Once shellacked and stoned but now AA or at least reasonably sober, the scattered survivors of the seventies parade their youngish sweeties at Tao -- grateful for a vibrating hangout so close to home, yes, right here in midtown. I pretend I am joking when I tease one owner that the place looks like it used all the rejected tchotchkes from Ruby Foo's. Still, I love the theatrical feel of the movie-house space and the pulsating beat -- shades of Xenon and Studio redux. And if you kind of squint your eyes, the Buddha doesn't look that lame. Executive chef Sam Hazen (partners here with Angelo & Maxie's veteran Marc Packer) still had a lot of tweaking to do on the pan-Asian menu when I visited, but even so, we loved crisp-fried oysters in fabulous cucumber shiso nests, uzaku (a warmed dice of savory eel in a bowl), the charred Chilean sea bass, an angry dragon roll, our live-wire waiter, and small, almost melting chunks of Kobe beef with wasabi sauce.

For a certain crowd, Lotus is storm center. I couldn't take the torturous din on my one visit and have yet to return. Though I'm happy for the astonishing resurrection of Mr. Chow -- I'd forgotten how beautiful it is -- I was only impressed by the cooking for about fifteen minutes. And I don't derive validation by rubbing up against trust-fund debs and aging preppies, nor a hip-hop crew with drooping pants waiting for Puff Daddy.

On some nights, you have to show a room key or truly be on Hudson Cafeteria's reservation list to get past the door muscle and ascend into Ian Schrager's cleverest move yet. Who cares that the ceiling's so close in the bar -- Philippe Starck's Adirondack fantasy is brilliant. And the library with its lilac pool table is three Knicks tall and marvelous too. Parked in the middle of a communal table for dinner, I am reminded of long afternoons at the library -- only here there are oatmeal, coffee, and tomato cans on the shelves instead of books. Not expecting much from the food, I'm not at all disappointed. Indeed, the braised lamb shank on tomato risotto is respectable, and I love the pineapple upside-down cake with pecans, dried cherries, and cardamom.

Madison Square Park may be too far from home for the Upper East Side Euromachers expected to heat up Chazal, the bratty offspring of Ferrier and Bice. For me, it's too dark to see the menu, too loud to speak, and I taste nothing I need to eat again. For a few minutes I'm sure the maître d' is in love with me. Then I realize he can't keep his hands off any of us.

Once I manage to feel my way down the last three unlit black steps at Chinoiserie (below the Hotel Giraffe), I can see it really looks hot. Even hellish. But that could just be because everything glows red. I struggle to read the menu in the glow of a candle floating amongst the rose petals in the shallow pond that marks the center of every table. Oops. The duck sauce tumbles in. Unhappily, chef Marc Murphy, who promised to be the next rage at the now-defunct La Fourchette, is in the dark here too. Pissaladière with fried dried shrimp? Creamy seafood spring rolls with tarragon essence? I don't think so. What's next? Egg-foo-yung sorbet?

Sometimes all I want is a major slab of meat.
Even before Jane Brody became my primary-care physician (back when neither of us had heard of cholesterol), I was just an underpaid scrivener forced to order from the right side of the menu and steak was a rare treat. Now at the mercy of so many auteur chefs foaming to top one another in audacity, I find myself humbled and fulfilled by a recognizable hunk of cow. Memorable encounters recently: a straightforward sirloin for two -- simply perfect -- at the Palm West. The still-quivering double porterhouse at Morton's of Chicago. A smartly charred sirloin at Michael Jordan's and a shockingly remarkable strip on an otherwise amateur night at Del Frisco's.

But this year's absolute knockouts are Baldoria's seared mahogany 54-ounce rib chop ($67), bulging like a major biceps, that arrives naked on its cutting board, and the 54-ounce Manhattan cut for two at Shelly's New York ($65). It comes "Shelly's way" (with frizzled onions) or "the Florentine" (with arugula and balsamic vinegar) on a china platter. So okay, certain refined types will be offended by such muchness. Not me, though this marbled prime is so rich I rarely can handle more than one slice. I share with the table, then tote away what's left for the first street person I see. Let me also shortlist the chili-rubbed sirloin at Tapika (love those chickpea fries) and the wood-oven sizzler my mate and I contentedly share at Beacon.

So many new steakhouses -- any standouts from the herd?
Imitation is the most sincerely fattening flattery. I can barely keep up. But of those I've braved so far, Tuscan Steak -- a grand duplex with a Cow Parade statue at the door and jaw-dropping family-style platters -- looks like a possible winner. (If, that is, the house ever masters the pacing. We got hit with three courses all at once.) The place has the grand sweep and the vibe of its sibling, China Grill, plus the sexy airiness and wraparound-balcony bar of Asia de Cuba -- in a neighborhood that needs it. Listen to your waiter, green as he is, when he warns you not to over-order. "Small" means big. "Large" must be meant for the Jets' training table. The roasted-garlic purée is library paste, the mixed antipasto hit-and-miss. But our quartet agreed we'd return for white-truffle garlic bread, the slightly oversaucy Caesar with an anchovy for each of us, remarkably al dente tomato-strewn bucatini, and the marvelous 28-ounce Florentine T-bone, with a drift of smoked-onion mashed potatoes big enough to sink the Titanic.