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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Paul Bunyano (Tierras Colombianas, 33-01 Broadway)

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.

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

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)

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)

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.

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

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.