Every Restaurant in Astoria

Panino (Il Bambino; 34-08 31st Avenue)

2009-02-28T05:31:00.000-08:00

If you're trying to convince friends from Brooklyn to move to Astoria, you would probably want to take them to Il Bambino. It's as unmistakable a sign of gentrification as you could possibly want. On a quiet, well-shaded block, it sits near a bevy of the sorts of places young bourgeois urbanites like: a vintage store, a tea shop, a wine bar, authentic-seeming upscalish ethnic restaurants and the like. Every time we've stopped there for lunch, there are white couples with babies. And its menu is made up of mainly panini, featuring a host of foodie-friendly ingredients: truffle oil, prosciutto di parma, baby arugula, sweet onion marmalade, that sort of thing. And it's delicious, too.

Despite being relatively new to the neighborhood, Il Bambino has cultivated a rustic gentility; thanks to the old furniture and somewhat rickety two-tops in the dining area, it has a faux antique feel. Painted on the wall across from the dessert case up front (Il Bambino is known for its cupcakes as well as its panini) is a giant cross-section of a pig with the cuts of meat annotated in Italian, as if the restaurant were a converted old-time butcher shop. (It's actually the old location of Martha's Country Bakery, now on Ditmars. Clearly the spot has cupcake mojo.)

We can't point to anything on the menu as being particularly outstanding, because it's all been good. The crostini take more culinary risks than the oversized panini, but with excellent results (we particularly like the crostini with truffle egg salad), and any of the panini are sure to please -- pick what you like and trust that it'll be made right. The aforementioned cupcakes are also tasty, but are so enormous as to appear clownish. Nobody really needs a cupcake with a whole Oreo on top -- but if you want it, they've got it.

Part of us wants to protest the Brooklynification of Astoria and make a principle of scorning such places at Il Bambino. But using Il Bambino as an example would make us mere curmudgeons instead of armchair watchdogs of there-goes-the-neighborhood (especially when there are restaurants listing the sound designer in the entryway, though that's less Brooklynification than just plain weird). If we can have restaurants like this nearby without the high rents or the douchey hipsters, then we are benefiting on all fronts.

Price: Extremely affordable given the consistent quality

Will we go again: Absolutely. But it seems an afternoon sort of place, though they do now have alcohol

Out in Astoria (Viva El Mariachi; 33-11 Broadway)

2009-02-27T20:54:00.000-08:00

The Mexican restaurants along Broadway in Astoria aren’t going to win any awards for ambiance. Garishly lit, indifferently decorated, and resolutely utilitarian, they won’t transport you out of your everyday life -- even if mariachi music is playing, and even if the name of the particular restaurant you are in suggests that the place exists to celebrate such music.

But there wasn't much music happening when we visited Viva El Mariachi, just a few desultory songs from a jukebox. The restaurant's name is utterly arbitrary as far as we could tell. There was, however, a lot of energy in the restaurant, as it had been recruited to serve as the somewhat unlikely host to an Out Astoria meet-up, which was just beginning to break up when we arrived. That it would be chosen for such an event is a testimony to its perfectly nondescript nature -- the restaurant is the lair of no particular group of regulars so far as we could tell, and so it’s open to be claimed by anyone for an hour -- but no more. There are about a dozen tables, some of which are on an elevated platform behind a wooden railing. We're not sure of the purpose of this barrier arrangement -- it seems to make service a bit more awkward than it need be (and created sight lines to nothing in particular).

We ordered tacos and a steak special. The tacos were a touch better than the ones procurable at the El Rey del Taco cart on 30th Avenue, which is no small feat. They came on a plate with limes and radishes, which makes for a more pleasant dining experience than jamming them down from out of a piece of aluminum foil as you walk home from the subway. (We're eager for the taco truck's storefront to open, however.)

The special, a paillard of steak sautéed with a flavorful jalapeno sauce, tangy crema, and nachos (yes, nachos) was delicious. The sharp zest of the sauce and accompanying limes collide with the steak, which managed to stay juicy despite its thinness; the crema kept the mix from overwhelming. We've never heard of sautéing nachos, and it's probably a candidate for This is Why You're Fat, but hell, it worked. It was also enormous, serving as lunch and dinner the next day.

Assuming fresh ingredients are being used, this sort of simple, straightforward Mexican food is somewhat difficult for professionals to get horribly wrong -- not that other restaurants don’t manage to mess it up (see Taco Fresco, which happily falls outside of our rules for eating at every restaurant in Astoria). That also means it's equally hard to make it truly outstanding. But "outstanding" is not really a reasonable expectation for the utilitarian Viva El Mariachi. Instead it exudes a basic reliability that is far too easy to take for granted; it can make you delighted and satisfied with a meal even when you haven't psyched yourself up for something spectacular.

Price: $20 for the whole meal, including bottled sodas and tip
Will we go again? It's in our top Mexican choices -- absolutely

Eep Op Ork Ah Ah (S'Agapo; 34-21 34th Avenue)

2009-02-24T21:11:00.000-08:00

Astoria's touches of glamour (Cavo aside, of course) are clustered around the film business -- location shoots, Kaufman studios, and the restaurants that serve the casts and crews down around 34th Avenue. With its proximity to the studios, S'Agapo is rumored to have quietly hosted the occasional celebrity. On our way there, we even passed through an on-location shoot for Life on Mars, a film which we know nothing about other than it seemed to require a lot of early 1970s autos.

In keeping with its subdued atmosphere, you're not going to find autographed photos of Robert DeNiro on S'Agapo's walls; you will, however, find a solid institution that has served as a template for the better grade of Astoria Greek restaurants.

It's not that the food at S'Agapo is so outstanding (the entrees are the usual grilled fish and lemon potatoes sort of deal). It's that you know the kitchen is doing things right, with a demure touch reminiscent of Agnanti, its closest kin. You can watch the cooks going about their business from most of the dining room if you wanted to, but the point is that you don't feel like you have to.

If, in warm weather, you have a chance to dine outside on the patio on S'Agapo's quiet stretch of 34th Avenue, you'll get a sense of why so many expats in the neighborhood thrive on sidewalk dining (though why anyone would sit outside at Athens Cafe when a 15-minute walk here brings a vastly more pleasant experience, we're not sure). S'Agapo's relatively small size -- relative to cavernous places like Telly's Taverna -- makes it feel more intimate than it might otherwise, and the mix of antique photographs and abstract on the art on the walls lend a note of what passes for quirk in an often characterless species of restaurant.

Try the kaltsounia, a fried dumpling with a soft farmer's cheese and mint, served with a small bowl of honey for dipping. The taramousalata is zesty-delicious as well. In general, you're best served at S'Agapo asking for the server's guidance on a variety of small dishes than going straight for the entrees -- the meats, fish, and stews are all trustworthy, but none that we've had are a must-have. While the appetizers we tried had a character of their own, the main dishes were a tad perfunctory.

Lamb, check. Fish, check. Now let's get back to the good stuff.

We've seen groups and families here enjoying full-table banquets, plates lining every available surface and retsina freely flowing. But on the Saturday night we went, the tables were full of couples, and though it wasn't Valentine's Day, the staff had embraced the red-heart theme without overdoing it. The lighting at S'Agapo can be harsh, though on the night we visited it seemed that they've learned to tone it down, with dim overheads and tabletop votives warming up the atmosphere. We hope the change is permanent, as it better suits S'Agapo's titular romantic mission -- after all, S'Agapo is Greek for I love you.

Price: Like most Greek restaurants, it seems unduly pricey.
Will we go again: Probably. It's the class of the old-school places.

The Thai Life (Zabb Thai; 34-11 30th Avenue)

2009-01-25T13:27:00.000-08:00

In Michelin's 2008 guide to New York City, you will find an entry for Zabb Queens -- a restaurant with "fantastic Thai food," a place known for "showcasing the cuisine of the Isaan region." You should not make the mistake of confusing that restaurant, which is in Jackson Heights, with Zabb Thai, a garden-variety Thai joint that has taken up residence in the former home of Thai Angel and may in fact still be Thai Angel, only renamed to seize upon the other Zabb's notoriety.

Maybe it's a snobbery born of having truly outstanding Thai restaurants nearby in Woodside and Jackson Heights that leaves us underwhlemed with the likes of Zabb Thai. Zabb Thai's success, such as it is, seems to have less to do with the food it serves but with its tasteful decor. It's dimly lit but not so dark that you need a flashlight for the menu. A leather banquette runs along one wall, and in back is a well-stuffed leather couch (purpose: unknown). There are bas reliefs of elephant-headed, multilimbed gods on gray, stucco walls, and one wall of exposed, faux-unfinished stonework. Also, toward the hostess stand in the back, are several shelves of flowers in jars full of lava-lamp goo illuminated with blue-, green- and red-colored lights. As arbitrary as that is for ornament, it looks less weird that it probably sounds. On the night we visited the music seemed a bit incongruous -- loud teen pop that made it difficult to talk. It seemed more appropriate for Charlotte Russe than a restaurant. But on the whole, judging from surface appearances alone, we could convince ourselves we weren't doing something mediocre by eating there.

As a consequence, Zabb Thai seems reasonably busy most nights, which grans diners an additional level of self-protection: You'll never go in there and be spooked by being the only customer. You won't have to ask youselves: What's wrong with us that we're eating here?

The food, however, was not memorable. A tofu-taro appetizer was hot and pleasingly greasy, but no particular flavor broke through. We felt we had to order the Pad Prik Sod because it was listed on the menu twice.

We figured that meant they really wanted us to order it, but it turned out to be a bit underwhelming. As you can see below, there's just not much excitement to it: just big pieces of onion and pepper.

Our other entree, tentatively recommended by our very reluctant waitress, was fried chicken nuggets in what was supposed to be a spicy sauce.

It turned out that this was hardly spicy at all, but seemed instead vaguely dumbed down for less adventuresome palates.

But then, Zabb Thai is not about adventure. It's instead catering to a certain New York City lifestyle that involves eating out almost every night and requires that there be ethnic restaurants with vaguely chic decor that are nonetheless convenient, familiar, and affordable. We, however, like Thai food enough to avoid making it a lifestyle accoutrement.

Price: As you can see in the menu picture above, it's reasonable.
Will we go again: Not with Sri Pra Phai nearby.

The Gyros That Wouldn't Grow Up (Pita Pan; 37-15 30th Avenue)

2009-01-12T20:08:00.000-08:00

Fast food generally falls outside of the purview of this blog. Chain restaurants are excluded from our mighty call to eat at every restaurant in Astoria, and while that saves us from the monstrous Applebee's on 35th Avenue, most of the Astoria locations we're skipping are the McDonald's and Wendy's of the neighborhood. There's plenty of food that's fast in the hood -- counter-order taquerias, shawarma stands, gyro joints -- but "fast food"? We'd rather not.

Enter Pita Pan. Like Petey's Burger, this gyro/wrap/pizza/smoothie restaurant has franchise aspirations and an ambiance consciously styled to feel evoke the fast food behemoths -- logos, bright colors, efficient packaging, a crisp air of disposability. Unlike Petey's, nobody over the age of 20 would actively choose to spend more than two minutes in the place -- and nobody who had ever tasted another gyro, ever, would return.

Admittedly, in Pita Pan, we were strangers in a strange land. We're accustomed to the peculiarities of the New York labor market, which typically dictate that the people who serve us our food are usually at least out of high school. But Pita Pan exists in a little adult-free pocket of the neighborhood: When our orders were taken by a herd of chirpy teenagers, we quietly surveyed the clientele and realized we were the oldest customers by at least a decade. (We're adults, yes, but not so old that we've shunned Never-Neverland.) The table of sullen teenage boys next to us slurped Cokes (lukewarm, from the malfunctioning open-face cooler, though when we asked for a cup of ice for our own soda, the request was granted with a smile and a cheerful apology) and meted out onion rings to one another, trying to stretch their allowance for the night. The ridiculously loud music -- which continually stopped mid-song, only to switch to another blaring Hot 97-style aria -- didn't help settle us in. Nor did the bright-orange/kelly-green color combo, seemingly designed to repel us as quickly as possible.

But clearly the minds behind Pita Pan think they've found their lucky ticket. A trio of TV screens embedded in the wall beside the front counter repeatedly flashed "Franchise Opportunity!" graphics over images of the store front (though they often showed pictures of the old gray location next door, now notable for its rat poison warnings). They've invested in a computerized cash register with all sorts of buttons for the various toppings and combinations one could get on their gyro, wrap, salad, or pizza -- insurance for picky eaters who shudder at the thought of white goop soiling perfectly good meat and like to see their preferences confirmed on an order ticket. But all the gimcrackery didn't seem to speed up the food-delivery process, as it took much longer than it should have for us to get our meal, which was brought to us by yet another teen, this one gangly and diffident.

It's not that the food at Pita Pan is rotten; it's that there's no reason for it to exist. Pita Pan would make sense in the food court of suburban malls, places where "tzatziki" would be clearly defined on the menu or absent altogether, listed only as "special Pita Pan sauce" (though Astoria's Pita Pan actually already has a Pita Pan sauce -- an inexplicable ketchup-mayo mixture). Instead, the restaurant is in the center of a neighborhood that harbors the largest Greek community outside of Greece and Cyprus. Do you see Taco Bells in Mexico? Do you see Sbarro's in Italy? Do you see McDonald's in -- never mind. Pita Pan's gyro costs $3, less than you'd pay at someplace like Zorba's, but it's less than half the size, and with a fraction of the taste. The joint benefits from the inherent goodness of shaved lamb thrust inside toasty pitas -- how do you make that not good?

Pita Pan is always busy when we pass by, and the counter was doing a brisk (seemingly endless, even) takeout business while we ate. But we can't be totally alone in our distaste for the place -- everybody there, even the lingering teenagers, ate with their coats on, perhaps unwilling to admit to themselves that they'd found their activity for the night. Unlike other places in Astoria that we concede are good but just not our style, we can't concede to give Pita Pan the same pass.

Price: It's cheap, we'll give it that.
Will we go again? Only if Captain Hook threatens us with a plank-walk.

Za'atars in Our Eyes (Mombar; 25-22 Steinway Street)

2009-01-07T19:18:00.000-08:00

The elaborate exterior of Mombar, a tiny Egyptian restaurant set amid the hookah smoke on Steinway Street, would probably seem annoying if it were a concept calculated to allure adventure diners. You're greeted by a giant eye, classically kohl-rimmed; a vaguely cannabis-shaped design over the entrance; a series of tiny geometric windows, a nod to Islamic architecture, and a snaking path of mosaic work. The homely, eclectic design, which is taken even further inside, is clearly not a marketing approach but an artistic commitment, with none of the pretense usually associated with such commitment. Instead, creativity seems casual, natural, inevitable. Why not decoupage all the tables and hang children's drawings on the walls alongside your own paintings? Why not embed teacups in the wall?

As much a folk artist as a restaurateur, Moustafa El Sayed, the proprietor and chef, has turned Mombar's space into an unconventional yet entirely comfortable place to take in a leisurely meal. Pleasingly ramshackle and seemingly ad hoc, the kitchen's set-up is as far from the common conception of a professional kitchen as can be imagined. Befitting the artist's-studio vibe, the kitchen is in open view, as is the refrigerator -- a fridge that looks more like the one you have at home than the industrial coolers in most restaurants -- which sits in the corner and naturally has drawings stuck on it with magnets. Ingredients and utensils seem to be scattered about in weathered and possibly homemade cabinets with dozens of card-catalog-style drawers, an organizational scheme as idiosyncratic and imbued with artistic vision as anything else in Mombar -- and one that probably makes it virtually impossible for anyone but El Sayed to cook there.

The close dining quarters -- a few freestanding tables, some of which are aligned in front of a banquette that runs the length of the wall -- and the controlled chaos of the décor make it feel genuinely cozy, as does the slightly garrulous maitre d'-waiter, who was entirely at ease in discussing the menu and making recommendations. Clearly confident in the uniqueness of the Mombar experience, he could be exuberantly attentive without being oppressive. He managed to maintain a conversation with a neighboring table of Armenians about the similarities between various Middle Eastern cuisines without ever seeming to disrupt them. His warmth made us all feel a little like we were guests at a quirky cosmopolitan dinner party.

None of which is to say that the food was not of professional quality. It is, and it's the sort of meal that makes you wonder when "tastes like homemade" became less of a compliment than "tastes just like what I bought the other day." The waiter started us off with pleasantly oily squares of Egyptian bread -- think what phyllo squares would be like if slightly leavened and more moist -- and a dish of za'atar, an oil-sesame-herb mix that he poured from a pitcher. It was so good that the first thing we did upon returning home was Google "how to make za'atar," despite our stretched, groaning bellies. Our fava bean appetizer was tasty enough to please even the anti-fava-bean half of our duo, thanks to the caramelized onions resting atop the putty-colored mixture.

When our waiter was helping us order, he asked if we liked lamb. "We have lamb tajine, lamb chops, lamb shank, and lamb stuffed with more lamb." (As if there were a choice for the lamb lover.) We chose the lamb and beef mixed together inside lamb chops and topped with a spinach-chickpea mix, and a rabbit tajine. The lamb special was satisfying -- it's hard to mess up lamb chops, especially when you put them inside more lamb -- but didn't live up to the glorious, gluttonous description.

It would have, if it had the complexity of the rabbit dish, which was served still-bubbling in the clay tajine pot it was cooked in.

Plump sultanas and vegetables soaked up the juices from the rabbit, and every bite offered the delicate balance of sweet and savory that such a dish promises. The pyramid of fruit-studded couscous served alongside each entree was nifty, if unnecessary in such a casual setting. We finished with Egyptian-style dessert: date-walnut baklava and a thick sludge of cardamom-spiced coffee.

It's impossible not to treat this as a destination restaurant since it's so one-of-a-kind. But an evening spent there feels so comfortable, so natural, that you want it to be a regular hangout. It's not, though, which makes us wonder what sort of spot we would fashion into "our place," if not a place with Mombar's qualities. We might be too on-the-go, too fascinated with the restaurant's exotic qualities to leisurely spend every Friday night at Mombar. That's our loss.

Price: Entrees average around $19. It's not a bargain, but it's worth the money.
Will we go again? Yes, if not as frequently as we should.

For George's Sake (Petey's Burger, 30-17 30th Avenue)

2008-11-18T08:58:00.000-08:00

If this were Nevada, Petey's Burger's conscious mimicry of In-N-Out Burger might seem a cheesy rip-off. But the nearest In-N-Out is time zones away, leaving New York open to quality-burger-chain colonization. D.C.'s Five Guys has taken its stand in the city (including Queens -- College Point), and despite our determination to go local, we'd probably have welcomed a Five Guys outpost in Astoria. Our neighborhood has a handful of good burgers (Sparrow, Blackbird's, Cronin & Phelan, even Sanford's) but nowhere that specializes only in quality burgers, presented without the fuss and formality (and extra expense) of waiter service.

The brother-owners of Petey's Burger (George, who was there on the night we went, and Petey himself) are native Astorians, but this is their first venture in the hood. The cartoon-font logo and ketchup-and-mustard-colored walls give Petey's an easily extensible trademark look, ripe for franchising, but in designing their brand the owners also gave a quiet nod to this particular location -- the only decor on the walls is a comic-style illustration of a skateboarder, just generic-looking enough to be any of the scruffy skateboarding boys just across the street in Athens Square Park.

Petey's entrees are priced reasonably for said crowd -- starting at $4 for a basic cheeseburger and going up to $13 for a triple cheeseburger combo -- but also offer top-notch ingredients appreciated by the professional crowd (well, us). The frying oil was a cut above standard fast food; the beef, while simply promoted as "USDA beef" (that doesn't mean much), was flavorful without being too fatty; we even spotted bottles of Fox's U-Bet syrup behind the counter, which came into play in our black-and-white $4 milk shake. The burgers, presented in little paper bags, are an actual serving size -- satisfying but not monstrous -- and the Petey's Melt is served on a buttery toast round. The "sauce" mentioned on the menu is nothing secret or proprietary -- right now, as the cashier freely admits, it's Russian dressing.

The atmosphere at Petey's manages to speak to the teenage and thirtysomething set: Exposed brick, New York Times copies with duct-tape proprietary "PETEY'S" labels, and incandescent lighting don't prod the diner out the door after wolfing down a meal. It's fast food, to be sure -- your number is called out from the counter; the menu offers nothing but burger variations, fries, shakes, and the like; the staffers wear red T-shirts bearing a big "P" logo. But it's slower than it could be -- in the right way.

Make Ours Mamey (Tulcingo, 25-26 Broadway)

2008-11-10T16:22:00.000-08:00

Tulcingo is less restaurant than catch-all. Convenience store? Check. Bar, with jukebox and beer? Check. Place of worship, with Virgin Mary shrine? Check (albeit with little privacy for prayers and offerings). When we ordered at the counter, we weren't sure if we were even welcome to sit at the freestanding Formica tables or if they were temporarily gathered there for a meeting of some sort that hadn't yet begun. (The woman behind the counter, who also acted as waitress, saw our confusion and knowingly nodded toward the table cluster.)

We can be fussy about our Mexican food, sticking to mundane choices like pork tacos. The most adventurous we got at Tulcingo was the mamey shake, which was thick and lukewarm, allowing the distinct flavor of the mamey (it tastes like . . . mamey) to come through. (We're of the ice-cream-fountain school of milkshakes, however, so this subtlety went unappreciated -- probably not Tulcingo's fault, though.) A more thorough examination of Tulcingo's menu shows that our timidity in ordering was a mistake, or that at least we should have come on a weekend, as that's when the not-often-found goat platter is offered, along with a special mole dish and other assorted delicacies. The specials, handwritten on neon signs taped onto the front of the counter, were beyond our grasp of Spanish -- but next time we'll brush up so we can take full advantage of the unlikely breadth of Tulcingo's offerings.

Our conservatism is our loss, yes -- but what we did have was far from a write-off. The tacos at Tulcingo were seasoned lightly, letting the quality of the ingredients speak for itself. Moist chicken; spicy pork with smoldering, not blistering, heat; flavorful (free) salsa and (not free) guacamole -- in all, we found a keeper in this weird little joint.

Price: Tacos $2; nothing on the menu over $13.
Will we go again? It's cheaper than a vacation to Puebla, with many of the same offerings -- yes.

Love of Strangers (Philoxenia, 32-07 34th Avenue)

2008-11-03T12:41:00.000-08:00

We've repeatedly bemoaned the fact that neither of us really loves Greek food -- O the grand irony, living in the largest Greek expatriate community (outside of Cyprus, which doesn't really count)! Woe is us! The trial, the tribulation! But somehow, most of the occasions when we manage to steel ourselves for a Greek meal, we realize (temporarily, of course) that we've tightened our boxing gloves for no reason and the meal is serviceable, even tasty.

So we're not sure what to make of Philoxenia. Rather, we know what to make of it -- it's splendid -- we just don't know why other Greek restaurants can't just copy what they're doing. Why did it take a relative newcomer to the scene (it opened in 2004 and has been in its current location for less than a year) to prove that Greek cooking can stay true to its roots and still showcase the strong savory flavors that characterize the cuisine? It's hard to believe that none of the spate of Greek restaurants opened in the wake of the mass immigration of Greeks to Astoria in the 1960s relied on their grandmothers' home recipes (or were run by the yayas themselves), but our taste buds tell us differently. The difference between Philoxenia and its competitors is the difference between your mother's meatloaf (assuming your mama made kick-ass meatloaf) and the loaf at a trusted diner: It's not that the latter is bad; it's that the former is so good as to render the other irrelevant. In the first half of the 20th century, restaurants were a matter of economic survival for Greek immigrants, not a matter of a yearning to re-create recipes from back home. Perhaps the predominantly financial motives of those initial Greek restaurateurs prompted them to take advantage of a hearty native cuisine that's hard to get wrong while leaving the good stuff behind.

The dishes at Philoxenia aren't much different than what's available at others of its ilk. You've got your priced-per-pound fish, your salty spreads, and your charcoal grilled meats. But nothing in the description of the Greek meatballs prepares you for the ethereal oregano-laced puffs of meat encased in a crispy browned shell and drizzled with a zesty tomato sauce. They were among the best things we have ever tasted anywhere. The pork special -- chops with a savory dried fruit compote -- veered from the classic Hellenic menu but not wildly, and though its standout characteristic was the marriage of flavors, the meat was prepared with care, making us think that the straight-up pork chops would similarly please. (We'll find out in future visits.) The tomato-cucumber-olive salad was nothing special, the only mild disappointment from our leisurely dinner. Our assorted appetizers, wine, and dessert all surpassed expectations shaped by lesser restaurants. The ambiance lacked nothing, managing to be both rustic and nearly spare, with just enough kitsch-free knickknacks, tastefully displayed (and beautifully lit), to serve as a reminder of the hardscrabble roots of Greek cuisine.

We still don't love Greek cuisine, we admit. But we love Philoxenia.

Price: Entrees $13-$25; in line with other Greek restaurants but less expensive than the "occasion" spots like Akti
Will we go again? With those meatballs, need we pose the question?

What's Ponzu? (Bistro 33, 19-33 Ditmars Boulevard)

2008-10-29T12:30:00.000-07:00

On a trip to Paris several years ago, one of us struck an acquaintance with a Frenchman who said he knew just the place to go. We wound up eating hamburgers and drinking Cokes from paper cups in an "American diner," replete with lithographs of Marilyn Monroe and Humphrey Bogart on the wall -- Johnny Rockets, essentially, priced in francs. It wasn't that he thought the place had the best food in town; it was that he thought we'd be comfortable there. So when two Guest Diners -- seasoned Brooklynites who follow the dining beat and who have guided us through delectable meals in places like Momofuku Noodle Bar -- joined us on our mission, we followed the Frenchman's cue and swept them away to an approximation of what one might find in, say, Park Slope or Carroll Gardens.

And in that regard, Bistro 33 didn't disappoint. It's out of the way, on a stretch of 21st Street that's a bit of a walk from the subway and other stops on the Astoria scene, but this allows its sidewalk dining to be truly pleasant. (What the attraction is to dining outside on 30th Avenue, breathing in bus exhaust and being ogled by passersby, we're unsure.) Its airy space and mood, combined with its chic, compact design and pleasant service matched point for point the attraction of downtown eateries that are never too crowded and always a good experience.

The lure of chef Gary Anza, formerly of the highly regarded sushi restaurant Bond Street, didn't hurt either. Our neighborhood doesn't have a deficit of good sushi -- JJ's Fusion and Tokyo continually satisfy -- but neither does it have an enormous array of choices. Bistro 33 serves French-Asian fare, and the French Culinary Institute pedigree of its cooks promised to please.

So we drank our way through the well-selected beer and wine list, nibbled our way through pork shoulder, tuna tataki, crab cakes, and a variety of sushi, and came to the conclusion that Astoria may have found its best sushi -- but it is either still seeking a good French-whatever restaurant or just doesn't need one. Both the simpler rolls (we tried the tuna and yellowtail) and more imaginative offerings (most notably the fuzzy tuna roll, with mango, spicy tuna, and crunchy strips) were expertly done. Other Asian-themed offerings matched the sushi's quality: The pan-fried pork dumplings were lightly crisped and delicately flavored, with a thin garlic-citrus sauce ("garlic ponzu sauce," to be exact) that offset the moist pork without clashing.

Other items on the menu left us wondering why reviewers have been giving unanimously good reviews to Bistro 33. Not that they were...bad...but the pork shoulder was paltry in taste and overcooked, even making us wonder if someone in the kitchen had forgotten to drizzle a sauce of some sort over it. Other entrees prompted nothing but a faint "this is nice" from all diners.

Bistro 33 is a far cry from the diner in Paris: It's not bad food; it's low-key; it's taking a stab at the "new Astoria" demographic and not falling too far from the mark. But just as the Frenchman didn't show his guest what his city does best, we wonder why we fell prey to the idea that as unwitting members of the new Astoria demographic, this is what we want after all. We've found a handful of places in the neighborhood that feel like a culinary home, and none of them had brand-name chefs, triangular plates, or ponzu anywhere on the menu. (Nor were they spotted by Ugly Betty's locations team -- an episode of the sitcom was filmed there in July, and we're curious to know if it will be posed as a Manhattan eatery or if the writers are daring to show Betty's native Queens as a borough that has food other than sausage heroes.) Astoria has room for Bistro 33 alongside its older establishments, and we wish it well -- but we don't want it to have too much company.

Price: Not crazy, not cheap. Between $15 and $25 for entrees.
Will we go again? We have no intention of returning, but wouldn't outright refuse if others invited us there.

Our Life in Bacon (La Vita Mia, 28-01 24th Avenue)

2008-10-26T15:10:00.000-07:00

Bacon makes everything better. We made bacon baklava last year in an effort (successful, we'll add) to prove this hypothesis, and we are now at work on an ice cream involving bacon (a fellow Astorian, Ice Cream Erik, has cornered the market on sausage ice cream). Given this, we're not sure why bacon pizza is not on more pizzeria menus. It's bacon! It's pizza! You can't go wrong!

La Vita Mia ("My Life"), a typical neighborhood place on 24th Avenue, has recognized the bacon hypothesis, offering a pizza topped with strips of bacon and believing in it enough to sell it by the slice. We can't say whether it's better than any other bacon pizza in the neighborhood, as this was our first foray into the territory, but it was tasty and seemed like second nature. Maybe we're tickled because this was our first (of dozens? hundreds?) of pizzerias on our mission; perhaps we'll be yawning over bacon pizza come June. But for now, the offerings! Chicken Cheddarella! Philly Cheese Steak! The Vita Mia Special, featuring no chicken, bacon, or basil! Choose you are crust!

Unfortunately, we didn't get to sample La Vita Mia's signature slice, the Grandma, with fresh mozzarella, garlic, and organic tomato sauce ("organic" is in red type on the menu), as they had already sold out. We're guessing that the name of this pizza is not some clever marketing ploy -- La Vita Mia, which is as utilitarian as pizzerias come, didn't seem especially cognizant of such things -- but is actually named for someone's grandmother, who probably suggested the recipe.

Left to choose from the more quotidian slices, we found that the pepperoni and plain Sicilian were passable, aided by the rack of condiments thoughtfully supplied at every table. The slices had clearly been sitting for a while, but apparently if you want fresh ones after 8:30 in Astoria, you better order a whole pie.

It's not "our life", we know, but we can't help but think that this is mistake, as is closing so early. (La Vita Mia closes at 10 during the week.) The pizzeria is missing out on serious drunk traffic from the beer garden down the street, which stops serving food early, leaving patrons with a belly full of beer and nothing greasy to sop it up with. (The winner in this scenario is the Neptune diner, which is open 24 hours and attracts a decent amount of stumblers from Bohemian Hall.) We're no businesspeople, but it seems it would be a winning proposition for all involved were they to extend their hours a bit.

The staff gives the impression that they wouldn't mind dealing with a rowdy, beery bunch, either: The main counterman dealt with our queries about the absent Grandma slice with matter-of-fact bemusement, spinning paper plates for the slices we ended up having with panache and offering chocolate wafers for a bag to the (curiously) large number of assorted co-workers coming through the door. At one point, they shared a laugh with a regular customer, who they claimed was "always stoned." (Admittedly, he was wearing sunglasses, it was dark outside, and he wasn't Corey Hart.)

Don't get us wrong: La Vita Mia isn't spectacular in any area, and the slices are only what you'd expect (save the bacon! always the bacon!). But it's a handy beer garden soak-up if you finish (or begin) your drinking early enough, and there's enough quirk to make us regard it with fondness.

Price: It's pizza.
Will we go again? Yes, but mostly because the next closest food option to the Beer Garden is Number One Chinese Restaurant.

For the Love of Fish (Tokyo, 31-05 24th Avenue)

2008-10-14T13:21:00.000-07:00

We once ate at a vegan place in the East Village that had the best veggie burger ever. The ingredients didn't seem to be unusual, nor was the presentation -- there was something else going on that we couldn't identify. We asked the waiter what made the veggie burger so good.

"Love," he said. "If a cook comes to work angry, we send the cook home. The energy goes into the food -- food made with love tastes like love." Then he asked us if we'd like to "come upstairs for the service," and when we realized we were in a Hare Krishna den, we rama-ramaed outta there. But the lesson stuck: In our own home, we take care to prepare food with love (or at least not anger), and when a restaurant appears to do the same, we notice.

Tokyo, with its red-sheathed paper lanterns quietly heralding its location on the other side of the tracks from the Beer Garden, made us take this sort of notice. Its interior is that of a surprisingly old-school sushi restaurant -- surprising because we sort of assumed that pretty much every sushi restaurant in Astoria came about with the turn-of-the-millennium influx of Japanese students residing here. The worn posters of the Japanese landscape, the faded laminated sheets offering photos of what the different types of sushi are, the exceedingly polite waitstaff -- such things point to a restaurant that simultaneously needed to educate as much as appeal in order to survive.

Tokyo might never approach the technical levels of sushi mastery demanded at Manhattan restaurants that treat sushi as a competitive sport. Even in Astoria, Tokyo might take a technical-points silver to JJ's or Bistro 33, the latter of which boasts a minor brand-name chef. But -- jai guru dev om, everybody -- you can taste the love at Tokyo.

Which is not to say that its offerings are subpar on a technical level: They're not. The standard sushi offerings are all prepared well, but the house specials, the best of which are on the placards at every table instead of on the menu, are where the restaurant really shines (try the Jimmy roll, trust us). Even the warm sushi rolls, never our favorite, go down easy. What makes the sushi special is not the it's-swimming-in-my-mouth standard that seems to be prized by sushi lovers. It's Tokyo's creativity, care, and gentility that sets the restaurant apart.

And, yes, the love. One of us was to meet a friend for dinner once, and confusion about what "my sushi place" versus "your sushi place" (then the dearly departed Shima on Broadway) ensued. Our friend ran from Broadway to 24th Avenue in the February chill to meet us, arriving drenched in cold-weather sweat. Wordlessly, the waiter brought over a warm, damp washcloth for him to wipe his brow. It was a small gesture, but one that leaves a lasting impression.

Price In line with sushi; special rolls about $8.
Would we go again? Happily. We've never thought of sushi as comfort food until now.

Under Ditmars (Frankie's Pizza; 22-56 31st Street)

2008-10-14T12:38:00.000-07:00

The location of this pizzeria is not the most opportune. It's right between the stairwells coming down from the Ditmars Boulevard station platform, so if you're getting off at that stop, it's never on your way, despite being right there. And something in the mind rebels at the notion of eating right there, where the elevated tracks assure the sun can't shine, where so many trains are idling, where so many transients congregate.

That being said, once you are inside Frankie's, you enter a different time -- the early 1960s perhaps. You are back in that era when tables equipped with bright orange bucket-style seats instead of benches -- that dining-room innovation specific to the fast-food-restaurant revolution that post-war suburbia engendered -- seemed somehow of the future rather than simply inconvenient. Frankie's is very much of that period and hasn't been substantially remodeled since, though in the past year, they did expand their counter into a L-shape that now extends toward the front entrance. This was not warranted by their having more goods to display; perhaps it's meant to make the space more inviting. If that's so, they might also consider taking the "Absolutely no outside food and drink" sign down. Not only does the bluster seem petty and off-putting, they don't even try to enforce it. We came in for a couple slices after a run carrying a few water bottles we bought at the deli, and no one at Frankie's said a word about it.

As for the pizza, we can say with confidence that we prefer it to Pizza Palace, which is up the street, and Alba's, which is nearby. But it bears no comparison with the neighborhood's finest.

Price: Average for a pizzeria.
Will we go again? Probably, but not from any special desire to return.

Family Style (Zenon Taverna; 34-10 31st Avenue)

2008-09-08T20:21:00.000-07:00

The menu at Zenon, a homey Cypriot place waitstaffed by the owners' daughters with homespun folk-artish frescos on the walls, is loaded with tapas-style appetizers, so we held off eating here until we could coax some Guest Diners into joining us for mezedes. Each person pays $19, and then waves of small dishes are brought out. There are three combo options: the Cyprus meal, the fish meal, and surprisingly enough, the vegetarian meal. Zenon is probably the only taverna in Astoria that's thinking about that demographic, though they haven't entirely figured it out -- the vegetarian meal includes fish.

We ordered some wine (all the selections are Greek; we had retsina) and deliberated over our options. Thankfully, our waitress cooperatively permitted us to go with a combination of the Cyprus and vegetarian meals. Then the food came out in waves. First they came with the cold appetizers -- mostly dips for the grilled pita: tzatziki, scordalia, tahini. There was also beet salad, a seafood salad, potato salad, and a Cyprus salad (basically a Greek salad with feta and olives). All of these were solid if unremarkable; what was notable was the sheer quantity and variety of food on the table. There wasn't room for it all, and the meal quickly became a delicate dance of plate passing and polite requests.

With all that food out, it was easy to forget that a second wave was coming. These were the hot dishes: calamari, grilled halloumi, two kinds of meatballs (keftedes and sheftalia), some sausages, and quail. This was all delicious stuff, but we did not pace ourselves well and were mostly too full to really enjoy it. We started to feel a little sheepish about how much we would probably leave behind, though we felt comfortable enough at our table to tarry until we finished most of it.

Our multiple but infrequent visits to Zenon always find us saying that we should order more casual meals from them -- drop in for a gyro or souvlaki. Somehow, though, we never do. The meats are all prepared well enough for us to trust that a gyro would be worthwhile, but there's something about the rustic, cozy atmosphere atmosphere that makes us feel like we're doing the whole idea of Zenon wrong by stopping by for a to-go bag. The wooden beams hold a sort of energy that Aliada, the nearest Cypriot competitor, might mimic now but won't be able to achieve for another twenty years or so. They invite you to linger, eat more food than you maybe want, drink more retsina out of a ceramic pitcher. They invite you to stay.

Price: Entrees $13-$20; mezedes, $19 per person.
Will we go again? We say we should go more often but will probably only follow through on special occasions.

Old-School (Omonia Café; 32-20 Broadway)

2008-09-08T20:19:00.001-07:00

We had time to kill before a movie, so we decided to do something we had been putting off and pay our obligatory visit to Omonia for the purposes of this blog. Perhaps the most quintessential of the dessert-and-coffee Euro cafes in the neighborhood, Omonia is actually pretty staid relative to the scene on 30th Avenue. The requisite ambient techno isn't blasting, and the neon backlighting is kept to a minimum. On the night we went, Tropical Storm Hanna was threatening outside and the humidity outside was extreme, so the window wall beside our table on Omonia's outer perimeter was sweating and the view to the street streaked and foggy. The curtailed visibility was probably hurting business -- the main point of the cafes is protracted people watching -- but it made the atmosphere less intimidating for us.

Omonia's menu is surprisingly extensive -- you could actually eat dinner there if you were so inclined -- but the core lies with its coffee drinks and its pages-long list of desserts. When asked for a recommendation, our waitress, an artificially friendly Eastern European who attempted to upsell us to a bottle of wine, demurred and told us to go up to the counter and inspect them ourselves. This wasn't much help; it's the kind of display in which everything looks practically shellacked in its slightly sterile perfection. In the end we ordered the caramel cake and a piece of baklava along with two booze-enhanced coffees, each topped with a pile of whipped cream. We were somewhat embarrassed by our perplexity at the mountain of cream; we had a hard time figuring out how to even drink them without making a huge mess. (The carousers at Athens Café make it look so easy!)

The desserts were okay but not good enough to make us forget about how self-conscious the place made us feel. They're thoroughly European in their approach, with mathematical precision in the layered desserts, pristine clarity on the glazed desserts, and mounds of cream (are Europeans less prone to lactose intolerance than Americans?). This means that whatever you get will be good, but nothing will be great unless you want a by-the-book approach to whatever you order -- reliably sweet, expertly done, uninspired. As the Alpha Astoria ladies wrote of the phyllo-encased custard, the taste isn't worth the calories. (Plus, the baklava was soggy, but we're willing to blame Hanna for that, as it seems unthinkable that the original Greek cafe would have anything but crisp phyllo on the national dessert.) In the unlikely event we ever return to Omonia, we'll like get our goods to go.

Price: Consistent with other cafes, which is to say, overpriced. Two desserts and two spiked coffees set us back $29.
Will we go again? If eager non-New-York friends with outdated guidebooks visited Astoria and insisted on going to get a "taste of the boroughs," sure. Otherwise, we'll pass.

Wanna Be Eatin' Somethin' (Locale, 33-02 34th Avenue)

2008-08-10T12:22:00.000-07:00

We approached Locale with a hint of trepidation. Astoria seems maxed out on Mediterranean restaurants -- both the old-school tuxedoed waiter kind and the supposedly chic places with blaring music and insider attitude -- and we wondered what this new cafe-restaurant tucked away on a quiet corner of 34th Avenue would add to the mix.

What we found wasn't earth-shattering: Locale won't necessarily go on the list of Astoria must-trys. But its atmosphere and menu collide to create what Cafe Bar strives, and fails, to be: a restaurant offering Astoria's Mediterranean heritage to its influx of younger, non-European residents, without alienating the Euro crowds that populate the more established cafes on 30th Avenue.

The largely Italian menu features well-selected glimpses of personality beyond red sauce: chicken with fontina and figs, pasta with red beet mascarpone. Its standard dishes please -- we've tried a variety of salads at Locale, and the gnocchi, a dish often overcooked and made gummy even in supposedly schooled hands, was toothsome without being chewy or mushy. Vegetarian options abound on the pasta panini menu (and the salad menu too, if you're content with goat cheese, which Locale heavily relies on to bulk up the salads). We stuck with a (slightly overpriced) bottle of wine, but the cocktail list is primed to please -- pineapple mojitos and martinis abound. (We'll forgive Locale the unfortunately named "Panty Dropper.")

More than the food, though, Locale is the rare place that allows one to feel like you're out on the town without being thrust into a crowded joint with thumping music and attitude. Sure, the large-scaled images of nudes in the fetal position are a bit much, but they're not really in-your-face, and the rest of the glass-and-wrought-iron decor is low-key and classic enough to make up for it. Best of all, we could hear both our conversation and the music, which on our recent Friday night visit included the greatest hits of Michael Jackson.

Locale's website claims the restaurant reflects "the neighborhood's modern yet multicultural chic aspect, which has become a signature of present-day Astoria." We wish more places had a clear-cut mission statement, perhaps printed on their business cards -- not so much so we can evaluate them based on the description, but on how close the proprietors come to achieving their goal. In this case, it's a match.

Price: Entrees in the mid-teens.
Will we go again? Seems to suit our mood when we want to go out for a low-key night on the town.

Right Next Door to Vibe! (Gaudio's, 40-13 30th Avenue)

2008-08-10T12:14:00.000-07:00

Though it occupies a newly rehabbed building on 30th Avenue that includes among its storefronts the now failed Paparazzi Café (soon to be Cafe Boite, not "Mama Salsa" as originally reported) and Vibe, a dubious Eurolounge of recent vintage, Gaudio's Pizza is something of a neighborhood institution, celebrating its 50th year in Astoria. The frequency with which we see empty Gaudio's boxes out on the sidewalk on recycling-pickup day is a testament to the pizzeria's popularity (though that may be an illusion furthered by the other nearby places using generic boxes without their names printed on them). The inside is newly remodeled, like the building, but still the restaurant feels deeply rooted. Queens accents were thick in the voices we overheard. There was an old Italian waitress -- perhaps the proprietor's wife -- wearing a tuxedo shirt and black vest and serving the tables toward the back, while the booths up front appeared to be reserved for people who wanted somewhere to eat their slices without any fuss. There was also a counter with stools beside the traditional pizza counter, but we couldn't imagine sitting there -- you'd likely feel too much in the way.

We got slices, about which there is little to say. They passed muster. Pizza toppings were available on every table, a touch of generosity we always appreciate. Having to put parmesan and/or garlic on a piece of pizza while under the watchful eye of the counter man or an impatient fellow customer seems an arrangement designed to discourage you from fixing your slice the way you like.

Regulars filtered in the entire time we were there; one joked with the counterman about coming in yet again. In all, it had a cozy timelessness that no amount of change outside in Astoria could disturb.

Price: $2 a slice.
Will we go again? Why not?

Dry-Erase Dining (Akti, 34-19 30th Avenue)

2008-08-03T19:54:00.000-07:00

Astoria has many Greek seafood restaurants, and it can be hard to keep them straight. We're a bit overwhelmed by them, actually, and have been dragging our heels on trying them. How do you pick one when there are so many? Before we ate at Akti, which opened in March, we knew it as the one with a waterfall sculpture -- a thin plate of illuminated glass with water coursing through it -- positioned prominently in the front. At night, when the restaurant is closed, there is something melancholy about the waterfall; turned off, with the unlit water puddled at the bottom, the sculpture becomes just a window without a wall, a porthole onto nothingness.

Inside Akti there were more aesthetic touches -- some nautically themed objects decorated the walls, like captain's wheel and what looked like a stunted oar, as well as a stucco rectangle with a neon glow hanging up behind the bar. The architectural detail, too, demands comment. The roof is paneled with bamboo stalks and the pilasters look as if they are barnacled with small white stones. The sum effect of all these niceties is hard to articulate; the atmosphere seems vaguely elegant and distinctive though you might be embarrassed to admit you felt that way.

The most peculiar thing about Akti is its procedure for ordering. Each table receives one menu (what is it with Greek restaurants and menus? Elias Corner won't even deign to give you one) and then each diner marks what they want directly on it with a dry-erase marker. Inevitably, this leads to some discussion of sharing items and requires coming to an explicit consensus. It makes the negotiations of any meal much more definitive, which may or may not be a benefit, depending on how effective you are at getting to yes. Sipping wine and munching down grilled pita slices, we managed to to come to terms with each other.

Our waiter thoughtfully gave us advice about how much to order -- one entree and a few appetizers for both of us -- and we took his advice and got grilled swordfish, a beet salad, and a delicious grilled haloumi appetizer (a mellow cheese grilled and placed on a tomato slice and pita). Everything tasted good. The beets were earthy and the fish was fishy, etc., but nothing struck as absolutely outstanding. What was better than ordinary was the attentive and unpretentious service, which was far more down to earth than the decor would lead you to expect. Everyone seemed at ease with what they were doing. A man who seemed to be the owner came by our table several times with encouraging comments, and it never felt uncomfortable or intrusive. When we were finished, the bartender brought out slices of watermelon for dessert.

When we were through at Akti, we left wondering why we are so resistant to try such places. The experience was effortlessly pleasant, enough to make you forget the elaborate effort that went into the design. The next time we pass the sad waterfall, it will probably seem less a symbol of Akti's trying to hard and more like the corny indulgence of friend whose vainly searching for a dignified way to express his effusiveness.

Price: If you order as you should -- appetizers, shared entree, wine -- it's about $100 per couple. That's on par with the other Greek restaurants nearby, and worth it.
Will we go again? We would if there weren't so many others of its type that we need to try.

The Mystery of Merguez (Little Morocco; 24-39 Steinway Street)

2008-07-14T20:36:00.000-07:00

We hadn't taken much notice of this takeout counter at the north end of the hookah-smoking district of Astoria until recently, probably because it has no indoor seating and therefore doesn't meet our ground rules. But come summer, they set up ad hoc outdoor seating (plastic tables and chairs), put in place a maître' d/waiter (a genial teenage boy with a questionable grasp of English), and re-create themselves as a sit-down restaurant.

Further piquing our interest in Little Morocco was its sign proclaiming that the New York Times had declared that the place has the best merguez sandwich in the city. It didn't matter that neither of us knew what merguez was. We had to try it. So on a Saturday night we braved the shisha smoke and made a visit. We enjoyed a pot of Moroccan mint tea, calmly deflected the stares of the gaggle of men sitting with us at the café out on the 25th Avenue sidewalk, and we waited in the cool summer evening to have the mystery of merguez solved for us.

We ordered the merguez platter, which came with salad and rice (rather than couscous, which might make more sense), and the sandwich, which was basically the platter, minus the rice, served on a soft Italian roll. It turns out that merguez is a kind of long, skinny sausage, not all that unlike the cevapi served at the Balkan places, but spiced somewhat differently and with a more granular mouth feel. Instead of ajvar to dress it, there is harissa, an unbelievably delicious hot sauce. According to the Times article, both the merguez and the harissa are made fresh on the premises by the chef-owner, who was born in Casablanca and emigrated to America in 1985.

The merguez was nothing special until we got the harissa involved, which the teenager brought over almost as an afterthought. As far as we're concerned, the merguez is merely a pretense for the harissa, which would enliven any dish, though it does complement the sausage well. The platter wasn't worth the extra expense, and we probably would have gotten more out of the sandwich if it didn't come with the salad rolled into it, so you could opt to have the sandwich without, say, the salad dressing or cucumbers. But it was still satisfying and worth having again, and it left us wondering: Why don’t the halal-chicken stands around the neighborhood add merguez (and harissa!) to their repertoire?

Price: Under $10. Cheap.
Will we go again? Probably for takeout. But worth sitting down outside for the tea.

Conjuring a Neighborhood (Stove; 45-17 28th Avenue)

2008-07-07T21:05:00.000-07:00

We didn't expect to find a restaurant like Stove back in the highly residential, mostly ignored part of Astoria -- east on 28th Avenue, out toward Boulevard Gardens. We went for brunch and found it surprisingly busy but not overwhelmingly so, and pleasingly peaceful. We were delighted; nothing can ruin brunch like noise or waiting. A few tables were occupied in the backyard garden, and a smattering of couples were inside with us among the sparsely decorated white walls and the white-linen-bedecked tables. Up front was a small fully-stocked bar, with a few beer taps and stools that seemed mostly for show (or for the staff when business is slow). The restaurant is somewhat narrow, no wider than the storefront, and it can get a little cramped at the two-tops along the right side, where we were seated, especially considering how big the plates were when they were brought out. There was barely room to lift up our coffee cups from the saucers amid the toast basket and the juice glasses and the side plates and the entree plates. We did, however, like that that the table was set with a spreader utensil along with knife and fork.

The offerings on the set brunch menu were the usual suspects -- Eggs Benedict, omelets, et cetera -- along with some vaguely Irish-pub-themed options. The dinner menu, too, is partially publike, though the interior design of Stove seems purposely contrived to negate the suspicion that the restaurant might be a pub in disguise. It's spare, with vaguely Japanese ink drawings framed and hanging on the wall. The music, on Sunday morning at least, is a nonstop stream of 1960s pop hits -- "Lazy Day," "Summer in the City," "Groovin'," etc. The contrast between the setting and the menu's eclecticism has the happy effect of annulling any potential pretentiousness; it seems like the chef is just making what he or she feels like making.

We bypassed the shepherd's pie and went for corned beef hash and eggs, poached eggs royale, and a chicken Caesar salad. The serving of corned beef hash was ample to the point of absurdity but had us wishing we could actually finish it. The poached eggs royale (smoked salmon makes it royale, apparently) perhaps fit best with the ethos of the restaurant: prepared simply and cleanly, but with solid character and a deft touch. The same was true of the chicken Caesar salad, though it was the most generic of all the dishes we tried.

The restaurant is entirely out of character with what one might think is happening in Queens neighborhoods, especially away from the subway line. We have a hard time imagining who its patrons are, despite being among them. It would make no impact in a well-off corner of gentrified Brooklyn, but here it seems a radical innovation, almost unthinkable -- a place confident enough in its approach to refrain from selling it too hard, as so many of the would-be scene-y, date-y places in Astoria do. (The place's website, though, is a different story.) Still, Stove seems to exist to serve the neighborhood, not perhaps as it is but as it should be, full of the sort of people who appreciate basic food, well-prepared and served in a quietly dignified atmosphere. Rather than try to compete for the attention reserved for flashier bistros in more accessible locales, the restaurant adheres to a palpable, near impossible modesty. If only Stove could succeed in calling into being a neighborhood in its own image.

Price: Under $20 for entrees; brunch is about $12 per person.
Will we go again? Totally. We plan on becoming regulars.

It's a Cafe! And a Bar! (Cafe Bar, 32-90 36th Street)

2008-06-29T18:22:00.000-07:00

Cafe Bar was one of the handful of establishments that prompted Time Out to proclaim Astoria "The New Bohemia" on its cover in 2000. Regardless of the truth of that statement, the consciously quirky Cafe Bar back then was a sort of outpost for the young hipsters who were said to be slowly populating the area.

When we first went there, around the same time as that cover story, we felt like we were missing something. Sure, the Mona Lisa rice curtain and retro couches spoke to us more than the surly, nicotine-heavy outdoor tables at, say, Athens Cafe -- but the menu wasn't much different. It was Euro-style cafe fare: Greek salads, light sandwiches graced with feta, and frappes. Maybe the odd nutella crepe as well. But we were willing to chalk it up to us, not them -- surely we'd just overlooked a page of the menu.

Now that Astoria has a handful of places that could prompt another Time Out cover story (yet again touting Astoria's arrival on the desirable neighborhood list), it's clear that Cafe Bar was never quite lived up to what the boosters were so eager to claim for it. Once you have absorbed the "zany" rummage-sale decor, there's just not a whole lot, menu-wise, to set it apart from any other Greek or Cypriot cafe in the neighborhood, though the fresh-juice bar is a nice variant from the long coffee lists at those other establishments. The vibe is indeed funky in its own way, with 1960s-style chandeliers, pop wall decor, and a one-of-a-kind Salinger-themed bathroom (this alone makes it worth one visit). But any college town in America has a place with this feel: the objets d'art carefully selected to feel whimsically random, the DJ nights, the friendly but not particularly efficient waitstaff. Salads, sandwiches, crepes -- all well-priced, all fitting our nutritional needs, all tasty enough to make us clean our plates. But Astoria has many places that go above and beyond the basics of just-fine food preparation.

Reviewers on other sites claim to feel "at home" at Cafe Bar. But it's hard for us to feel at home amid such forced quirkiness. We feel as though we're at the apartment of a twentysomething struggling to find her identity, sitting among a bizarre array of hard plastic chairs and overstuffed couches. (It should be noted, too, that we're not a fan of dining on couches. You're so sunken that you can't talk to anyone other than who is beside you on the couch; you have to keep leaning over to pick up your drink or food -- essentially, you're more uncomfortable than you would be at a plain old table with chairs. So what then is the point?)

We understand Cafe Bar's appeal. It's more or less fairly priced, the food is fine, it doesn't have a problem with patrons nursing a drink on one of those infernal couches. In these respects, it's a quintessential cafe, and maybe that's what makes it problematic for us. Cafe culture isn't eating culture: It's for people who wish to see and be seen. We appreciate that this can foster a sense of community, and perhaps the perpetually arriving new bohemians of Astoria have found their home at Cafe Bar. (It serves as a pickup spot for the Astoria CSA, so that's fully possible.) Maybe we're just not "new" enough, or bohemian enough, to gel with the Cafe Bar vibe -- but we suspect that those who are hoping to find something truly bohemian here will be disappointed.

Price: Fine. Not crazy like some of the other tavernas.
Will we go again? We'd prefer a cafe or a bar to this Cafe Bar.

Aloysius Pie (Cronin & Phelan; 38-14 Broadway)

2008-05-29T21:07:00.000-07:00

You would think it wouldn't be all that hard to find a place in Astoria that serves basic pub food and a pint of Guinness -- neighboring Woodside probably has a dozen such places -- but it is surprisingly challenging. It's as though all the Mediterranean-style Euro cafes have the bite-and-a-sip market cornered, so many of the Irish bars in the neighborhood just don't find it cost-efficient to serve food. Cronin & Phelan is one of the few exceptions, so we find ourselves there more often than two people hell-bent on eating at every restaurant in Astoria should -- repeats don't come without thought. But craving a pint of Guinness can simplify our decision.

Cronin & Phelan doesn't do anything spectacularly right, though their burgers are satisfying, the fish and chips light and tasty, and the shepherd's pie a few notches above par. (We're particularly fond of how the mashed potatoes on top are sculpted like frosting and ever-so-lightly browned.) But that they are serving these things at all, and not Greek salads and Nutella crepes, goes a long way with us. And the service is always warm and matter-of-fact, as it should be at such places. They have always acted as if they remember us, even on our first visit.

Despite the faint warmth of the staff, the atmosphere inside Cronin & Phelan is not what you'd call especially cozy -- it's not a snug, hardwood-and-fireplace sort of establishment. There's a jukebox, but no one plays it much; maybe it comes into play later in the evening after the kitchen closes (way too early). It's the kind of bar where you can't be facing a direction without having a good view of a large flat-screen TV showing the Yankees game. It's also the kind of place where you can watch horse-racing simulcasts, which means (a) inebriated old men and (b) exceedingly odd conversations with said old men. For instance, on a visit before Easter, someone who introduced himself as "William Aloysius" told us all about the city's gyms and the days we'll find cooked turnips (his favorite) on the menu. It seems like a place where every evening, someone will be embarrassingly incoherent, and no one will pay them much mind -- which makes it a haven of sorts, and perhaps one to look forward to in case things go horribly wrong for us years down the line.

Price: Around $12 for entrees. In line with pub menus.
Will we go again? Cronin & Phelan ties for the record for our number of repeat visits since beginning this mission. At this point we're forced to alternate which of us gets to be Cronin.

Pizza Thinners (Rizzo's; 30-13 Steinway Street)

2008-05-21T19:08:00.000-07:00

Best-slice-in-Astoria discussions don't follow the pattern of best-slice-in-New-York rumbles. Astorians come away from such talks with a list of six or so recommended places but no clear winner, not even two or three that stay in constant rotation at the top à la DiFara's, Grimaldi's, and John's. You're as likely to hear "this place on Ditmars and 23rd" as you are the coal-oven pies at Sac's. There's no consistency; it can seem like random prejudice. So it took a few conversations in which Rizzo's was mentioned as the best slice in Astoria before we took it for a whirl.

Rizzo's is cleaner than other pizzerias -- immaculately so -- and bright with fluorescent glare, but the standard-issue plastic booths and floor tiles are exactly what you'd expect. The mirror-walls were heavily dotted by Ikea-style floating frames featuring shots of the restaurant back in Astoria's Italian-American heyday, lending an air of nostalgia without going over the top in any attempt to mark its territory in the neighborhood's hallowed pizza ovens. Yes there are a few framed clippings from newspapers and local magazines touting their slices, but these don't distract from the modest, neighborhood feel of the place. The only ostentatious touch is the old neon sign above the entrance, which we consider a touch of class, even though it is out of keeping with the rest of the block.

The proud but restrained approach goes for the pizza too -- as well as the service: The genial fellow behind the counter, recognizing our red, sweaty faces as those of people coming off of a jog, offered us a to-go cup of water upon our departure without us having to ask. The regular slice, carefully called the Neapolitan slice on the chalkboard menu, is indeed closer to what one finds in Naples than other New York slices: a thin, toasty crust without too much char, luscious savory-sweet sauce, and just enough cheese to make it, well, pizza -- no strings of mozzarella dripping off. Rizzo's Sicilian slice is what is usually heralded , though, and for good reason. Unlike the oversize, doughy Sicilian pizza found elsewhere, this postcard-sized slice had a thin crust with a carefully placed rectangle of mozzarella placed right in the middle. They're self-conscious about its daintiness -- the non-mirrored wall had a recognizable caricature of the Sicilian pie -- but with good reason, as it's worth coming back for.

We're happy to keep Astoria's best-slice discussion democratic. There's never a real winner in those chats anyway, which is why it makes such constant fodder for about-town publications. But we'll be happy to proffer Rizzo's from here on out.

Price: Normal pizza prices.
Will we go again? Just may be the best slice in Astoria—absolutely.

Tweet (Sparrow, 24-01 29th Street)

2008-05-19T20:41:00.000-07:00

Back in the days when this corner bar at 29th Street and 24th Avenue was Silenus, we never had the nerve to go in, no matter how long the kielbasa line at the Beer Garden across the street would become. But when Silenus was taken over by the owners of the late and lamented Tupelo and converted to Sparrow (the name seems to have been chosen because they could convert the Silenus awning into Sparrow without having to replace it) we had some hope for an alternative.

It seemed inevitable that a bar would thrive in that spot once the Beer Garden started to be overrun by douchey frathouse types, but at first the Sparrow didn't really bother much with food; it was content with the hipster crowd it drew with its divey ad hoc interior and consistently good music (a recent visit we heard Os Mutantes, the Zombies, the Small Faces and the Creation). But they could only let the opportunity their prime location across from Astoria's lone nightlife attraction from non-Queensian provided lay fallow for so long. Out went the ragtag couches, in came some two-tops and a menu heavy with offerings like herb pesto and speck.

The brunch is a welcome change from the standard neighborhood offerings: croissant french toast, juicy "brunch burgers," brioche and egg sandwiches with goat cheese options. Nothing has left us wanting. The staff was kind enough to point out which offerings were too heavy for a sunny Saturday afternoon begging for outdoor activity, and was apologetic on a nighttime visit when they were slammed with an outpouring from the Beer Garden. Those nighttime options are easy on the palate too. We had what was essentially a croque monsieur with cheese and cured ham, and we've also partaken in their simple meat, cheese, and olive plates, which were well priced and with an international selection. The beers and wine are well-chosen, offering no more or less than what you need in a restaurant-bar of this size (Sparrow would comfortably seat about 24) -- no throwaway choices, and nothing ostentatiously esoteric either.

We like it. Really, we do. It's just that in Sparrow, we feel like we're in lower Greenpoint. This isn't a bad thing, but it's not exactly a compliment either. It's designed, priced, and occupied by and for people who aren't entirely dissimilar to us: under-40 imports from other parts of the country who work in semi-creative fields, have cash to blow on brunch every weekend but not enough to nonchalantly assume a Manhattan (or Williamsburg, even) lifestyle, and a certain appreciation of food and music without being too precious about either. We appreciate Sparrow for understanding and catering to our general lifestyle. At the same time, what has made Astoria so dear to us is that it serves as a respite from workaday life replete with, well, under-40 imports from other parts of the country who work in semi-creative fields.

Sparrow has been around long enough, and its owners clearly committed enough to providing well for its clientele, that we're nowhere near eschewing it out of some principle based on "old Astoria" -- we recognize that the neighborhood has shifted over the years, and we're not totally unhappy about that. But the conversation that led us to our first brunch at Sparrow involved the phrase "I'm in the mood for a twee brunch." We know where we'll go -- and be satisfied -- when we're in that mood (we recently did a double-header and had both brunch and dinner there). For other moods, we have a whole neighborhood to choose from. And we often will.

Price: We can't quite remember, so it couldn't have been that expensive.
Will we go again? Our tribe congregates here, and we do have to attend the annual meeting, so yes.

New Moon on Thursday (Luna de Juarez, 25-98 Steinway Street)

2008-05-18T20:44:00.000-07:00

A Mexican restaurant like Luna de Juarez seemed to us to be a bit of a tough sell at first. Not that there's a dearth of folks with an appetite for the cuisine, in Astoria -- 28 percent of the residents self-identify as Hispanic, and many of those are Mexican. But in a part of the neighborhood that's largely Balkan and Middle Eastern, a Mexican place seems oddly out of place (no one is smoking a hookah inside) and its somewhat more upscale offerings (compared with the taquerías that line several avenues south of 30th) make it a would-be destination spot, only it's not centrally located to anything -- it's a bit of a hike from the subway. And when we first walked by, the prominent bar was brightly lit, making it appear more like a sports bar than a date-friendly nook.

But when we went there one Thursday evening, the lights were dimmed, giving the light ochre walls a gentle glow, and it was clear that couples of Astoria had taken to the restaurant -- seven pairs were scattered about, with no families to be found. It wasn't exactly romantic, nor did it evoke the moonlight of Juarez, but everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves, and we followed suit.

The waiter recommended the New York strip steak, but we wanted something a little more...Mexican (the menu also features spaghetti -- we suppose they wanted to cover all bases), so we went with the steak fajita and enchiladas suizas. The enchiladas were made with good Mexican farmer's cheese (not cheddar, thank goodness) and had a mild green tomatillo sauce that was flavorful if not spicy. The fajitas are Tex-Mex, of course, a term that's frequently accompanied by the wrinkled, upturned nose of a foodie. But as a "native foreign food," as termed by noted food writer Waverley Root, it's a legitimate cuisine that can tastily exist outside of Chili's. We didn't expect to find it at a local restaurant in Astoria, but we're glad we did -- the peppers hit the crispy-tender spot that they should, the marinated steak was juicy and flavorful, and it was all encased with lovingly foil-wrapped flour tortillas. (We admit to being a bit disappointed that it didn't arrive sizzling, a la Chili's.)

Our mildly confused waiter bumbling with the menu matched the mood of the restaurant: a bit unsure of its choices, trying to hit the balance between casual-fine dining and down-home service. Like the neighborhood as a whole, Luna de Juarez is in flux between rooted but growing ethnic communities and a sudden surge of diners who want oversized margaritas along with their "authentic" cuisine. The opening and apparent thriving of Mojave near Ditmars, an offshoot of Agave in the West Village, shows that there's room for the latter. Luna de Juarez may be trying to supply a bridge between dining styles that no one was particularly looking to cross, but we wish it the best.

Price: Around $15 for entrees
Will we go again? We immediately said we would—and haven't thought of it since. Maybe.

Stop Licking Your Lips (John's Pizzeria and Restaurant, 23-39 Astoria Boulevard)

2008-05-13T17:36:00.000-07:00

• Pinwheels (pig rolls? Counterperson's enunciation unclear): Mini bird's-nest pizzas the size of a pig's nose
• Counterman not used to waiting on nonregulars; evident in shifty stance and uncomfortable speech pattern (not unfriendly, however)
• Elvis impersonator prominently advertised in front window (a relative of John's?)
• Tables closer in size to card tables than restaurant tables. Sitting across from one another, we felt very far away (purchased in bulk at unclaimed freight auction?)
• Takeout menu full of braggadocio ("100% Satisfaction Guaranteed Stop Licking your Lips Call Now")
• Pizza as per usual

Price: Like every other pizzeria.
Will we go again? Unlikely. Though we do need an Elvis impersonator.

Mexican Food as Authentic Kitsch (Las Margaritas, 38-01 Broadway)

2008-05-09T19:46:00.000-07:00

Laws surrounding New York nightlife confounded us when we first arrived. Instead of being able to put a few songs in the jukebox and dance in the back of our favorite bars like we did in other towns we've lived in, we suddenly had to pay covers to throbbing, exhausting dance clubs that were anything but fun. We're still confused by when it's kosher to BYOB. And it's strangely difficult to find a place that serves actual Mexican food alongside margaritas, unless you count the wave of nuevo Latino places (which we won't, at least not until we visit Mojave on Ditmars). Astoria has no shortage of Mexican restaurants, but so few of them have liquor licenses that what seems to us to be a natural marriage of burritos and margaritas instead becomes a rare prize -- that prize being Las Margaritas.

Las Margaritas seems like the kind of place that towns with few to no actual Mexican residents -- say, Pierre, South Dakota -- would herald as an authentic Mexican restaurant. Flowing pitchers of margaritas, curtains resembling Mexican zarape blankets, the patrons largely devoid of Latin blood, even the name all form the idea of what a Mexican restaurant should be. But where the restaurants in those places fail -- the food -- Las Margaritas holds its own. Which is not to say that it's outstanding: It's not. But like Astoria's gyro joints, the quality of the neighborhood's Mexican food tends to be solid as a result of competition.

Nothing on the menu blew us away, but it was all eagerly devoured. The seafood quesadilla had a light tomato-based sauce that nicely tempered the briny meat. The simple mango-avocado salad, sprinkled with chili powder, was a refreshing antidote to the heavy enchiladas, burritos, and other standard Mexican fare that comprise the bulk of the menu.

We'd visited Luna de Juarez not long before Las Margaritas, and they seemed to be two sides of the same coin. They had similar menus, though Las Margaritas sticks closer to taqueria fare while Luna de Juarez attempts to break out into broader Mexican cuisine too. Luna de Juarez achieves intimacy through small attempts at elegance, while Las Margaritas gets there with dim lighting and an overall darker appeal. But both have a largely non-Latino clientele in a heavily Latino neighborhood, and both please.

Price: Not as cheap as other places, but not a rip-off; entrees between $9 and $18.
Will we go again? We've already made one repeat visit, and there could be more—pass the pitcher, please.

Goya the Greek (Zorba's Souvlaki Plus, 29-05 23rd Avenue)

2008-05-04T20:32:00.000-07:00

In the realm of Greek takeout places in Astoria, Zorba's, in many ways, stands at the other end of the spectrum from Ditmars Gyro Place. Rather than tiled walls and harsh lighting, there's exposed brick (much like Ukus) and an almost genteel outdoor seating area. At the Gyro Place, the TV typically plays foreign soccer matches or Fox News; Zorba's TV was tuned to the Greek equivalent of MTV. The Gyro Place tends to have surly waiters; Zorba's (on our visit, at least) had a jovial waitress. There was even a couple at Zorba's who appeared to be on a date.

But the chief difference is embodied in their names; the Gyro Place highlights gyro meat turning on spits behind the counter; Zorba's Souvlaki Plus gives top billing to its grilled skewers of lamb, chicken and pork. Not that you can't get souvlaki at the former or gyros at the latter; it's just that at the Gyro Palace you won't find lamb souvlaki, for instance. At Zorba's you won't be able to choose from among several different rotating meats.

Admittedly, the casual consumer of Greek fast food wouldn't notice the difference, but when you have committed yourself as we have to eating at all of the myriad gyro restaurants in the neighborhood, you train yourself to spot small differences.

As befit the name, we both ordered lamb souvlaki sandwiches, which were wrapped in fluffy authentic pitas. Zorba's had hummus on its menu -- something you don't often see at Greek places -- so we made the unusual request of having it added to one of our sandwiches. How unusual? We saw one of the kitchen staff smuggle in a few cans of Goya Garbanzo beans shortly after our order was hung. (This made us wonder why we don't make our own hummus, considering this place was whipping it up in two minutes just to fill our order.)

Lamb souvlaki is not for everyone; it can be sinewy at times and takes sharp teeth to enjoy comfortably. Otherwise you end up with a hunk of meat in your mouth that is too large to chew. Softer meats are a safer choice for those unwilling to risk the chance of having to make an unseemly expectoration into a napkin. But the grilled lamb repays the courageous with a succulence lacking in the other choices, and Zorba's does the lamb like it should be done.

Price: No more expensive than any other souvlaki joint. Under $10.
Will we go again? When hungry and on 23rd Avenue, happily. Otherwise, we'll go to one of the four gyro places within the two-block radius of All Astoria Eats HQ.

More Sitting (Bangla Garden; 29-14 36th Avenue)

2008-04-29T09:44:00.001-07:00

We were surprised to discover that this cabbie pit stop, an Indian buffet in the Little Dhaka section of Astoria on 36th Avenue, has a website. The photo is somewhat misleading: the bunch of dudes lounging at a table, looking as though they are in no particular hurry, with the TV playing the Bengali station from Canada in the background (it featured peaceful chanting and singing while we ate), seems very representative. The two women superimposed in the corners -- not so much. And it was not exactly what we would call a "party hall," though we did not investigate the basement. (A sign pointed down a narrow, precipitous stairway: "More Sitting.")

When we arrived at Bangla Garden, it was hardly a party. In fact the restaurant was hardly populated at all, and no one seemed to be working there. Eventually we had to take the initiative to just grab a plate and start piling on food from the buffet urns, which were lined up along the front window. (A man in a baseball cap, who had been sitting at a table watching the chanting, then quickly confirmed that we were doing the right thing, gesturing that we should help ourselves and sit anywhere.) On the buffet, the usual suspects were available: yellow dal, aloo saag, a mixture of green beans and okra, chicken tikka, what looked like chicken makhani, a lamb curry and a goat curry (Why is goat meat so bony? Goats have no more bones than sheep, right?). A side table also had some unappetizing salad (99 percent iceberg lettuce), what may have been rice pudding, and a pitcher of tea.

It didn't look especially appetizing, and it certainly wasn't Jackson Heights caliber, but it was quite good, when we finally settled in to eat. The spinach selections in particular were flavorful, though we wish the buffet had naan available to help us soak up the last of the sauces in the saag (and other) dishes. The most frequent complaint with Indian food is that it's oily and heavy; this was heavy enough to fill us up but skipped the layer of orange grease that came with our last order of Astoria Indian food.

For the apparent number of people from Bangladesh and India that now live in Astoria, you'd think that the neighborhood would boast better cuisine from the region -- and you would be wrong. Other place in the neighborhood are known to us as "the really bad place," "the place I will go to if pressed," etc. Bangla Garden is, if nothing else, a relief.

Price: Under $10 for all you can eat. You do the math.
Will we go again? It's among the only reasonable Indian food options in the hood. Do we have much of a choice?

Club Med: 30th Avenue (Grand Café; 37-01 30th Avenue)

2008-04-22T20:10:00.000-07:00

We had always been somewhat intimidated by Astoria's innumerable Euro-style cafes, where the emphasis seems to be more on supplying patrons with a table on the sidewalk at which to relax and drink iced coffee than anything having to do with food. To be sitting squinting in the sun amid bus exhaust and gawking passersby isn't our idea of an appealing way to fritter away an afternoon, and moreover, the culture at these places seemed to us insular and inhospitable. If you aren't of Mediterranean extraction, or aren't to the manner of al fresco lounging born, then you are likely to stick out and feel alienated at these cafes, waiting for some insight into their appeal that never comes.

We were so generally freaked out by the Euro cafes that we considered crafting a loophole that would exempt them from our campaign, but we decided that this would be against the spirit of the mission. After all, we would grossly distort the nature of the neighborhood if we left them out. So on the first warm day of the year, we thought we would ease into the scene with a brunch at Grand Café, a recent addition and seemingly one of the more approachable of the places. The interior was dark and vast. Behind the bar, at which little red-velvet ottomans were lined up in lieu of bar stools, was an enormous aquarium with tropical fish. The thumping music was a little nightclubby for brunchtime, but the early-afternoon baseball on the big flat-screen TVs mitigated the Euro vibe.

After a brief, disorienting moment, we were seated in a liminal space at the edge of the interior, next to a retractable wall that opened out onto the sidewalk. We were close enough to feel a breeze and believe we were part of café society, but not close enough to be choking on fumes and the stares of bystanders. To our delight, we were immediately brought water, in a corked liter bottle that the busser pulled out from his apron, and better still, mini-muffins, surprisingly moist and warm, albeit a little greasy. And different flavors too -- some were raisin bran, some were apple, some blueberry. The coffee, when it came, was served with a chocolate-filled rolled wafer, a welcome touch that left a positive impression well out of proportion with what it probably cost them.

We ordered eggs benedict -- a good brunch benchmark -- and the caprese frittata. The eggs benedict were what you'd want, well poached and not overly slathered with Hollandaise, and more important, they were brought promptly. The frittata was mostly indistinguishable from the omelet we ordered on a subsequent visit, which was indistinguishable from slightly overcooked scrambled eggs with various items thrown in. But to find an actual omelet or an actual frittata in most places (Astoria and elsewhere) is a high order -- the dish tasted good and was served with a mesclun salad that was more generous than it needed to be to please us.

So there was nothing to be afraid of after all. The truth is, the prevalence of the cafes makes them extremely competitive, meaning the service is attentive even if the food is not particularly distinctive. Sitting amid the Euros, we felt a little as though we had gone on vacation and were making the best of a resort amenity. Reclining in our semi-chaise longues, we felt like we had finally arrived.

Price: Good value for brunch, $10 per person.
Will we go again? Currently tied with Cronin & Phelan for repeat visits. We often have to remind ourselves there are other brunch options, because this place is just so easy.

Mama Paparazzi (Paparazzi Cafe, 40-17 30th Avenue)

2008-04-16T14:33:00.000-07:00

Paparazzi Cafe is case in point as to why we embarked on our mighty (dare we say noble?) mission to eat at every restaurant in Astoria. We've been conspicuously avoiding the many cafés lining 30th Avenue, expecting the wilted salads and half-hearted sandwiches meant only to stave off caffeine jitters that the denizens of these espresso hangouts undoubtedly acquire. And Paparazzi Cafe, from the outside, seemed to be the worst of the worst. It heralds itself with tacky plastic blue pop-out lettering. It's on the same block as another unpromising cafe, Vibe. It's called Paparazzi Cafe, as if you were supposed to pretend minor royalty or a Spears sister were going to wander in at any moment. We figured we'd go there for brunch (how hard is it to mess up eggs?) and cross it off the list. It couldn't be any worse than Time Cafe, right?

Once inside, we immediately knew we'd misjudged. For one, the menus read, "Paparazzi Cafe, soon to be Mama Salsa." The smiling waitress greeted us eagerly -- we were the only patrons in the place, as the other two people there were hanging out at the bar as employees waiting to go on shift frequently do -- and the brunch-time sunlight was streaming in, highlighting the geometric light on the walls and plants rooted in vases layered with what appeared to be seeds and beans. This wasn't a Greek frappe joint; this was a Colombian restaurant in a transition that we hope is less precarious than it appears.

The waitress quickly brought us two mugs of lightly frothed cafe con leche, then left us to peruse the menu. We were there for brunch, though it seems that Mama Salsa does a proper breakfast, and the dinner offerings were more extensive than the short but complete morning fare. In an effort to not meat-load as we did at Tierras Colombianas, one of us ordered the scrambled eggs with tomatoes and scallions; the other went for the full plato tipico of rice and beans, chorizo, and steak topped with the obligatory egg. Both were served with an arepa, which appeared to be formed by hand, topped with melted cheese.

And both were delicious. The red beans and rice seemed to have been prepared with a meaty stock of some sort and were seasoned with a spice melange that was unidentifiable but beautifully rounded, elevating the staple and making us wish more restaurants followed Mama's lead. The egg dish, which could have been carelessly prepared and still satisfied us, was fluffy without skimping on the veggies. The chorizo was spicy but heralded no gastronomic troubles, and when you get steak with breakfast for under $10, we're always delighted.

The improbability of the whole experience endeared the Paparazzi Cafe to us perhaps more than it would on the basis of the food alone, but the food alone certainly makes it worth a visit. Add in the absence of a crowd and a genuinely friendly service, and it becomes an excellent brunching option in a neighborhood full of them.

Price: It was a good deal.
Will we go again? We wish we could, but it's now closed, and the Mama Salsa renovation plan has given way to a French cafe.

Way to Blue (Blue Restaurant, 40-09 30th Avenue)

2008-04-04T08:55:00.000-07:00

Since we started this project, we had been reluctant to try the Blue Restaurant (aka Blue Coffee Shop, if you go by its arrow-laden billboard on the corner of 30th Avenue and Steinway). The color blue isn't something we associate with food -- at least food that's not rotting. And most times when we've walked past, it seemed dismal inside, like the proprietors had lost hope in the notion that sprucing things up would make any difference. And we didn't believe for a second the sign in the window that claimed Blue Restaurant had "Largest selection of food in area."

But one morning, we ventured over to the Mini Star on Steinway for breakfast and it was packed. The elderly couple waiting for a table in front of us were looking at each other with dread and resignation. We knew what they were thinking, because we were thinking it too. Sure enough, we found ourselves trailing them over to Blue.

As you'd expect, much of the décor of Blue Restaurant is blue: blue walls, blue seat padding in the booths, blue plastic cups, blue-patterned plates. And it was pretty dismal: like a sad bachelor apartment that had been inhabited by the same lonely guy too long. The paint job was faded, there were splotches of spackle here and there, and the drop-ceiling tiles were still nicotine stained from the time you could smoke in restaurants. The decorations were also slightly off -- prominent were the posters of 1950s icons collaged together clumsily in generic scenes: Elvis, Marilyn, and Bogie carousing at the pool hall, for example. (What gives? Can someone's nostalgia really become so indiscriminate that they're content to lump all their memories together in one incoherent tableau?)

Most bizarre, though, was the flat-screen TV displaying a loop of digital photos of some of Blue Restaurant's offerings, randomly chosen and indifferently styled -- just plates of food photographed in bad, yellowy light: There's a gyro sandwich. There's a cheeseburger. There's some scrambled eggs. And there's a Cobb salad (Cabb Salad on the menu). The photos are weirdly mesmerizing though, and once the entire group had been cycled through, each image would then be tiled across the screen, as if to overwhelm you with their allure through sheer multiplication. You thought that tuna melt looked good? What about 32 tuna melts?

The menu, which was set entirely in Comic Sans, had some quirks; the Wraps sections featured nine options: Blue 1, Blue 2, Blue 3, etc. (Sadly, Blue 7 was not conceived as a tribute to Sonny Rollins.) But as we suspected, it was not the largest selection of food in the area. In fact, it was a lot like the selection available at any diner, but scaled back. Rumor has it that there is a secret "taco menu" available on request, and Blue's takeout menu suggests that the place also masquerades on certain occasions as a restaurant called Taqueria Mango. Why the secrecy? We can't even hazard a guess, nor have we decided if we will need to revisit Blue Restaurant in its Mexican guise.

But no matter how odd Blue Restaurant is -- and it is decidedly odd -- it remains an altogether suitable place to get breakfast. Service was prompt and friendly, and our (blue) coffee cups and (blue) water glasses were kept filled. The broccoli-bacon omelet was overcooked, but that's par for the course at any diner, barring ones that are more "eatery" than "diner." The over-easy eggs were prepared competently, the bacon crisp but not overdone, and the chunky, orangey home fries were adequate, cooked with onions, paprika, and maybe a hint of green pepper.

So there was nothing really to be afraid of, after all, which makes us wonder why Mini Star is always so crowded and Blue is consigned to its spillover. Maybe it really is all about location.

Price: Diner prices. Not as cheap as Mini Star.
Will we go again? It's not that we wouldn't. It's more, Why would we?

Paul Bunyano (Tierras Colombianas, 33-01 Broadway)

2008-04-04T08:33:00.000-07:00

We thought we were hungry when we ventured to this Colombian restaurant late on a Saturday night, but then our food came. Keeping things simple, we ordered the first two entrees listed on the menu, the bandeja campesina (the country plate) and the bandeja montañera (the mountain plate). We were warned about the mountain plate's dried shredded beef -- not to be confused with a steak -- but we were undeterred.

For around $12 each, we got steak (shredded or solid) topped with a fried egg, rice, pinto beans, fried plantains, and a chicharrón, basically a huge hunk of fried pork -- think of it as a really thick piece of bacon, or a pork rind for Paul Bunyan. These were meals, no doubt about it, served with astounding promptness, as if they had a stack of grilled steaks in the back, waiting to be ordered. Maybe anyone with any sense who patronizes the place gets what we ordered, so it's always kept ready. (Or maybe it was because the place was about to close for the night, which we hadn't realized.)

Though everything we were brought was appetizing, there was no way we were eating it all, and hacking away at our mega-pork rinds, we wondered if overabundance was meant to be part of the experience. The shredded beef worked well, especially when the yolk spilled from the egg, binding the meat with the rice and beans in a delicious protein-packed mélange. The hammered steak of the country plate, though less exotic, was just as successful (and just as filling -- it came with an avocado wedge, which sadly went untouched in the midst of all the other food).

Tierras Colombianas tends to be mentioned by non-Astorians as being among the pantheon of neighborhood restaurants that are worth crossing the river for. And it is, don't get us wrong, but foodies seeking transporting cuisine may want to go elsewhere. The food is exactly as it should be, but don't come expecting perfect seasoning and tip-top preparation, or even the down-market ambiance that adventure eaters look for. It's not really a dive, not a place where you just sit and stuff your face, and it lacks much substance for sustaining a hearty Anglo ethnocentrism. ("My, isn't it quaint how these ethnic people eat? I believe I understand these Colombians now.") You sit yourself down at one of the pastel diner-like booths, you pick at that has come from the country and the mountain, you look around at the bustle -- whenever we've walked by, the patrons seem nearly manic with meaty delight, as opposed to stuporous after all that food -- and you eat, unadventurously but with earnest satisfaction.

Price: Cheap for what you get. Entrees are around $10.
Will we go again? We're still too full from last time, but could be persuaded.

Strip Mall Parmigiana (Porto Bello, 43-18 Ditmars Boulevard)

2008-04-03T19:55:00.000-07:00

It likely would have taken us a lot longer to discover Porto Bello (the Pretty Door?) were it not for Leo, the diminutive Italian barber on 21st Avenue that one of us goes to now and then for a haircut. Leo has been practicing his trade in Astoria since well before either of us were born, back when the neighborhood was much more Italian than it is now. Figuring he'd be able to sort out which was the best of the many old-school Italian restaurants in the area, we asked him what his favorite Italian restaurant was. He recommended not one of the storied (and possibly mobbed up) places, but Porto Bello, a relatively new restaurant in the shopping center on Ditmars at 48th street.

It's not what we would have expected. Because it's in a strip mall and has a parking lot, Porto Bello is like something out of suburbia, the kind of run-of-the-mill pizza restaurant you'd find in any small town as a staple option. It would be easy to lump Porto Bello (Port-O-Bello on the shopping center's sign) in with those often-unimaginative places and expect mediocrity. Perhaps aware of this, though, it seems to work harder, making none of the little mistakes that can creep in when expectations are low.

Porto Bello is larger than you'd expect inside, and this helps make it seem like more than a glorified pizzeria. The uniformed waiters help too, though ours -- lumbering, bulky, and brusque, yet not at all incompetent -- seemed like a moonlighting high-school football player. We asked for recommendations, as usual, and he was a little too generous, naming so many different dishes that he may as well have used the time-honored cop-out and said, "They are all good."

But that said, everything we tried was good. How Porto Bello executed the typically humdrum chicken parmigiana was indicative. There was nothing adventurous about it; it was just well done. The dish was made not from a prebreaded cutlet but instead a chicken breast lightly coated with a fresh layer of peppery bread crumbs, supplying texture without giving the grease somewhere to collect when the meat was fried. Mozzarella cheese was not piled on indiscriminately, but was applied with a knowing artistry, to complement rather than overwhelm. The marinara sauce was rich and flavorful without being too acidic, sweet or lumpy. And the pasta was properly cooked; it wasn't limp or waterlogged, and the portion was not wasteful. All and all, an unimaginative plate of comfort food was made entirely respectable. Our pasta dish, the Rigatoni Fiorentina (Porto Bello's most popular entree), was similarly pleasing. Tender chicken, spinach, and mozzarella in a creamy pink sauce, much like a vodka sauce (we can't be sure if there was any Finlandia action happening backstage), was perfectly sweet-savory, and filling without being belly-achingly heavy.

With Astoria's depleted Italian contingent, it's easy to stick to the standbys: Trattoria l'Incontro, Piccolo Venezia, and the like. But Porto Bello shows that a restaurant doesn't have to have known the neighborhood way back when to get it right.

Price: Reasonable. Good value for quality.
Will we go again? Yes, and we'll feel smug the whole time that we're getting a good meal in a strip mall.

Mag Loading, Family Style (The Original Stamatis Restaurant, 29-12 23rd Avenue)

2008-04-01T18:41:00.000-07:00

Where we grew up, family restaurant meant Perkins, Friendly's, Bob Evans. Parents could bring in the kids, there would be something on the menu for everyone, the tab would be reasonable, and the staff wouldn't blink twice when six-year-olds would slither under the table or toddlers would toddle into the aisles. (At least they kept their annoyance behind the swinging doors, rather.) But had we grown up Greek in Astoria, "family restaurant" would likely mean Stamatis.

Toddlers, six-year-olds, grandparents, birthdays, nonplussed staffers, big portions were all a part of Stamatis when we visited on a recent Friday night. (Note: The official name of this place is The Original Stamatis Restaurant; apparently it is not affiliated with the Stamatis on Broadway, and it may not meet a technical requirement for "original," as it recently relocated from across the street.) We didn't feel out of place at Stamatis as adults, and neither did we feel as though our waiter had more important things to tend to (e.g. six-year-olds). If anything, we felt, for this night at least, we were part of the scene, the backdrop to somebody or other's birthday dinner. We didn't belong to the celebration, but we felt like a part of the larger community simply by sharing the vast dining-hall-like space.

The food is dining-hall-like too, which is not to say it was bad, just plain and handled well. Staight-up Greek cuisine like you find in Astoria isn't especially known for delicacy or intricacy, and Stamatis isn't out to break the mold. We started with octopus, spurred by a Harold McGee piece detailing the difficulty of preparing this cephalopod without rendering it fibrous and rubbery. Stamatis accomplished this, though the octopus managed to be mealy instead, hopscotching from one undesireable texture to another. The saganaki was saganaki -- you can't really go that wrong with fried cheese -- in this case feta. The entrees fared better: The waiter suggested the lamb chops, and we happily ordered them with no regrets. Rich, moist, meaty -- what a chop should be, with just enough crispy fat around the edges to make them worth picking up with our hands. We were surprised by the complimentary honey-drenched semolina cakes, mealy in the right way this time and serving as a perfectly weighted sweet to a full dinner, putting us to bed for sweet dreams.

Which leads us to mag loading. We'd heard that ingesting large amounts of magnesium before bedtime leads to fantastically bizarre dreams. One of us had been having a disappointing streak of "administrative dreams" (checking in with coworkers on routine matters, computer problems, etc., with nary a matter-of-fact talking cat or ascendancy on a golden rope to the palace of the gods to be found), and the other rarely remembers any dreams at all, so we decided to give it a shot. Before going to Stamatis, we took the RDA for magnesium -- 400 mg -- then took another dose during the meal, one immediately following, and two more doses before retiring, so 2,000 mg in seven hours.

We'd been hoping for more intense dreams, ones that simultaneously entertain, illuminate, and elevate us to that plane of unguarded consciousness that only seems accessible in slumber. Instead, we both had flipbook dreams -- a series of moments without any narrative, not even one as incoherent as "and then John Oates and I went target-shooting for some reason...." For those who might want to try this at home, note that magnesium induces both deep relaxation (it's a good thing the host seated the two of us at a four-top, as at one point we were practically draped over the tables) and some digestive difficulties. So we're not going to blame them entirely on Stamatis, a restaurant that we probably won't dream about either.

Price: Like many Greek places, seems more expensive than it should be. Over $15 minimum for entrees.
Will we go again? The cruel irony of us undertaking this task is that neither of us really loves Greek food. Probably not. We have to go to the other restaurants named Stamatis.

Short Ordered (Tastee Corner, 30-20 30th Avenue)

2008-04-01T18:34:00.000-07:00

Let's just acknowledge up-front that we hate cute spellings. We hate mad skillz, kountry korners, and anything kwik. Ye olde shoppes somehow fail to impress us as quaint or nostalgic. Grrrls gets a pass, barely, because it can sound onomatopoeically fierce if pronounced gutturally, but that's about it. So the Tastee Corner was handicapped from the get-go, but we do our best to not hold poor nomenclature against food and service.

The Tastee Corner -- it hurts just to type it -- doesn't have to do much more than be serviceable to meet the expectations of its diners, though, and it did just that. It's located just below the 30th Avenue subway stop, so it's a convenient spot both for eaters catching a bite before going into the city, and for those sitting by the window to people-watch. We were there at prime breakfast/brunch time -- noon on a Saturday -- so we weren't surprised by the crowd. But we also know that Astorian diners aren't hoodwinked into patronizing substandard places merely for convenience -- the rapid succession of shoddy restaurants occupying 30th Street and 30th Avenue, just a short block away from the same subway stop, points to this. (The new 7-11 in the spot put an end to the corner's dining mediocrity, ushering in its own particular brand of unwanted crap.)

Don't get us wrong: It's not that Tastee Corner is some sort of quiet treasure, whispered about by possessive locals as the best diner in Astoria. One of us ordered bacon, eggs over easy, and toast; the other got a tuna melt. The only remarkable thing about either was the harried attempt to dress up the tuna melt with a spring of parsley, which looked ridiculous on the barren plate too big for a mere sandwich.

But you don't go to the corner diner for anything other than bacon, eggs, and a tuna melt, so who cares? The service was efficient, our water glasses never went more than half-empty, and the bill was cheap. Combine that with enough staffers to keep morning-commute crowds ankle-deep in coffee without creating a long line, and you've got yourself a corner diner worthy enough of its name, even if it's spelled ridiculously.

Price: Like other diners.
Will we go again? No compelling reason to. But everyone's really friendly there.

Locker-Room Lamb (Ditmars Gyro Place, 33-01 Ditmars Boulevard)

2008-03-16T19:51:00.000-07:00

It may have been an effort to compensate, but in mid-March, the desultory Valentine's Day decorations were still hanging up in what has to be in the running for the least romantic restaurant in Astoria. Ditmars Gyro Place has all the ambiance of a locker room: the bathroom-tile walls, the bright fluorescent lighting, the muscular dudes loitering around with a vaguely menacing attitude. Even the cards with big numbers printed on them that were stuck in wire stands on each table suggested the impersonality of the gym. (The purpose of this numbering system remained entirely opaque, but maybe it helped out the waiter, who seemed responsible for all the dozen or so tables.)

But despite the antiseptic air, the place remained busy for the duration of our visit, after eight on a Sunday evening when most everywhere else in the neighborhood is dead. So they must be doing something right. And it's not like they are without competition; gyro and souvlaki places are everywhere. But in some ways, this is almost a guarantor of quality: To survive amid all the other Greek takeout places, a restaurant has to do at least a reasonably good job, and Ditmars Gyro Place clears that hurdle by a far stretch.

Gyro sandwiches are sort of Astoria's equivalent of the Philly cheesesteak. You can get gyros in just about any neighborhood, but outside of Astoria, they tend to suck, and for the same reasons cheesesteaks suck anywhere outside of the greater Philadelphia area. The bread has to be just right -- Amoroso rolls in the case of steaks; the thick, fluffy pocketless pitas for gyros -- and the meat needs to be sliced and prepared properly. It's not rocket science, but only in neighborhoods where a lot of pride is taken in the local staple will restaurateurs bother to make the cherished cuisine correctly.

Ditmars Gyro Place definitely did things right. As far as rotating meats go, they were taking no chances, with three different kinds spinning on their spits. The cubes of chicken in the souvlaki sandwich were moist without being chewy, and one could bite through them without having to wrestle with the pita and make a mess of things. The combination gyro, ordered at the suggestion of the waiter when we couldn't decide between lamb and beef, was made moist not by tzatziki but by slow, careful roasting of the meat. And to top it all off, $3 bottles of Mythos, a bargain for the not-bad Greek lager.

We know we have many gyros to come, and we expect them to all be pretty reliably satisfying. The similarity may tempt us into worrying about peripheral things -- the atmosphere, the demeanor of the cooks, whether our pronunciation of gyro gets corrected. But our experience at Ditmars Gyro Place should serve to remind us that gyros sell themselves. We need not worry about the window dressing too much with these places; instead we should think only of the meat and the pita, and enjoy the small miracle of the combination of the two.

Update (8/10/08): This restaurant may have improbably renamed itself "Aphrodite Cafe."

Price: Like other gyro places. Cheap.
Will we go again? Perhaps, but we have 487 other gyro joints to work our way through, so it'll be a while.

Tea for Two (Himalaya Teahouse, 33-17 31st Avenue)

2008-03-16T19:47:00.000-07:00

We were both under the weather and were in the mood for maybe a restorative tea and some good hot broth. It seemed a tall order to find these both at the same restaurant, until we remembered the Himalaya Teahouse on 31st Avenue, which seems to exist to expressly cater to such a combination as we desired. Quaintly decorated outside with bamboo where you'll often find aluminum siding, the tea house inside is spare, with a few rugs hanging on the walls, which are painted a solid, soothing blue.

On the afternoon we visited, the teahouse was a two-woman operation, one cooking and one preparing the teas and waiting on the tables. This didn't make for the most efficient arrangement, but it certainly made things feel homey, and there weren't enough patrons in the restaurant for anyone to become truly neglected. The tea selection, as one would expect, is elaborate -- and the menu copy is full of inexplicable names for the teas but mercifully light on mystical mumbo jumbo.

To eat, we had thukpa, which was the yearned-for broth with what appeared to be hand-shaved noodles and boiled beef (we had ordered chicken, but alas), and momos, which are tasty Tibetan dumplings, also in broth. We may have found these a little bland under normal circumstances, but (a) the food of the Himalayas is meant to fortify, not enchant, and (b) we couldn't taste much through the late-winter cold plaguing our sinuses. What the food was lacking in pep, it made up for in delicacy, a feat considering we were eating beef with noodles and dumplings.

Where Himalaya Teahouse shines, unsurprisingly, is the teas. One of us was further along in our shared viral infection than the other, prompting one order of the Black Velvet, a mint-licorice tea that's supposed to encourage recuperation; the sicker one between us went with Fellini's Folly, a rooibos-mint blend designed for those in the thick of a cold. Andrew Weill and the FDA can battle it out as to whether the teas actually helped us recuperate, but they tasted good regardless of their health benefits. (What the "Really Goethe" lemon myrtle-jasmine-gunpowder blend is supposed to do, we have no idea, but we're not up on our Sturm und Drang.)

We've seen the restaurant floated on Astoria message boards as a late-night hangout, as they serve a handful of international beers and wines. We understand the impulse to have a beer in a setting other than a bar, but we can't imagine coming here to kick back a brewski. Forgive us for painting the Himalaya Teahouse in shades of Orientalism, but we prefer to come here for a sense of calm, a pot of Fellini's Folly, and the best momos in town.

Price: Under $12 for food. Around $5 for pots of tea.
Will we go again? Where else would we get our momo fix? Yes, especially when befallen with illness.

Dining With Client Nine (Arcos Churasqueira, 33-05 Broadway)

2008-03-13T13:23:00.000-07:00

The ambiance of Arcos (the only Portuguese restaurant in Astoria we know of, so we are rooting for its success) is a bit of a puzzle. The white-linen tablecloths and relatively subdued lighting suggest austere formality, an impression our gracious waiter -- an elderly man with halting English -- quaintly reinforced. But at the same time, the television above the bar was flickering with the latest updates of the Spitzer scandal on CNN. Fortunately, we were too pleasantly engrossed with the delicious bread (Portuguese rolls with an herbed olive oil to dip them in) and the wine -- from the list of mostly Portuguese wines -- to have our meal spoiled by prostitution and hypocrisy.

The waiter wished he could recommend his favorite entree, porco à alentejana (pork cubes and clams), but it wasn't available, so we ordered the comparable dish that subbed in shrimp instead, along with steak prepared the Portuguese way -- with a slice of ham and a fried egg on top, all covered with a rich brown gravy. Both dishes came with some strips of carrot and broccoli florets, and fresh-made thin-sliced potato chips, which were right in the sweet spot between too crisp (which would have made them into Utz) and undercooked (which would have made them into scalloped potatoes).

The steak was everything we hoped for, a decadent protein bomb with a megaton of meaty flavor. The pork-shrimp dish, with chunks of meat suspended in a delectable herbed sauce (we have no idea what was in it, and didn't need to), was nearly stew-like in its hearty simplicity.

Plenty of places in Astoria offer a sort of charmed slice of the old country -- which country that is depends on which street you're on. We've happily dined at many of these restaurants and will again. But the overload of, say, Greek and Italian establishments means that, while their overall quality is high thanks to the intensity of competition, it can also be difficult to find a true standout. For every person who swears by the joint on Ditmars, there's someone on 28th claiming that his little Greek place is the best in the neighborhood. Maybe our naivete concerning the food of Portugal means that we've been snookered by a restaurant that would be considered mediocre at best were there more competition. We don't think that's the case -- but if it were, would it matter?

Arcos' owner-chef made it to our table to make a personal greeting, which was sweet, if slightly awkward. You can't help but feel slightly on the spot, and in a restaurant that seems unjustifiably empty far too often, the temptation is strong to want to go overboard with reassurances. We couldn't help but be wildly effusive in our praise, but we were sincere in almost everything we told him.

Price: $15 to $25 for entree. Well worth it.
Will we go again? One of our most delightful discoveries. Looking forward to repeat visits.

Mighty Marinara (Sac's Place, 25-41 Broadway)

2008-03-12T18:55:00.000-07:00

There are at least a dozen restaurants in Astoria that likely qualify as somebody's neighborhood Italian restaurant. Sac's became that for us. We would go in biweekly for a slice at the attached pizzeria that peeks into the main dining room, and for actual dinners, on special occasions. (Sac's is reasonably priced, with most entrees in the upper teens, but felt less so in our younger, more cash-strapped days.) We'd never met either of the Sacramonte brothers, the proprietors of the establishment, but when we brought our non-New Yorker family in for a taste of "real New York Italian," one of them came over to greet us, saying it was a pleasure to see a pizza regular come in for a real meal. During the blackout of 2003, Sac's became everybody's neighborhood Italian restaurant -- it was the only place around that served food not powered by electricity -- and we joined the line ringing the block to get a slice from the coal-fired oven.

Still, we do our best to not let our fond personal memories stand in the way of the culinary truth, so bearing the sanctity of our mission in mind, we entered Sac's with a clean slate -- and the restaurant made it easy for us to stay true. The staff was low-key, accommodating, and efficient; the lighting appropriate for both a date and family night; the grapevine mural decorating the walls corny but appealing. The bread basket, which could easily have been filled with a perfunctory ciabatta, contained instead what appeared to be the yeasty, olive-oil-based focaccia that serves as a base for their delicious Sicilian slice. That's less a perfunctory gesture than a pre-meal meal.

For our money Sac's pizza is the best in the neighborhood, though we're open to changing that depending on what the every-restaurant-in-Astoria mission yields. But as we've pretty much exhausted the pizza menu, on this night, we ordered entrees. (Note also that ordering pizza by the pie is pricier than it should be.) Sac's is rightfully known for its medium-bodied, flavorful marinara -- reportedly seasoned with herbs grown on the owners' rooftops -- and the spinach ravioli showcases it well. Stuffed with fluffy ricotta, the ravioli, with its stripes of spinach dough, managed to be both light and substantial. The pollo rollatini was another success, with spinach and mozzarella carefully tucked into moist, tender chicken rolled into a dense and delicious cylindrical package.

Everything we ate was a success, actually, and Sac's can easily veer into excellence. We admit, though, that we sometimes wish there were more quirk at play. We'd love for them to surprise us with a wild choice on the menu, for the staff to show a bit more personality, for the Monday-night jazz trio to veer away from standards.

But asking for this would be like asking your grocery store to pipe in John Zorn instead of E.L.O. just to suit your taste: Unconventional is not what Sac's is after, nor should it be. A neighborhood place depends on reliability, not caprice. So we'll bask in Sac's success, marinara-dipped slice in hand, and be thankful.

Price: A little expensive relative to other Italian places for entrees and pies; slices are competitive with others.
Will we go again? It was our regular pizzeria before beginning this mission, and there's no reason to change that.

At the Lost Table (Time Cafe, 44-18 Broadway)

2008-03-04T06:41:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it happens: You become the Lost Table. You don't get menus; you don't get water; your beverage order isn't taken. Patrons who came in after you are served promptly while you languish, forgotten. Surrounding tables get water and coffee refills while you stare into space, dehydrated, wondering what you did to piss everybody off. Does the waiter not know you're there? Did the hostess neglect to inform the staff of your presence? Does every server assume another staffer is responsible for you? Whatever the reason for the neglect, once you're finally noticed, your server realizes she has no incentive to rectify the wrongs already perpetrated. In her mind, the tip cannot be salvaged, so she continues to ignore you, giving her attention to the Favored Tables.

At Time Cafe, we were the Lost Table. We went in for brunch, expecting a pleasant experience, based on this errant post from the usually reliable Joey in Astoria. The smooth jazz -- playing not over the radio but through a digital cable music-on-demand channel -- was the first sign of trouble, but we persevered. And waited.

And waited.

We're easy customers. Actually, on the walk over to Time Cafe, one of us mused aloud whether we were too easily pleased -- of all the restaurants we've visited on our mission to eat at every restaurant in Astoria, there's only one we've given a blatant thumbs-down (El Olivo). Were we not discriminating enough? Were we passive diners, willing to excuse lackadaisical service and mediocre food to allow for a cheerful experience? Are we too pleasant for our own good?

At Time Cafe, our easygoing disposition was exposed for the liability it can be. We continued to be ignored while the tables around us were getting the mini-muffins promised on the brunch menu (not that we found out about this perk until later -- it took 15 minutes for us to get menus, which only happened after we flagged down the waitress). But codependent diners that we were, rather than get indignant, we wondered what we had done to deserve this.

When we finally did order, it took an unreasonable amount of time for the food to arrive -- by this time we were resigned to our fate -- and when it did come it was clear it had been sitting a while under the heat lamp. The mushroom-pepper-fontina frittata was serviceable, in the way that anything coated with a layer of cheese would be. But the only thing scrambled in the sausage and egg "skillet scramble" was a wasteful pile of at least a half-dozen eggs, served alongside three brown-and-serve sausage links. And nary a mini-muffin in sight.

Time Cafe helped us break the cycle: At just the point when we wondered if our enjoyable dining experiences in Astoria were authentic, Time Cafe stepped in to show us that it's not us, it's them. We entered this relationship with the restaurants of Astoria not out of a desire to inhale food mindlessly, but because, by and large, our local establishments are pretty good.

Time Cafe is not.

Price: Can't put a price tag on awful.
Will we go again? Answering this dignifies the question.

Among the Autopaparazzi (Koliba, 31-11 23rd Avenue)

2008-03-04T06:25:00.000-08:00

We had all but given up. We were actually walking away from the restaurant down 23rd Avenue when we heard the stern Germanic voice of the hostess call out to us: "You, you." She had run out into the cold February night to retrieve us. "You want to eat." It was more a command than a question, and we felt that we had no choice but to go back inside, even though it was crowded and chaotic in the Czech restaurant and, given our problems with the service in the past (they can be slow to get to the non-Czechs and non-Slovaks), we had no reason to expect we'd ever be waited on once we were seated.

We were glad we went back in though. Yes, Koliba, which features a vaguely chalet-like décor that's highly suitable for wintry nights, was packed full, with a curious mix of Eastern European locals -- the sort who were glued to the hockey game on the TV -- and a rowdy bunch of autopaparazzi theatricals gathered for a birthday party, who took more pictures of themselves that evening than we had on a weeklong vacation by an exponential margin. And we were seated mere centimeters away at a two-top next to a group of out-of-towners, two couples who seemed very Long Islandish. During one rare lull in the hullaballoo inside, one man asked the other, "So how's the car running?"

None of this spoiled what turned out to be an excellent, extremely filling meal. Quickly, we were brought drinks -- Czech beers on tap; Krušovice, BrouCzech. When we asked our waitress what she recommended among the entrees, she looked puzzled and said, "It is all good." We have a general policy of asking servers this question and have found that generalized answers ("It's all good," "Depends on what you like," or simply reciting half the menu) yield lesser meals than places when the server has a ready answer. But this wasn't the case here. We could tell she honestly didn't get why we'd bother asking when everything they had was delicious.

After some coaxing, she finally made some specific suggestions: the roast duck on a bed of red cabbage, plus pork schnitzel with potato-pancake batter. The duck was flavorful and incredibly moist and tender without being too fatty, as duck can be. Neither of us are fans of cabbage, but we still managed to down most of the mound piled on the plate -- no idea what they did to make it taste good, but it worked. Our schnitzel was as hearty as one would expect, but more important, it was done right. Schnitzel in this country can easily be disappointing, relying on the fail-safe of frying to make it taste good. Koliba's version was done with knowledgeable care. Both entrees were accompanied by knedliky, the quintessentially Czech sponge-bread dumplings. (For those eager to play at home, advertised in the foyer was a factory in Chicago from which one could order knedliky. "This is for everyone. Do not remove" was handwritten across the ad, which was printed off of a website.)

Koliba is more than a match for its cross-neighborhood rival, Zlata Praha. Rumor has it that Koliba was formed by a rogue breakaway chef from Zlata Praha, sort of the way Roger Williams founded Rhode Island after being exiled from the Massachusetts colony. The restaurants offer rival venison feasts in early February; sadly we missed them at both venues.

We dined with a miniature sheepskin rug hanging at eye level next to our table, and the ersatz brauhaus roof over the bar was littered with an array of giant stuffed Easter bunnies. Frankly, we're suckers for a eccentric ambiance, and the bunnies alone would have been enough to bring us back. But what we especially appreciated about Koliba was that this sort of thing wasn't odd at all to the its regulars, and this lent the restaurant a quaint familiarity even to those of us who are clearly outsiders. Koliba's patrons come for the food. And so will we.

Price:Between $15 and $20 for entrees.
Will we go again? We're already looking forward to the dueling Venison Fest with Zlata Praha. Otherwise, for deep comfort-food needs only.

A Circle in a Spiral (Wave Thai, 21-37 31st Street)

2008-02-12T12:54:00.000-08:00

For a time, there were no Thai restaurants in the area near the Ditmars stop (unless you count Bangkok Tasty, which may not meet the table-and-chairs requirement for consideration in this project). Then, suddenly, as if in compliance with antitrust ordinances, there were two -- separated on 31st Street by only a laundromat and an ABC Superstore. Wave is the closer of the two to the subway stop, with what looks to be some sort of postmodern bull's-eye over the window. (Down the street is Thai Elephant, which isn't trying nearly as hard.)

Each Thai place in Astoria tries to put its own distinct twist on accommodating the neighborhood's seemingly ever-expansive demand for the cuisine. Thai Pavilion is known for quirky Thai in an oddly formal setting; Arharn Thai is the mom-'n'-pop Thai; Yajai sates diners who apparently prefer their Thai in a setting that rivals Trade Fair for poor feng shui. (We're not particularly looking forward to our obligatory visit there.)

Wave Thai is all about the romance -- and though we generally roll our eyes when restaurants employ tricks that might have wooed us in college (red walls, half-blackened light bulbs), the place has enough ingenuity to get a pass. The fountain near the entry, bedecked with small statues of elephants, imparts a genuine calm, as does the lulling but kind of weird soundtrack (elevator-music versions of Prince?). The concentric-circles motif, plus the flatware with undulating handles, is gentle and wavelike -- we get it -- but it too works toward its end. The bathroom deserves special mention for making us feel like minor royalty -- the faucet was like one of those fancy showerheads you find in nice hotels, the kind that's supposed to mimic rainfall. Again: a semi-classy gimmick, but one that turns out to be welcome.

The food? It's Thai. That's all there is to say; it's just Thai food, it fills you up for a reasonable price and tastes yummy and the noodles are fine and the curry is spicy but not too spicy. The Pad Kee Mao looked like this (even the plates are a bit wavy):

In truth, we mourn the departure of Ubol's Kitchen every time we try to go out and find someone special again. But until something that good comes back to Astoria, we'll go to Wave again, and Thai Pavilion, and Arharn, and Thai Angel, etc., depending on the mood we're after. Sure, Wave tries a little too hard, but ultimately we just shake our heads, squint in the dim light, and give in anyway.

Price: Under $15.
Will we go again? No, but we'll send you there on an Internet date.

A Brief Enquiry Into Pizzeria Ethics (Alba's Pizza and Restaurant, 36-20 Ditmars Boulevard)

2008-02-06T15:59:00.000-08:00

We expect to encounter many places like Alba's on our mission, serviceable places that you would never go to unless you lived down the street. Neighborhoods need places like Alba's but rarely will anyone bother to sing their praises; it would be like championing your garbage collector or corner-bodega proprietor. In short, a pizzeria needs to be pretty conspicuously good (or remarkably awful, for that matter) to warrant special attention. Alba's is neither of those things.

We went in on a cold afternoon and were thankful for the heat blasting out of the pizza ovens. We asked what was good, but the answer surprised us, as the counterman recommended what looked to be clearly the least appetizing offering behind the glass, the penne a la vodka slice, which looked like an ordinary slice with some ziti baked into it on top.

This raised the ethical question that confronts any food-service employee when asked for a recommendation: Do they say what they really like, or what it would be expedient for the establishment to get rid of. We suspect that we will become more adept as we proceed at placing the divers waitstaff we encounter along that moral spectrum. But right now we need other cues. For instance, should we be alarmed that Alba's, like La Mia Vita, also offers a Grandma pie? If we can't trust Alba's nana, who can we trust?

The penne a la vodka slice ended up being perfectly edible, if a little bizarre, and the plain slices were adequate and filling. No pizza toppings at individual tables, but they were readily available at the counter. And seating was ample and the mood relaxed. It felt like a safe harbor from the street.

So if we were hungry for slices and happened to be walking by Alba's, nothing would make us hesitate from going in. But it's hard to imagine planning a special trip there.

Price: Like all other pizzerias.
Will we go again? Totally unnecessary to do so.

The Grandest Tofu (JJ's Asian Fusion and Sushi Bar, 37-05 31st Avenue)

2008-02-04T09:39:00.000-08:00

The Magazine That Shall Not Be Named, so dubbed because of its propensity for inducing status anxiety and making proclamations about the whole of the city that, in truth, only apply to a small set of middle-to-well-heeled Manhattanites, awarded JJ's Fusion the honor of best pot stickers in New York. We're always glad to see Astoria restaurants get their due but remain suspicious that there's some sort of outer-borough quota that the writers feel the need to fill. (At least they're not touting Uncle George's as the best Greek in New York.)

We'd be less wary if the heralded pot stickers lived up to the name. They're good, don't get us wrong, and original -- dumplings stuffed with tender soy beans, served with a wasabi cream sauce. But there's a reason soybeans are enjoyed one-by-one as edamame, as we found out when the beans took on a glue-like consistency when we bit in. They'd be better smaller, or with a sauce that didn't add to the paste problem -- cream is a dubious flavor carrier here, though it did nicely soften the wasabi punch. We also admit we can be skeptically ornery when the "Best _____ in New York" label is applied; we like to think that means we're merely open to the possibility of there being a better pot sticker in one of the city's 36,000 other restaurants.

Our cantankerous fits aside, JJ's is a delight. The Astoria roll, with crab meat and crunchy flakes, was topped with fresh salmon and an unidentifiable but delicious sauce. And the sushi was fresh and reasonably sized, well worth the risk of mercury poisoning. The basic rolls and sashimi we tried were of higher caliber than other sushi haunts in the neighborhood too -- the fish may not have been wriggling in our mouth, but close enough.

One of us used to get delivery from JJ's but had never dined there, so we knew going in that the food would be good. What we didn't expect was the rich yet restrained ambiance. "Romantic" lighting is too often just dim, but JJ's sleek paper lanterns hit the mark. Intricate geometric wood panels adorned the terra cotta walls. The music, that night showcasing a pseudo-Björk (or maybe it was Björk; we can never tell), managed to complement, not overwhelm, the gentility of the place. And though JJ's is small and was surprisingly full for a Wednesday night, we were hardly aware of anyone else there, feeling only the comforting satisfaction that comes from having picked a popular place without any special forethought.

It's a shame that outlets like The Magazine That Shall Not Be Named fingers restaurants like JJ's just for single items; the pleasure of dining there derives from the entire experience: the service, the mood, the sake, the food. Nestled at a perfect point on the continuum between neighborhood joint and destination restaurant, this is the kind of place that makes us sigh about our every-restaurant mission. We'd love to go back to JJ's soon, but every other sushi restaurant in Astoria calls.

Price: In line with neighborhood sushi; good value but not a total bargain.
Will we go again? We wish we were more prone to sushi moods, because we're eager to go back but have a helluva lot of places to venture into first.

A Heaping Helping of Hot Coal (Layali Beirut, 25-60 Steinway Street)

2008-02-04T08:44:00.000-08:00

No part of the neighborhood seems more foreign to us than the stretch of Steinway Street below Astoria Boulevard, where the smell of shisha fills the air, all the bodegas sell hookah pipes, and awnings implore you to read the Holy Koran. Frankly, we were intimidated by the plethora of hookah cafes as we wandered around on a weekend night trying to choose a place. It seemed hard to believe that people could eat amid all that smoke, so thick that it hung visibly in the air and cast a gray pallor over everything we could see through the windows. Perusing the menus outside many of the cafes -- in many cases translated poorly out of Arabic -- did little to put us at ease. Roast pigeon? And we weren't entirely sure women were welcome in these places. They seemed very much the domain of Egyptian men, young and old, playing backgammon with mute ferocity.

We chose Layali Beirut, in part because it was lit with green and red neon, and because, inexplicably, it had a weirdly welcoming pirate statue posted by the entrance.

Once inside, the scent of tobacco was nearly overpowering. The place was full, and just about everyone was smoking hookahs. We felt conspicuous, but it was comforting to see that female customers were present; one table even consisted entirely of women, though they were not smoking. Considering our purpose, though, it was not reassuring that few seemed to be eating. The décor was eclectic to say the least, some kind of testimony to Lebanon's reputation as a cultural crossroads. There were Christian-themed paintings, bas reliefs, Islamic carved pattern work in the moldings and doorways, a vast array of bellows hanging from the walls, and Lebanese music videos flickering through the haze from flat-screen TVs. And the sea of plastic grapes hanging from the ceiling bordered on insanity.

A table had just been vacated as we entered, so we had somewhere to sit, but it took the waitress some heavy-duty work with Windex to get it clean. The amount of mess left by the previous customers seemed astonishing until we considered that they may have been there for several hours, what with the backgammon and all. Like most of the hookah cafes, there's no booze at Layali Beirut; most customers drank tea, Turkish coffee, or fruit juice -- one of us ordered something billed on the menu as "Mango4" (we couldn't decide if this was a typo). We decided to pass on the overpriced entrées and stick to the more reasonable appetizers.

The kibbeh, miniature fried footballs of minced lamb and bulgur, were tasty. We wish the waitress had given us a hint and suggested we order a side of tahini to go along with it, as is traditional and necessary -- they screamed out for something to moisten the palate, though the meat was tender enough. We also ordered what was essentially Lebanese home fries, cubed potatoes seasoned with coriander and heaps of cilantro.

Naturally, we ordered shisha as well. Not to wax too orientalist, but smoking from a hookah always inevitably feels somewhat exotic, and in this particular setting, it was especially so. We were most taken with the employee who walked through the crowded café carrying hot coals to restoke the hookahs. With his tin basket and iron tongs, he seemed quaintly medieval, an indentured manservant to some pasha in the wings. And we can hardly imagine what sort of fire pit the coals were being extracted from. But when the coals were refreshed, one could certainly draw smoke much more copiously, and the curious ritual did much to add to the occult feel of what we were doing. It made tobacco seem exciting all over again.

We never quite felt at ease in Layali Beirut, but that may have been because we had nothing by which to gauge our expectations. But it seems that if you could acclimate yourself to the smoke and could overcome the oddity of the environment -- two big ifs -- you could settle in and enjoy yourself at the café for an unbounded stretch of time. It's hard to condemn a culture in which men devote their evenings to smoking leisurely and gathering to play venerable board games, especially when we contrasted it with the dismal milieu at McCaffrey & Burke, which we visited later. There, an inebriated man tried to hug us while slobbering about the Super Bowl, and a group of drunken twenty-somethings stumble-danced with one another to the classic rock on the jukebox while one of them tried to show off her massage skills, bracing herself for leverage and getting her elbows involved. The sad, sunken faces at the bar are best left undescribed. It was depressing to realize that while we felt so alienated at Layali Beirut, these loutish, besotted slobs were, in fact, our people.

Price: $7 for hookah; food runs the gamut -- what we ordered seemed pricey for what it was.
Will we go again? No, but through no fault of Leyali Beirut's. We just need to work on our backgammon game.

No Más (Tacos Mexico, 32-08 38th Street)

2008-01-27T18:40:00.000-08:00

If we weren't eating at every restaurant in Astoria, we might be eating at this straightforward taqueria more often. Even though we admire the pool table in the side room and the cattle skulls (or were they goat?), it's not the sort of place where gringos like us might ever feel entirely at home -- the TV plays soccer matches or Univision telenovelas; the jukebox blares Los Tigres del Norte and mariachi band music; the waitresses don't know much English -- but that wouldn't keep us from becoming regulars. On a recent afternoon visit, we certainly felt treated as such. The waitress gestured for us to sit anywhere, and chips and salsa were on our table before we had a chance to take off our coats. The chips came in a paper bag inside a basket; the salsa was well blended rather than chunky and leaned more toward peppers than tomatoes. But these are minor details, what's important is that they were supplied gratis without us having to ask, and we were asked repeatedly if we wanted more. In years past, when we were on a much tighter budget, this kind of hospitality would have left a deep impression.

Though Tacos Mexico offered the customary range of Mexican options, we decided to stick with the namesake. We ordered our tacos by pointing at the menu -- pollo asado, carne asada, birria (we didn't venture into lengua or cabeza territory, though these were offered) -- and they came shortly thereafter, wrapped in paper and garnished with lime and radishes and Tapatío on the side. As befitting the somewhat humble surroundings, these were not ambitious preparations: just meat mixed with onions, cilantro, and ample heaps of guacamole on corn tortillas. The birria, meat stewed in a rich chili pepper-laden sauce, was sufficiently spicy and delicious, though sloppy, and the grilled meat tacos were well above average, superior even than the beloved taco cart on 30th and Newtown Avenues.

After we finished, we lounged for a while, declining chip refills, no más por favor, and having our water glasses repeatedly topped off, until we finally realized that as far as the employees were concerned, we could sit at our table all day. It doesn't seem to be the taqueria way to bring a check to the table, so finally, somewhat reluctantly, we went to the counter to pay and were stunned to discover how satisfied we could become for so little.

Price: Cheap.
Will we go again? Has competition for taco numero uno, but the chips and salsa indicate yes.

Night With Armor (Just Arthur's, 22-08 Steinway Street)

2008-01-24T21:29:00.000-08:00

The mute façade of Just Arthur's, at the strangely desolate corner of Steinway and Ditmars, has always struck us as mysterious. The restaurant has somewhat lavish signage and what looks to be roof-deck dining, but it always seems eerily forlorn, an inscrutable relic from a previous time, perhaps from when people like us didn't live in Astoria.

We had never heard of anyone actually eating at this Italian place, and it seemed to us plausible that it was a mob front. And the name invited questions: Why "just" Arthur? What happened to the others? Was there a falling out? Foul play? On a cold Saturday, we decided that we wanted answers, so we made a reservation for 9:00 to get to the bottom of things.

When we arrived, a sullen quiet seemed to have settled on the scene. It seemed much later than 9:00; we seemed out of time altogether. Hardly a soul in sight, just a vacant bus shelter and a dour man having a cigarette in front of the pair of windowless doors that lead into Just Arthur's, the smoke blending with the steam from his breath. He didn't smile, wouldn't even move aside to let us enter easily; instead we had to edge past him, through the door that wasn't marked "This is the exit."

Once inside, we were surprised to find ourselves deposited in a run-of-the-mill old-man bar, complete with blaring flat-screen TVs and half-drunk regulars. It had the air of a private club, and we felt like gate-crashers at a party we wouldn't have wanted to be invited to anyway. But then we were brought into the dining room by our eventual waiter, an amiable teenager who was quick to see that we received wine but strangely slow about providing us menus. At one point, we wondered aloud if it were one of those menuless places, like Elias Corner. Perhaps we would have to eat whatever Arthur in his wisdom felt like providing.

The dining room had some interesting accoutrements -- a working fireplace with whiskey decanters on the mantel, a piano with a set of foot-high jazz band figures arranged atop it ("please do not touch" read the attached sign, presumably applying to both the keys and the figurines), and, weirdly enough, a suit of armor. Apparently it was obligatory at some point in the history of American restaurateurship to procure a suit of armor, but what this was intended to signify is something we have yet to fathom. Were diners in the 1970s nostalgic for feudalism? Or was the suit of armor so patently gratuitous that it signified the kind of luxurious abandon one should feel when eating out?

Eventually we did get menus, though the Mystery of the Missing Waiter was soon replaced with the Mystery of the Waitstaff Switcheroo, as halfway through the meal the teenager vanished from our table (though he was still hanging around the restaurant) and a ponytailed, suntanned woman started tending to us. She gave us a casual but sincere eye-roll apology to us for the boisterous table across the room, and later made a mob reference that showed us that we weren't the only ones who'd had suspicions about Arthur and his ilk ("I can say that — I'm Irish," she said with a wink).

The food? We ordered the recommended Pasta alla John (for meat lovers, the first waiter said carefully, though he was unable to tell us who John was, or why John and not Arthur), and one of the specials -- the pork chop pizziola, which was a pounded piece of pork topped with cheese, prosciutto, marinara sauce, and fried peppers and onions. Neither of these were revelatory; both were satisfactory. But really, the food is beside the point at Just Arthur's. You can get better food at other places in Astoria, and probably "better" ambiance, if you're after fine dining or a down-home feeling. But nowhere else can you get its peculiar mix of jollity, frowsy elegance, and nostalgia for an era of the neighborhood we never knew.

Price: Under $25 for entrees.
Will we go again? There's better food to be found, but the suit of armor just might bring us back. And we aspire to become the sort who could hang out at the bar.

Dear Mr. Fantasy (Fatty's Cafe, 25-01 Ditmars Boulevard)

2008-01-21T21:54:00.000-08:00

When we first discovered Fatty's, one of us was following an inherently absurd macrobiotic diet and scoffed at the name. Before we'd consent to try the place, we sniffed, "Is Fatty's really the best name for a restaurant?" picking seaweed and unseasoned tofu out of our teeth. After a few visits, however, we saw the name as it was likely intended, a jovial nickname for an old, reliable friend who you'd never give up on.

Not that there's much reason to give up on Fatty's: The food is consistently excellent, it has a better-than-average beer list (all in bottles, alas), and the mojitos are made with genial enthusiasm rather than resignation. The walls sport work from local artists, which perhaps has unfairly ensnared Fatty's in the overhyped hipsters-versus-Greeks skirmish. Fatty's is too down-to-earth to run like a well-oiled machine or boast of "service with a smile," but even during its most hectic times the staffers are genuinely friendly and make duly diligent efforts to be efficient.

Our favorite menu choices for dinner include the thick black-bean chili, served with tortilla chips that seem homemade (the meat version is equally delicious, but it's rare to find plain old black beans prepared this well); the jerk-marinated Yard Burger; and the Chofan, which even suits our foolhardy macrobiotic needs. Sandwich-wise, the Cubano (the classic pork-ham-cheese-pickles with a yummy chipotle mayo) and Chavorrayo (chicken, avocado, jack, and garlic mayo) always delight, and are hefty enough to take a half home for the next day's lunch. At Fatty's brunch, the polenta cakes are our default choice, best with the side of ham, though any of the offerings will hit the spot (except maybe La Pistola -- fried eggs on rice and beans with a tortilla, which can be lackluster). We've never asked why the side dish called Mister Fantasy is so named -- it's not described on the menu -- but we've ordered it sight unseen, and no, we won't tell you.

Like any old friend, Fatty's can get on our nerves sometimes. Our most recent visit is a case in point. The music, usually au courant club music of some sort, was intrusively loud, as it is far too often, and the beer stock was depleted. And we often wonder whether Fatty's might consider possibly making the menus readable in the bar's murky half light, so that we need not risk immolation while holding the votive candle up against the pages trying to decipher the microscopic print. One last thing: Isn't it about time that a wind shield was installed outside the front entrance, so that diners in the front of the bar don't have to eat with their parkas on? Seriously, even Gregory's 26 Corner Taverna has one now.

But these are quibbles, almost lovable idiosyncrasies to us at this point. None would prevent us, or its crowd of regulars, from frequenting Fatty's. And the manager doesn't seem surprised whenever we hit it twice in one day (which has happened more times than seems decent). And so we tolerate our pal's Fatty's occasional bouts of distracted boorishness, since we know him too well to be taken in by these feints at aloofness. We can see through you, Fatty's; we know you really care.

Price: Cheaper than bistros.
Will we go again? The best of "new Astoria." We've neglected our old buddy in order to complete our mission, but he knows we miss him.

Notes Toward a Theory of Tapas (El Olivo, 21-15 31st Street)

2008-01-18T14:12:00.000-08:00

Provincial as we are, we'd never seen white asparagus before our trip to El Olivo, a tapas restaurant on a stretch of 31st Street where the subway dare not go. We later found out that the white asparagus is a variety preferred in Europe, but in our minds it became a metaphor for El Olivo's cuisine: limp, bloated, drained of color and life.

Not that anyone present seemed to mind -- the joint was jumping with families, including a multigenerational birthday party, and everyone seemed to be in good spirits. As were we: No matter how oily or flaccid the dishes may be, that a group has chosen to have tapas at all suggests an open readiness to have a good time. After all, you wouldn't agree to have tapas unless you trusted you were to be accompanied by people you enjoy, people with whom you can make group decisions and feel comfortable sharing with. They presume community among a group and then help reinforce it. Anthropologist Claude Levi-Strauss has written of the French tradition of pouring a neighboring stranger a glass of wine from your bottle, calling it "an assertion of good grace which does away with mutual uncertainty." Sharing tapas has the same effect.

So at El Olivo, we made a few of these community-building group decisions and agreed on the following: a plate of Serrano ham and manchego, oily anchovies that looked as unappetizing as they tasted, rubbery octopus, shrimp in a watery tomato sauce, that unspeakable asparagus, and assorted other forgettables. That's another social prerequisite with tapas: You must be among people you like well enough to be able to confess, after a veneer of politeness during the initial tasting, that you are united in the opinion of ick.

In America, the definition of what counts as tapas is flexible, and like most New Yorkers, we were accustomed to tapas bars with more flair, offering bacon-wrapped figs, gourmet Spanish tortillas, manchego from hand-fed cows, and so on. In Spain, the custom is to wander from tapas bar to tapas bar, cherry-picking the best at each place, and you have to be in the know to order well. We were not in the know at El Olivo, and while that was perhaps our main problem, we ordered enough food that something besides the ham and cheese plate should have meet a baseline of pleasant. Maybe there's a tapas or two that explains El Olivo's longevity -- or maybe it's the simple merriment of the place that explains the bustle and cheer, or the pleasant, prompt service. Maybe it's the obligatory items of armor that seem to grace the walls of every Spanish restaurant in the city. More likely, it was the fine sangria, which we downed in large quantities to salve our disappointment over the food.

Three quarters of the way through the meal, we started talking about getting cupcakes at Martha's Bakery, on Ditmars Boulevard. These turned out to be the best part of the meal. We tried. We really, really tried. But no matter how inauthentic it may be, we will take our Americanized bacon-wrapped tapas finery over El Olivo's insipid offerings any day.

Price: Too expensive.
Will we go again? No, unless heavily drugged.

The Marigold Miracle (Malagueta, 25-35 36th Avenue)

2008-01-16T17:22:00.000-08:00

Fresh-cut marigolds and daisies on the table seem a small miracle in mid-January, but at Malagueta, a Brazilian restaurant on the corner of 36th Avenue and Crescent Street, it was more a humble and inconspicuous token of kindness, like holding the elevator or offering a tissue to a watery-eyed subway stranger. On a cold Tuesday evening, on the far frontier of what we've decided to call Astoria, it was a much appreciated gesture.

The same subtle spirit of discretion was palpable in all things at Malagueta -- the subdued lighting, the intimate yet uncrowded cluster of small white-clothed tables, the guileless mix of contemporary paintings and framed Coney Island caricature drawings hanging on the muted walls, the proprietor (okay, our waiter, but his quiet pride suggested he was the master of all we saw) refraining from forcing a wine list on us. It was as if the place was aware of teetering on the edge of pretension -- there were banquettes, for goodness' sake -- and was taking deliberate care to skirt the charge. That the Cranberries, of all bands, played over the sound system didn't hurt either. We will say no more of that, other than it prompted in us some quizzical looks.

On the waiter's recommendation we ordered for appetizers acaraje -- described on the menu as "a mashed black-eyed peas cake with a spicy cream of fish and dried shrimp and sautéed shrimp" -- and the soup of the day, a piquant chicken and corn chowder. We weren't sure if it was in keeping with good table manners to share a single soup spoon, so we may have inadvertently scandalized some of the other diners, but the soup was delicious and we regret nothing.

Our entrees were Peito de Pato, a sautéed duck breast in a tequila and lime marinade, and Moqueca de Camarão, a shrimp stew (as if we hadn't had enough shrimp already, but one of us believes she is developing an allergy to shellfish and wants to load up before she can eat them no more). The duck defied easy description: At times it had the texture of a hot dog, albeit one that was exquisitely dense with meaty, slightly smoky flavor, but then you would come upon a bite that was a touch more sinewy, like a tender morsel chicken, to remind you that this was not ground up meat reconstituted. This was no sausage, all right. The shrimp stew was basic and not as surprising as the duck -- large shrimp in a coconuty broth dotted with peppers and onion -- but flavorful enough to make us soak up every last drop of broth with the accompanying rice mound.

Forced by full bellies to skip dessert, we accepted the mix of mints and root beer barrels that came with the check with delight. We looked back at the gleaming icicle lights and drawn curtains of Malagueta, gave a nod to its integrity, and wandered home in a cozy waterfowl-crustacea haze.

Price: Under $20 for entrees
Will we go again? The kind of gem that keeps us going through mediocre pizzerias. Happily.

The Madness of Monte Cristo (Neptune Diner, 31-05 Astoria Boulevard)

2008-01-14T20:42:00.000-08:00

Though one of us is convinced that a Neptune burger once brought on food poisoning, where else were we to go after staying out late at the Beer Garden? (If only Club 23 served food.) We were hungry, but we were particularly bent on having cocktails as well, and the Neptune is one of those diners with a desultory bar and drinks on the menu alongside the Roumanian skirt steak and the spanakopita. Though the menus had lately been updated to incorporate the magic of clip art (the menu is currently aquamarine and has on the cover a cartoon rendering of the eponymous god wielding his trident), the cocktail list was probably last revised when Ladybird Johnson was still living in the White House.

We ordered a Rusty Nail and a Pink Lady, and the seasoned waitress -- as always, punctiliously uniformed in black vest and tie -- did us the favor of not sniggering. Surely we weren't the first to demand kitsch cocktails when already past our limits. She maintained her gracious dignity, even if we hadn't. The drinks themselves were mixed indifferently, and we couldn't tell you if they were even what we requested. It served us right.

We ordered a fried egg sandwich on a roll -- food poisoning be damned! -- and a Monte Cristo, though it wasn't listed anywhere on the menu. But like any diner worthy of the name, the Neptune would make one nonetheless and whimsically invent a price for it when the time for the check came.

The fried egg sandwich was nothing worth mentioning, which is probably how it should be, but the Monte Cristo sandwich demands a moment's contemplation. No one knows where it came from, or why; some view it as a perversion of the croque monsieur, some hold a Disneyland restaurant accountable for its spread nationally. We prefer to regard it as divine inspiration of some improvisational genius whose name has unfairly been lost to us. The Neptune's version was ham, turkey, and swiss cheese on french toast, and was served with maple syrup as a condiment. The Monte Cristo is a study in contradictions: Its sumptuous succor of sweet with savory was almost absurd in the existential sense; it blurred opposites, it made us fear for the distinction between right and wrong, between right and left. That is to say, it was deliciously disordered, and our taste buds responded riotously to the chaos.

Repeat visits have proved that the Neptune makes a mean "dieter's plate," knows how to toast bread, stacks its club sandwiches appropriately high, boasts an intimidatingly silent line of stiff-backed waiters in the main dining room, and cannot poach an egg. We are not entirely sure how the Neptune was voted the "#1 Diner in Queens," as per its perennial blue banner outside, but it is a diner, in Queens, and that is enough.

Price: Comparable to other diners.
Will we go again? It's ubiquitous, so we abstain from judgment.

Happy Orange (Ukus, 42-08 30th Avenue)

2008-01-14T01:06:00.000-08:00

At Ukus, one of a handful of Balkan establishments curiously clustered around an otherwise nondescript block east of Steinway on 30th Avenue, we asked the server what he recommended, and without missing a beat he said, "You need spinach burek and cevapi," then took the menus from us without giving us any of the usual "Or if that doesn't suit your tastes...." None of that namby-pamby crap here! He knows what Ukus is about. It seemed that he was Ukus (though we later saw several shower-capped women scurrying in and out with pots and pans; they came to and from the basement via the outer cellar doors): He seemed to perform much of the behind-the-counter grill work and was also the lone waiter, which was fine for the 24 seats inside. With his brusque efficiency and decisiveness, he exuded what we delicately term "big-dick confidence" (though not as much as the soccer player we saw earlier at Astoria Park -- a twentysomething striker who wore under his shorts pink pajama pants decorated with little soccer balls).

Waiter knows best, as it turns out. The spinach burek, a savory Balkan pie, is the finest burek we've had. Its perfectly crisp and flaky layers of phyllo surrounded the appropriately thin filling of spinach graced with feta, and the inner phyllo layers were just soft enough not to be soggy while supplying a suitable contrast in texture.

The Balkan sausages, cevapi, manage to be both meaty and fluffy. The moist, tender links come inside a piece of horizontally sliced tangy flatbread and accompanied by chopped onions, sour cream, and ajvar, a spicy relish made with eggplant, red peppers, and chili peppers. We weren't sure of the proper way to eat the dish, so we just ripped off pieces of the bread, layered it with the condiments, plopped a sausage on top and enjoyed our delicious miniature sandwiches. All this was washed down with a bottle of Jupi -- "Happy Orange" flavor.

Ukus isn't as, shall we say, austere in ambiance as some other Balkan restaurants in the neighborhood. In fact, it features a couple of downright (if unintentional) quirks, like a elf-size storage door mounted high on the wall, as if the ceiling were the floor. Also, hanging on the exposed brick wall at the back of the place, a little carved-wood "ukus" sign (with the letters all lowercase, in a Cooper Black-ish font) that seemed like someone's junior-high wood shop project.

When we asked for our check, we complimented the waiter on his recommendations. He looked at us the way Warren Buffett presumably would if you praised his investment prowess. This is what I do, his expression said. And he did it well.

Price: Under $10.
Will we go again? Ukusno means delicious in Bosnian, and we're not ones to argue.

Eating at every restaurant in Astoria

2008-01-13T21:13:00.000-08:00

We decided to eat at every restaurant in Astoria. Why? Because, like Everest, they are there? Maybe. Or perhaps it remains a mystery, even to ourselves.

These are the ground rules:

1. For the purposes of this exercise, Astoria is defined as the area bounded by 21st Street to the west, 20th Avenue to the north, 48th Street to the east, and the combination of Northern Boulevard and 36th Avenue to the south.

View Larger Map

2. Only establishments with tables at which patrons can eat on the premises will be included.

3. Only two Chinese restaurants per subsection of the neighborhood will qualify for inclusion. We are, after all, only human.

4. No restaurants that are part of national chains will be included.

5. The meal need not be a full dinner -- breakfast, lunch, and snacks count.

Recommendations are welcome.