Restaurant review, Bi Lokma Plays Turkish Ambassador in Midtown.

Orhan Yegen is New York's greatest champion of Turkish cuisine, though a peripatetic one, darting from joint to joint. Having proclaimed Turkey's food one of the world's best, it's odd he chose to name his latest spot Bi Lokma, or "one bite." Who, other than a model prepping for a lingerie shoot or a college freshman on a pre-finals Adderall binge, would be content with a single morsel? Especially when Yegen serves up tasty, amply portioned, downright affordable eats. In my book, that's a many-mouthful meal. Don't come expecting gourmet grub in a sultan's surroundings. Think of Bi Lokma more as a weekday lunch hub or a cozy corner for chow just like babaanne—er, granny—used to make. Only a few diners can enjoy the narrow nook, but no worries. Much of the office-worker gang grabs their lunch to go; come dusk, crowds head to nearby Grand Central instead, making it easy to nab a seat. That's also when Bi Lokma abandons cafeteria-style dining for cheery table service. The fluorescent lights dim, and hanging red and green lanterns illuminate the large jars of pickled peppers and cucumbers that line the walls. Like a bazaar, but without the stress of haggling.

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Restaurant review, Dean Street--Another Pub for Your Gastro.

For much of the 20th century, bar food in New York meant the cafeteria line at Blarney Stone, Blarney Castle, Blarney Cove, or any of the other Irish drinking establishments that dotted the urban landscape. The fare consisted of boiled meats, mashed potatoes, and canned veggies, shooting up great clouds of steam that fogged the glass sneeze guards. Antiquarian though they seemed, these establishments invariably turned out a satisfying cheap meal. Then, after a gradual upscaling and diversification of bar food toward the end of the century, along came the Spotted Pig in 2004, calling itself the city's first gastropub and aiming to elevate the bar-food conversation to a more refined level. Suddenly, we had burgers pushing $20 with melted French cheeses cascading onto the plate, leaf-only salads dressed with finely tuned vinaigrettes, and—Bloomberg help us—desserts made by pastry chefs.

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Restaurant review, Imperial No. Nine--Check In to the Hotel Crapshoot.

Top Chef has made everyone a food critic. Each week, viewers judge Richard for amping his ice cream with foie gras or Marcel for getting trigger-happy with liquid nitrogen—all without sampling a morsel of their creations. We think we know them, but do the cheftestants actually have cooking chops, or are they just telegenic twits? Only when they launch restaurants do we really find out. Some have opened shop and proven their mettle (you betcha, Harold). Others not so much (sorry, Nikki). And now Sam Talbot is at the real-life chopping block, this time without Padma’s monotone ringing out the judgment.

Talbot has migrated from Montauk to run Imperial No. Nine, an expansive “sustainable” seafood restaurant in the new Mondrian Soho Hotel. Nab a seat in the swanky atrium, an airy space festooned with potted ferns, oversize chandeliers, and a gorgeous centerpiece (an homage to Jean Cocteau) of glass urns and vases from sculptor Beth Lipman. It resembles a winter garden designed by a Miami Beach decorator for whom Alice in Wonderland is gospel. Yet this sumptuous restaurant has its less sexy side, too—a gold-hued but depressing interior dining room adjacent to a larger bar. Or is that area dreary because the homelier folk are herded there, by an unnaturally beautiful waitstaff?

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Restaurant review, Empellon--Alex Stupak's Big Experiment.

Few recent openings have created as much controversy as that of Empellon (“Push”), located just off Sheridan Square at the quizzical corner of West 4th and West 10th. The chef is Alex Stupak, former pastry chef at Wylie Dufresne’s temple of molecular gastronomy, WD~50. Why would one of the city’s most respected dessert makers leave the realm of fondants and foams to open a glorified taqueria? Well, he hasn’t completely abandoned pastries yet—but more about that later. The restaurant is divided by a long hallway into two rooms. The barroom in front is casual and cacophonous, with dark, sturdy furniture and a mural on one wall that looks like intestines on fire. The rear room is just as noisy, but the décor is more serene, with white brick, pale brocaded wallpaper, and lots of eclectic art, arranged by someone who takes great pleasure in aligning things. The service, though efficient, is somewhat annoying due to the upselling: “Can we start you off with some of our excellent guacamole?” the waitress wheedled, touching my shoulder and smiling sweetly. Don’t answer in the affirmative, because the iconic avocado dip ($10) proves disappointing, delivered cold as if it had languished in the refrigerator, the cilantro wilted and devoid of zip.

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Restaurant review, NY Restaurant Reviewers Reveal the Foods They Just Can't Stand.

What kind of food critic abhors this beloved bar snack? Don’t get me wrong—I’ll eat the buggers. If you feed me the finest tapenade or pasta puttanesca, I’ll devour every bite for politeness’ sake, but you won’t be able to win me over with the fruit’s slightly acidic, briny flavor. Especially peculiar, I know, since I love capers. This poses professional challenges. How can I critique an olive-laden dish fairly? Truthfully, I can’t. Luckily, olives aren’t ubiquitous in dishes, and menus are usually large enough that I can skip over the Greek salad and dirty martini. If it’s a must-get specialty, I’ll try it, hoping to be converted to the other side. But it’s unlikely to make it into my review, since my impartiality is clouded.

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Restaurant review, Flushing's Hunan Kitchen Wants to Give You a Hot Time.

People like to think of Sichuan as the fieriest cuisine in China, but I’ve got news for you: Hunan is hotter, which is instantly apparent when you eat at Hunan Kitchen. Many dishes come slagged with squishy pickled chilies; others are aflame with dried red or fresh green hot peppers, or both. Recipes even make use of the white pepper beloved of French cooks for its ability to blend colorlessly into a sauce. In white pepper smoked beef ($14.95), jerky coated in egg whites is stir-fried with papery tofu skin and scallions, to which the pepper adds a pungent, perfumey taste. Yes, you can find Sichuan peppercorns, too—but the truth is that the cuisine doesn’t really need ’em.

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Restaurant review, Zabb Elee--Slurp That Pig Blood.

Damn right I do. I'd come to this East Village offshoot of the Queens original to scorch my taste buds with the capsaicin flames of Thailand's Isan cuisine. Unlike at most Thai restaurants in New York—and especially Manhattan—you'll actually find the heat you crave here. What you won't encounter: drunken noodles or the cream-cheese abomination otherwise known as crab Rangoon. Instead, the menu traverses a maze of sour, tangy, and piquant flavors, each brighter than the next.

This vibrancy comes as a surprise because Le Da Nang, a decidedly bland and mediocre Vietnamese joint, formerly occupied this space on a bustling block of Second Avenue. Although the menu has been completely overhauled, the ownership and staff remain the same. Ditto the casual faux-colonial décor: pale white banquettes and walls, geometric wooden mirrors, and an ornate tile floor. Incongruous, sure, though at least Siam was close to the former French Indochina. The blaring Top 40 tunes also don't help the ambience—but who doesn't have a secret soft spot for Katy Perry?

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