Feature

Where to Eat in 1999

There are too few tables and too many gringos lined up for the zesty black-bean tamales or beef- barbacoa burrito with fiery poblano potatoes at Mexicana Mama in the West Village. Nibble on a brown bag of chips with salsa while you wait.

Girls just want to have fun.

Chili funk, fabulous Thai-esque food, and a live-wire crowd create a cheerful vibe at The Elephant in the East Village. Score a spot at the glowing communal table at Asia de Cuba to sip exotic drinks and flirt with strangers over fusion food that can be really good. Some people think the do-it-yourself barbecue at Bop is a kick: The mysteries of Korean nibbles are made accessible by nubile-young-woman servers in stylish black designer aprons. Fun for the guys too.

Why India? Why now?

Given America's galloping neophilia, and the old-hat-ness of Asian fusion, it was inevitable chefs would stumble on India and try to reinvent its cooking. Sexy, romantic, fiercely noisy, Tabla is an island of exotic wood and semiprecious jeweled mosaics by artist Robert Kushner suspended in a lofty space adjacent to Eleven Madison Park. There chef Floyd Cardoz realizes his dream of coloring contemporary American food with the spices of his homeland. Already startlingly good on the $48 prix fixe: sweet spice-and-port-glazed sweetbreads, spice-braised oxtails, lamb two ways with five-bean stew, and melting date-chocolate cake with iced espresso yogurt. At cool, loungey Surya, South Indian dishes are deliciously fused with Western ways. Try sprouted-lentil salad, the giant crêpelike dosai, and pungent rack of lamb. Pongal in the East Twenties offers an authentic (and certified kosher) rendition of this cuisine for vegetarians at modest prices. And for a wide-ranging tour of India's many kitchens -- northern, southern, Goan, Calcutta, Jewish, and even Pakistani -- Chola is my first choice among the traditional spots.

What fresh hell is this?

You refer to the Algonquin, I presume, my favorite new theme park. Harold Ross and Dorothy Parker (the Vicious Circle's Mickey and Minnie) are there in spirit -- whirling in their graves, I do not doubt -- and in the painting of the Round Table's usual suspects hanging not far from where we are having watery lentil soup, a cheesy Caesar, and a rather decent roast-beef sandwich. "Can it be rare?" I asked. "For you," the waiter said, "anything." (And that's rare, too, these days.) An extra dab of horseradish sauce is a must. The surround of the glorious Corinthian columns leading out to the lobby is retro and stylish, never mind how it actually was -- was it ever? And there are real books, gasp, on the shelves . . . available for, gasp, reading. Thackeray. Dickens. Thurber. Is Sex Necessary? If not, there is always fine chocolate cake, definitely not flourless, and weekly readings too. (Dorothy Parker, of course.)

I know you must have a favorite.

When pressed, as I often am, to choose just one, I can't. I must list Le Bernardin, Gotham Bar & Grill, Jean Georges, Nobu, Mesa Grill, Shun Lee, and Aureole. In the past year, I've added Picholine and BondSt to that Valhalla. And I have no doubt I'll be fighting for a table at the $10 million temple of Daniel along with his Park Avenue sycophants, worshipful foodies, and the flotsam that follow with money to burn. I need a regular fix at Vong and Bolo too. But even an insatiable gourmand needs a night out from ceremonial greatness, and it's been too long since I gave myself the luxury and ease of Balthazar, where (I must admit) I am likely to find myself seated swiftly in a booth, basking in Keith McNally's perfect hallucination of a Parisian brasserie: The scarred mirrors that tilt for voyeuristic pleasure. The zinc-topped bar, the remarkable bread, a skyscraper harvest of the sea, a really rare steak au poivre. Maybe even a boldfaced thrill or two. In the dim, noisy little neighborhood saloon with crackled-leather banquettes that is Butterfield 81, I feel a frisson of John O'Hara's ghost and nostalgia for a time when telephone exchanges had names. Chef Tom Valenti's bold and rustic cooking always lives up to lofty expectation.

Is that a tear in your eye?

The food world lost a measure of courtly glamour with the death of Paul Kovi, one half of the duo that resurrected The Four Seasons. But the loss of Joe Baum is especially wrenching -- his comebacks were legend, his five decades of creative genius filled with fantasy. And I'm sad for the cavalier commandeering of the Rainbow Room. It will be closed to the public except on weekends. Talk about the art of the steal. Where is the Landmarks Conservancy when New York needs it most?