Am I a wuss to worry about street food?
I've survived street-food crawls in Beijing, Hanoi, and even Rajasthan. But maybe it takes a reckless lifetime to build up immunity. Binge without fear on the sensational Indian snacks at Mirchi in the Village. Start with some chats (chat means "to lick" in Hindi): dahi batata poori (chutney-and-yogurt-topped potato in little pufflets), bhel poori (puffed rice tossed with onion, tomato, and all sorts of fragrant stuff), and mung jhinga (tamarind-sauced shrimp and sprouts). Then watch the chef do a Ringo with his spatula on the black metal griddle as he makes your spicy chicken or lamb tak-a-tak. Dhokla, chickpea-flour cakes from Gujarat, make an elegant contrast. You won't need to count to know there are 30 red chilies on the fabulous jaipuri lal mass. Now we'll see who's a wuss.

I miss my breakfast on the Boulevard St-Germain.
Then sleepwalk to Pastis, yet another mirage by Keith McNally, on a cobblestone street of the meatpacking district. It's not Balthazar, my bistro favorite, not as glamorous, not as reliable. But for goodness sake, it's cheaper and the famous faces still inch through the throng to claim your spot while you wait a bit longer. And just like Balthazar, it's a haven at breakfast weekdays. Borrow a paper or a French journal at the door and sip café au lait in a soup bowl, with a buttered tartine or a Balthazar pain au chocolat or eggs any way with home fries. (But be warned: The crew seemed maddeningly elusive and hungover one recent Saturday.)

I really owe this guy, and he only eats fish.
Go for broke and get your money's worth at Le Bernardin, where chef Eric Ripert dives for new and deeper nuances of poetry all the time. His pure is never simple. It's perfectly rare salmon in a pot-au- feu heady with thinnest sticks of fresh black truffle, or warm smoked Scottish salmon on green lentils in a sauce of black truffles and foie gras. It's seared rare hamachi sprinkled with baby arugula and shaved fennel in a quirky sauce vierge of orange, pine nuts, and Parmesan. And when you're feeling flush, order the salmon-and-caviar croque monsieur ($50 extra on the $77 prix fixe).

Sea creatures find a higher destiny at Cello, too. After one year, the deadly seriousness has relaxed -- no need to whisper anymore. The $75 prix fixe dazzle begins with a tiny plop of intensely smoky brandade topped with caviar, encircled with a trickle of fruity green olive oil. Blue cheese in a scallop salad with walnuts, bacon, and infant greenery? Sounds awful. Au contraire. Acacia honey does something mystical to Chilean sea bass with parsnip purée. Rarely is lobster so tenderly grilled. (So the occasional overcooking is a surprise.) An aggressively tart carameline of lavender custard bathed in honey, lime juice, and zest clears the senses for a parade of desserts and small orange-blossom beignets that must be eaten warm.

If he's a hopeless old fogy locked into clubhouse routine, widen his horizon with lunch at the Sea Grill, looking out at Prometheus and the skaters. He might feel, shall we say, rudely exposed sitting at that wide-angle picture window in the new streamline of frosted sea-foam glass. But he'll relax once he settles on a cushy leather seat with his favorite highball and a patrician shrimp cocktail or a plump, barely adulterated crab cake while you indulge in sybaritic salmon-belly tartare. Dover sole à la plancha is just the old-fashioned classic he can handle. And insist he try chef Edward Brown's crusty portobello fries.

By the way, when I don't have friends with venture capital to invest in dinner, my guy and I share half a dozen raw-seafood plates at Esca, where the décor is nothing special but we love linguine with cockles, red-hot peppers, and pancetta, or bucatini with spicy baby octopus.

Who's your hero of the year?
Douglas Rodriguez looms large, now that his seviche fixation at Chicama and a rambunctious riff on tapas at Pipa have ABC Home's cash registers singing a salsa beat. As far as I can tell, someone hung a few oozing hams, and suddenly fusty old Miss Havisham's Parlour looks like Madrid. On a Saturday night, Rodriguez rushes from Chicama's sardine-packed bar to pandemonium at no-reservations Pipa. That clever house giveaway of sherry reminds us of long-ago sherry-fueled passions in Spain. So now we're drinking our way through the inventory of nutty and pruny and sweet, happy with almost everything that hits our bare wood table, from savory flat breads and lush bacalao-filled crepas to meltingly tender octopus à la gallego, stuffed baby calamari in ink, and a mini-paella. If I had my way, I'd shave a dollar off every price (for the trauma of waiting) or take reservations.

Is there anything you won't eat?
Cottage cheese is about it. Of course, I've never been confronted with dog or sheep's eye. Loyal readers will testify that I've fought bitterly and in vain against herbs in dessert: bay-leaf sauce, candied cilantro, rosemary crème brûlée. Frankly, I'm floored by the fuss over British chef Paul Liebrandt's nightmarish pairings at Atlas. Yet I'm forced to confess that the weirdest of all -- wasabi sorbet with green apple, a scattered sea-salt crunch, and a drop of olive oil -- is actually, against all odds, delicious. Seasoned sensibilities reject the very idea of langoustine and rouget tempura on pumpkin gelée in a bath of cinnamon beurre blanc, though I must admit it works. Alas, parsley-and-licorice soup does not. Nor did the poached quail egg with black-truffle tempura in a demitasse spoon. Or bland slices of veal and sweetbreads in caramelized tea jus. So many challenging tastes and dangerous liaisons leave me wanting to flee to a tuna-fish sandwich and trashy TV in my very own bed. Pray with me that our town's copycat chefs don't make this an irreversible trend.

I want to impress my boss with a new bivouac for breakfast.
One c.p.s. is making a spirited bid to lure early-morning kingpins and dealmakers to the Plaza with yogurt-fruit gratin and banana-raspberry pancakes, as well as the usual options. And a siege of new boutique hotels would love to flip your egg-white omelette. At District, in the Muse hotel, you can get fried eggs, bacon, and cheese on a kaiser roll with tater tots, or pumpkin waffles with chestnut butter. Oatmeal is just $4. Todd English ventures organic-carrot waffles with double-whipped goat cheese, roasted bananas-Foster polenta, and peanut-butter pancakes with cocoa butter at Olives in the Union Square W hotel. Heartbeat, at the W on Lex, coddles the prudent with "well-being" house-made organic granola with goat's-milk yogurt, wheat-grass juice, and a smoothie with immunity supplement. Its "light pastel egg omelette" blends one measly yolk with three whites -- not enough to alarm the nutrition police.