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

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.

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

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.

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

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.