Restaurant review, Pulqueria: ¡Hola, los Cocktails!

According to Aztec myth, Mayahuel—the divine personification of the agave plant—invented pulque and pumped the Mexican booze from her 400 breasts, feeding and intoxicating her offspring, known as the 400 Rabbits. Nowadays, the milky alcohol is made by fermenting the sap of several different types of agaves. Revered for centuries, the drink fell out of favor in the early 20th century while its stronger cousin tequila was crowned the official beverage of Girls Gone Wild.

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Restaurant review, Kavkaz: Nuts to You.

In a borough famous for its pickle platters, this one was exceptional. The tantalizing assortment flaunted big leaves of cabbage tinted bright pink with beet juice, slender green pepperoncini, a puckeringly tart carrot slaw, sliced unripe tomatoes, pale gooseberries with wrinkly skins, miniature purple plums turned a lovely shade of brown by the brine, and, of course, half-sour cukes. But there was one pickle we couldn't identify—small and spotted with a woody stump where the stem had been, with crumbly coffee-colored flesh. Was it a fruit or a nut? Despite extensive postprandial inquiries, we never found out.

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Restaurant review, Bowery Diner: A Cup of Joe and Some Whelks, Please.

Known as "night owls," the first diners were horse-drawn carts equipped with a griddle and icebox, selling snacks outside the city's honky-tonks from dusk till dawn. These crude vehicles were replaced in the late 19th century by discarded streetcars retrofitted with a counter and stools. By the 1930s, companies were manufacturing stationary structures that looked like streetcars, featuring art deco streamlining, now outfitted with booths to encourage families. And in the 1950s, eastern Mediterranean immigrants took over the trade, and the Greek diner was born. The menu had evolved over the years into a compendium of classic American dishes: soups, sandwiches, roasts, seafood, hamburgers, all-day breakfasts, spaghetti, and spanakopita.

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Restaurant review, Caffè Storico: The Museum of Fine Dining.

Just a few years ago, museum dining meant chomping down on watery Cobb salads and mayo-laden tuna sandwiches—and that's if you were lucky. But then good old Danny Meyer introduced high-quality chow to art lovers, first with the Modern at MOMA, followed by Untitled at the Whitney. Along the way, the Museum of Arts and Design got a swank commissary called Robert, while New Museum patrons devoured delicious mango-quinoa-chocolate cookies from its Birdbath bakery outpost. Eating well while getting your daily dose of culture has never been easier.

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Restaurant review, Barboncino: Naples Staples.

Barboncino is yet another of the wood-burning, Naples-aping pizzerias that have lately covered certain parts of the city like so much melted mozzarella. I can see why restaurateurs love these places: The pies are tiny and twice as expensive ounce for ounce as those at the city's old-fashioned neighborhood pizzerias. Wines and beers sold at premium prices are part of the package. These upstarts often exhibit an icy pretentiousness that's out of place with the democratic ideals pizza represents. Some have even invited representatives of Italian organizations here to "certify" their pizzas as genuine. Screw 'em! New York is nobody's pizza colony. So I was skeptical when a friend raved about a new wood-oven parlor that recently opened near her apartment in Crown Heights. The nabe was, not long ago, mainly Caribbean and West African. In fact, on the same block stands one of the city's best West African restaurants, Fatima, a Guinean spot selling spicy meat-and-leaf-vegetable stews ladled over rice. That place is comfy and well lit, sporting mismatched chairs and tables where knots of men kibitz about business and news from back home. By contrast, Barboncino reeks of upscale hauteur. There's scant signage outside. Inside, you'll find a darkened warren of wood-clad rooms on two levels, lit by the flicker of votive candles. The benches are hard and backless, and the place feels like a house of worship for the god Pizza.

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Restaurant review, Sao Mai and Xe May Sandwich Shop: Finally, Your Banh Mi Tacos.

It was an auspicious beginning: a squat stack of culantro nestled against the branches of Thai basil and crisp bean sprouts on the herb plate accompanying my pho. It's rare to find the dark green, jagged leaves in Vietnamese restaurants in New York City, as most eateries substitute the blander and more ubiquitous cilantro. Yes, my meal at Sao Mai, a casual Vietnamese joint on First Avenue in the East Village, was off to a promising start. Unlike San José, Houston, and even the northern Virginia suburbs, the Big Apple isn't a hotbed of Vietnamese cuisine. Nevertheless, the brick-walled storefront marks a refreshing stop for flavorful—if standard—Southeast Asian fare. Begin by plopping down on the black banquette underneath the fake bamboo plants and slurping some soup. The classic beefy pho ($9) comes showered with scallions and herbs and warms the gullet, but I actually preferred the more delicate chicken version ($8). Yes, the broccoli and celery slices were odd choices and should be nixed, but the stock—garnished with fried onions—was rich, and the noodles retained a snappy bite. Canh chua ($8), a tart tamarind broth accented with tomatoes and pineapple, works if you're looking for something spicier. Not quite as sour as other versions I've had but still a keeper.

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Restaurant review, Talde: Pan-Asian in the Pan.

Dale Talde sure knows how to write a menu. In perusing the bill of fare at his new Park Slope restaurant, Talde, I found not a single dish I didn't want to devour. Pretzel, pork, and chive dumplings? Yes, please. An iceberg wedge with Sri-rancha dressing, blue cheese, and Chinese sausage? Holler! And as I discovered after trekking to Seventh Avenue, I wasn't alone in my desire for pan-Asian comfort food from the Top Chef alum. A no-reservations policy (for groups under six) and a relatively small space means you'll likely be cooling your heels predinner. One Wednesday evening, the host even quoted a two-hour wait—a significant chunk of time for the stroller-saturated nabe. In actuality, it ended up being only an hour and 15 minutes, enough time to plop onto a stool at the wooden bar and knock back some tropical tipples, such as the fine $10 Pacquiao Punch made with Kraken rum, Brooklyn Republic vodka, curaçao, vanilla, and citrus.

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