Way down upon the Surxondaryo River, far, far away." The trickle became a tidal wave in 1937 as the Koreans remaining in Primorsky, now deemed dangerous by Stalin, were resettled in Central Asia. Today, an estimated 257,000 live in Uzbekistan, constituting a small but influential 1 percent of the population. For most, Russian is now their native language.

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Restaurant review, Cozy Up, Nippon-Style, at Family Recipe.

When I tell people I review restaurants for a living, they reply, "You have the best job ever." Perhaps, but some folks have it even better: the friends and family who come with me to dinner. They reap the benefits of gluttony with no work required later. Yet my vegetarian buddies get the shaft on these outings. Chefs' specialties and so-called critic bait—those unique dishes that make quirky fodder for readers—are rarely meat-free. So I was excited when I heard about Family Recipe, a new Japanese spot on the Lower East Side that caters equally to carnivores and those shunning animal products.

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Restaurant review, French Dip, Once Hip.

Stories vary, but nearly everyone agrees that the French dip was invented in Los Angeles around 1918. It coincided with a national craze for crusty French bread. Some say it started when a toothless old man wandered into a streetcar-terminal café and, seeing the baguette that the brisket sandwich was made with, asked the waitress to soften the crust a bit by dipping it in meat juices. Another tale involves a Frenchman in charge of a popular dining room near the railroad station. As monsieur was assembling a roast beef sandwich, he accidentally dropped the bread into a vat of au jus, and the customer—a cop, who suspiciously happened to be named French—decided to eat it anyway. The soggy result was forever after referred to as a French dip. Either way, it achieved countrywide popularity over the ensuing century and became a bona fide American classic.

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