Restaurant review, La Silhouette Jumps in la Time Machine.

Quite frankly, La Silhouette isn't cool. Its ugly stretch of West 53rd Street, in the no-man's-land between Midtown and Hell's Kitchen, does little to attract scenesters. Salt and pepper are both seasonings here and the most common hair color. The décor is 1990s chic even though the restaurant opened just months ago. And price points reflect an era of expense-account dinners fueled by Jeroboams and maybe some Colombian marching powder. That said, chef David Malbequi's upscale, mostly French fare generally charms the tastebuds, while a superb front-of-house staff actually seems to care—gasp!—about the well-being of its customers. Old school is new school.

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Restaurant review, Hofbrau Bierhaus Is a Real Brew-haha.

Hofbräu Bierhaus had been open for three weeks when some friends and I decided to drop by for dinner and a few brews around 6:30 on a rainy Tuesday evening. The scene was already tumultuous: every cranny crammed with guys in a complete state of dishabille—ties flung over shoulders, elbows resting in puddles of beer, giving wild-eyed looks as they leaped up to offer toasts. Unable to make myself heard above the din, I whipped out my decibel meter—a phone app perhaps not perfectly calibrated. To my astonishment, the device caromed between 135 and 145 dBs (130 is often referred to as the "threshold of pain"). No matter how much you like the suds or the food at the Bierhäus, you'll never be able to get away from that unearthly noise, which is like being strapped to a stack of Marshalls.

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Restaurant review, Papaye, Uptown African Restaurant and Accra.

Twenty years ago, the typical West African restaurant in the city was a small, badly lit room with mismatched furniture, and little in the way of décor besides a tribal mask or two. The shades were often pulled down tight, and the gates barely raised, discouraging casual visitors from barging in—though those who persevered received a warm welcome. The bill of fare was limited to three dishes per day, and there was no printed menu. For outsiders, dining in these semisecret enclaves was exhilarating, filled with fascinating flavors that included bright-orange palm oil, unfamiliar green herbs, and smoky dried stockfish. I spotted my first Ghanaian restaurant in University Heights in 1994. Located in a region north of the Cross Bronx Expressway whose steep hills and step streets might remind you of San Francisco, African American Restaurant was a tiny steam-table joint that offered the inspired combination of Ghanaian mashes and American soul food, mainly to cab drivers. Two years later, another place, Ebe Yie Yie, opened under the IRT 4 tracks on Jerome Avenue. Leap like an antelope forward to 2011: The area has become a hotbed of Ghanaian eats, serving a burgeoning commercial community that manages import-export houses, textile shops, hair salons, and groceries.

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Restaurant review, Tenpenny Helps You Save a Few Dimes.

When it comes to Midtown dining, New Yorkers face two options: ultra-luxe expense-account meccas à la Le Bernardin, or fluorescent-lit steam-table joints. A cool, reasonably priced eatery there is as rare as finding a straight, sexy, single man in this town. (If you are one, get in touch—you’ll find my e-mail address below.) The fancy fungus does better in a velvety sauce that coats gnocchi studded with lobster chunks ($26)—an entrée that might answer the question “How many rich, upscale ingredients can you cram into one bowl?” Yet the plate has an ethereal quality thanks to a process of sous-vide cooking and roasting, which helps the spuds retain their starch, avoiding a heavy glut in the stomach. But my favorite pasta—and probably my number-one item overall here—is the $24 porchetta ravioli with smoked ricotta, broccoli rabe, and a runny poached egg. Equally piggy and eggy, this indulgence redefines “breakfast for dinner.” Or tuck into good ol’ American comfort with the heritage pork rack ($28), paired with savory apple pie and bourbon sauce.

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Restaurant review, The Brooklyn Star's Luck of the Drawl Lands.

No, really. Cold and electric-red, it brims in a mason jar for a nifty $1 at the Brooklyn Star, a new Williamsburg restaurant. Match it with some fried sweetbreads and ramp mayonnaise, and you’ve got yourself a surprisingly fine flavor pairing—just ignore the stained pink teeth and sugar headache that follow the syrupy gulps.

The more you chug, the likelier you’ll fall for this Southern-inspired spot that’s imbued with a cheffy sensibility. Not everything works, but how can you not love a restaurant whose menu boldly proclaims, “All animals are killed humanely with five point exploding heart punch. All vegetables are yanked from the earth with extreme prejudice. Fritos sourced from Plano, Texas”? Yes, hipsters might be filled with irony, but also occasionally a sense of humor.

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Restaurant review, Coppelia Wants to Cuba Your Peru.

Imagine if the diner as we know it—an institution run by Greek immigrants seeking to reproduce the standard Middle American menu of 50 years ago at a low price point—had evolved as a Latin phenomenon instead. That’s the premise behind Coppelia, a new 24-hour restaurant near the corner of 14th Street and Seventh Avenue from chef Julian Medina of Yerba Buena and Toloache. In service of the concept, the place looks like a diner—after you’ve dropped a hit of acid, that is. The color scheme is wacky, with frosting-green and Oompa-Loompa-orange wall treatments, teal-blue storm shutters, and light baffles evoking the tropics with overlapping images: conga drums, lemons, pansies, pink flamingos, and, somewhat randomly, silhouettes of Josephine Baker. An altogether pleasant place to sit if the interior decoration doesn’t make you a bit queasy.

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Restaurant review, Spasso Lets You Ciao Down.

In the knows-no-bounds sea of pasta peddlers in New York, how does a new Italian restaurant stand out? Quite often it doesn’t—but that doesn’t mean it’s a dud. Take Spasso, a West Village newcomer, for example. The food, while not mind-blowing, will happily feed you, and the space offers a quaint, unpretentious setting—rare in today’s West Village. Welcome to your secret neighborhood spot that everyone now knows about.  Spasso, which means “amusement” in the native tongue, doesn’t quite fit the “rustic Italian chic” mold championed by recent additions Osteria Morini and Ciano. It’s more the classic trattoria gone modern. Think marble and mirrors and leather-backed chairs. Cozy up on a banquette or—if you love the schadenfreude of watching cooks slave in front of hot stoves—at the secluded bar in the back overlooking the semi-open kitchen.

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