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

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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.