All this buzz over root vegetables is making me crave meat.

Welcome to cow country, the town that gave its name to a swaggering cut of sirloin. City Hall brings a turn-of-the-century-chophouse feel and the finesse of French technique to TriBeCa. I wasn't expecting serious prime cow from a place called Michael Jordan's The Steak House, but hosts Penny and Peter Glazier and chef David Walzog wouldn't have it any other way. The sirloin at Sparks tastes first-rate, ditto the spectacular Maryland crab and a Mondavi Cabernet from the mythic cellar, but everything else smacks of mass production, including oversalted hash browns. Determined cadres, mostly men, endure the obligatory 25-to-35-minute wait for a table and care not a whit. F.illi Ponte no longer woos with the multitude of freebies I used to marvel at, but the splendid 32-ounce T-bone fiorentina is a genuine thrill, possibly equal to the mammoth pork shank I can never resist at Maloney & Porcelli.

I send everyone who's really hungry to Churrascaria Plataforma, with its marathon of waiters wielding rotisserie spears of every imaginable viand. It's Chimichurri Grill for chorizo, blood sausage, and first-rate empanadas, and for the Argentine parrilla -- preferably chewy short ribs or boneless rib-eye -- with marvelous fries and the piquant green sauce that gives this sometimes glum house its name.

Is nothing sacred?

Amazingly, '21' soldiers on with a few senior retainers to remember the last of the dotard clientele and to jolly the thirtysomethings and Gen-Xers who have recolonized this saloon. I remember the clubby, forbidding days when provincials like me got stiffed at the door, but now is now. Fancy schmancy -- mesquite-fired foie gras with sickly sweet quince, pineapple, and spiced plums, and roasted sea scallops with chive-potato pancake and caviar-sabayon sauce -- co-exist with ghosts of the house classics, chicken hash and a soggy Caesar salad. Still, it pleases me to feel like a kid playing grown-up here.

Every few years a new generation of movers, shakers, machers, and auteurs seek shelter, a belt, and maybe a veal chop at Elaine's, never mind that the dish is usually tastier than the dishes. La Grenouille ages like a grande dame: impenetrable French (untranslated on the menu). Bijouterie piled on (floral bouquets ever more exuberant). And flaunting a younger man, American, no less. Chef Daniel Orr dishes up respectable quenelles de brochet and classic Dover sole. But clearly he puts his heart into nouvellisms like Nantucket scallops with soy beans, lentils, and barley in a tangy sauce, and a tingling chiffonade of calamari with ginger, all for a crowd that doesn't feel even a tiny ouch at paying $655 for four.

I'd like to eat close to home for a change.

A restaurant may not be worth a cab ride but can still be an asset to the neighborhood. Plant your derrière on a chair at Avenue bistro on the Upper West Side and happily spend the day: scrambled eggs and a croissant at breakfast, a grazing of salads for lunch, and more ambitious offerings come dinner -- nothing more than $20. Totonno's thinish, crisp wagon-wheel pizzas are a plus for the Upper East Side. La Fôret is a much-needed island of warmth and solid French-bistro cooking far north on First Avenue. There, a Ukrainian who last worked for Bouley wraps shrimp in feathery phyllo to start, then roasts leg of lamb, duck breast with potato purée, and a meaty round of filet mignon -- entrées $12.95 to $17.95. Be grateful for Le Solex if you're wooing a client or an artist in Chelsea. Breakfast is served till a beneficent 4 p.m. And there's a first-rate burger, excellent fries, and updated bistro classics.

Café Adriana in the arcade of the Galleria on 57th Street has quickly become a hot lunchtime boutique for shoppers transfixed by Philippe Feret's mile-high ostrich burgers with frizzled onion, and the onion rolls stuffed with buffalo short ribs in tomato-onion-carrot confit. There's confusion at the cloakroom, but otherwise the crew knows its drill at pleasantly gussied-up Chianti on Second Avenue in midtown, where a new chef, Scott Conant, shows off what he learned at San Domenico and Il Toscanaccio. Don't overindulge in the savory cakelike focaccia. Short ribs off the bone atop a vegetable-and-farro "risotto" and a first-rate fritto misto big enough for two come next. Then pepper-crusted tuna or marinated skirt steak with a pile of irresistible Tuscan fries.