Do you fast on your day off?

Silly question. Fast? Not when I can eat. In our neighborhood, the Upper West Side, we like the spicy Asian fusion at Rain. Before or after theater, the two of us think we're dieting by sticking to the vegetable antipasto at Café Fiorello's. I put so much passion into choosing each item from the counter buffet that the server usually slips me something extra. But if we're hungry with friends or have kinfolk in tow, we join the hordes at Ruby Foo's. The Hong Kong carnival hullabaloo is fun and exhilarating. We have to order both kinds of ribs (black-bean and tamarind-glazed), chopped seaweed salad, the miso cod, stir-fried vegetables, the glazed duck perhaps, and that Goliath slice of chocolate cake, dessert indulgence enough for four or six.

I want a taste of the Renaissance in Harlem.

There's still talk of reopening Minton's Playhouse, the club where be-bop was born, but all the funds are not yet in place. Meanwhile, an expanded and rehabbed Wells Famous Home of Chicken and Waffles will open any day now, bringing back "Swing Night Mondays" with the fabulous sixteen-piece Harlem Renaissance band. And more room to jitterbug. Jimmy's Uptown hit the tabloids with an opening-night party for Woody Allen's Sweet and Lowdown. But an official opening of the restaurant-cum-lounge was delayed till the end of January by owner Jimmy Rodriguez, whose boldfaced Manhattan fans are merely the frosting on the sweet hordes of Latinos who keep Jimmy's Bronx Café rocking.

So call me shallow, I just want to see famous faces.

Right now, our town's certified fabulous 500 are enjoying droit du seigneur at Pastis while the uncertified hold up the bar, if they can get close enough to it. It's still a challenge to book the dinner hour at Balthazar, where the kitchen soldiers on as good as ever, with neighborhood sachems powwowing at lunch. Mercer Kitchen still radiates serious heat with its mix of design types, food-world pros, bi-coastals (from the hotel above), and at the bar not so long ago, Jerry Seinfeld with that Gwyneth Paltrow person. Still primal at a geriatric twenty years, Indochine's waitresses are likely to be as stunning and/or exotic as its clientele of mannequins and their rotating sugars.

Canteen basks in the sunshine of its infancy. A consortium of veteran celebrity wranglers at the door jump to make Russell Simmons, Julia Roberts, Matt Dillon, Nicole Miller, Puff Daddy, and Jennifer Lopez feel happy. After a desultory early dinner and a more recent lunch of tasteless shrimp cocktail, imperfect burger, pretty good chili, and a cobb salad I couldn't stop eating, my conclusion is: It's not that good, but it's not so bad you'll be angry you came. The design definitely pulls this vast space together, but orange, brown, and chartreuse are three colors I hate. Overheard, one underwear-clad wisp to another: "Let's bring back the early nineties."

Looking for power and wattage? A contagion of media -- many small-screen types, magazine brass, and observant Boswells -- check into Michael's for lunch. The grubbier newsprint crew and the politicos that love them hang out late nights at evergreen Elaine's. At noon, a rabble of the rich and powerful from banking, real estate, home shopping, publishing, and underwear claim their "leased" tables in The Four Seasons' Grill Room. The kitchen still has its moments, but lately I find the staff has lost its practiced deference, its robotic perfection, and grown a bit casual, bemused, dare I say smart-alecky, spoiling the humble-retainer charade.

A small constellation of media stars -- Mary Boone, Diane Von Furstenberg, Anna Wintour, Si Newhouse, Liv Tyler -- blind, or indifferent, to the reality that the kitchen has ups and downs -- have made 25-year-old Da Silvano their neighborhood cantina. Sixteen years of feeding the high and the flighty has not jaded or puffed up the folks that run Il Cantinori. You might spy Susan Sarandon, Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, Woody, Gwyneth, Calvin, or Donna Karan in the candlelit dim of this faux-Tuscan farmhouse. I'm thrilled to find whole duck, "roasted standing up," as our agreeable waiter boasts, and one night's risotto suffused with the scent of wild mushrooms and truffle oil.

Which new young chef seems destined for Valhalla?

I find myself cheering for Wylie Dufresne, the 29-year-old comer who has brought uptown class to a rag-taggle block east of Delancey below Houston with tiny 71 Clinton Fresh Food. Dufresne went from the Gotham to Jean Georges, then was farmed out by Vongerichten to help launch Prime in Las Vegas. Now he's slinging rabbit tagliatelle, Scottish salmon mounded inside avocado, and aristocratic black bass in a rye-bread-and-edamame crust on a shoestring. From here, anything seems possible.

Forget genius for a moment and just contemplate New York's Great Gods of Pleasure. How settled and mature they are -- Jean-Georges Vongerichten, David Bouley, Alfred Portale, Daniel Boulud, Eric Ripert; yes, even 34-year-old Ripert. Dare I add Gramercy's Tom Collicchio, Terrance Brennan, Nobu Matsuhisa, Rocco DiSpirito at Union Pacific (his "chef's spontanée" tasting is a series of delicious shocks and surprises)? If asked to nominate the youngest star to the Great Whisks Hall of Fame, I'd have to tap Christian Delouvrier. At 53, Delouvrier is as loose and happy as a pig in truffles at Lespinasse, where he does just what he wants to do, with the goofy enthusiasm of a teenager. Even the room seems less fossilized. Taste the chef's amuse-bouche of lobster under intoxicating asparagus cream without moaning -- if you can. Exalt in the sensory roller-coaster of his truffles shiitake risotto with ama ebi shrimp lapped with an exquisite crustacean foam. Don't overlook the parmentier of beef stew with truffled mashed potatoes. I won't debate the morality of $18 desserts -- a Bronx cheer for audacity -- but I'm wild for the chocolate roasted-pear tartlet with its crumb crust and Pear William granité.

In a swamp of fusion cooking, don't you long for a trattoria?

At least once a week I need a simple untortured pasta or a Tuscan soup. Bar Pitti remains an unspoiled corner of Firenze. And the Maccioni clan's Osteria del Circo evokes Tuscany with enough New York-isms to disarm those who haven't a clue. Lupa is the trattoria of my dreams, and I like the party-animal vibe at Baraonda, where the food is always good enough. Trattoria Dell'Arte's kitchen is consistently reliable. (I like the way the staff caters to the whims of long-retired New York Times critic Craig Claiborne.) Mark Strausman's Jewish-mother sensibility and passion for la cucina Italiana keeps Campagna vibrant.

There's an unrelenting power scene at Coco Pao, where the kitchen does mostly quite well. "There's about $20 million in the room at any time," my friend the Wall Street voluptuary observes. We're seething from being ignored at the bar for 40 minutes while friends of the house amble in and get seated instantly, a Coco Pao tradition. Belatedly, the maître d' sees it's me and plies us with crostini and a bowl of luscious flash-fried mushrooms and herbs. Though the fish is dry and the waiter pushy, we like the raw-artichoke salad, the special stroapreti pasta, rigatoni alla buttera (sausage, peas, and cream), and a first-rate bistecca fiorentina with a side of Tuscan fries.