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

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.

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

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.

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

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)

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.

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

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

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.