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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Tweet (Sparrow, 24-01 29th Street)

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.

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.

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

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.