Nostalgic for a Bull-Market Side of Beef . . .
I sneak out of my apartment and go next door to Strip House to dine on David Walzog's opulent seared rib chop, which is filled with juicy flavor but charred on the outside to a peppery sirloin crisp. For pure beefeater elegance, you won't find anything better than the steak au poivre ($32) at Balthazar, with a sidecar of healthful spinach and a tangle of crispy golden frites.

For a proper communal feed, my wide-bodied friends and I repair to the MarkJoseph Steakhouse, just off Peck Slip in the South Street Seaport, where the mammoth porterhouse for four ($133) is pre-sliced, Peter Luger-style, on a hot platter, dripping in a sizzle of its own fat. There are baskets of squeezy Lugerlike onion rolls for additional comfort, and gravy boats of sweet red steak sauce -- a co-owner used to work at Luger's Long Island branch. There's even a smattering of wise guys in the crowd, with great white napkins spread expectantly over their bellies.

Midtown wise guys seem to be reconvening at Ken Aretsky's Patroon, newly refitted with a utilitarian glass-and-brick façade (plus flagpole), in a style we'll call firehouse chic. My overly charred sixteen-ounce sirloin didn't measure up to the hallowed prime cut at Sparks down the street. But the porterhouse was sawed in wide, satisfying slabs, and a wedge of the hatbox-size house New York cheesecake kept the four large gentlemen at my table busy with their spoons for half an hour, maybe more.

A Proper Italian Feast
I like the little bowl of sweet ricotta cheese served gratis to all the rowdy food scholars at Peasant on Elizabeth Street, and I'm also partial to the brick-oven-baked rabbit, stewed in cannellini beans with salty strips of pancetta, and the perfectly oval pizza bianca pooled with olive oil. A chaste bowl of gran farro soup (made with a sweet leavening of squash) was the best thing I ate at Beppe, in the Flatiron district, although my other fatso friends couldn't keep their hands off chef Cesare Casella's aggressively rustic Tuscan ribs (pork ribs braised in tomatoes and rosemary) and the pleasingly greasy lemon fried chicken, served fritto misto-style over a mound of fried green tomatoes.

Margherita Aloi, formerly of Le Madri, offers a more decorous take on Tuscan cuisine at the newly opened Arezzo, in Chelsea: creamy broccoli-flavored cavatelli with crumblings of sausage, little cones of fritto misto wrapped like popcorn in a twirl of paper, and salty slices of Tuscan steak, strewn with bits of crinkled dandelion and herb-covered Tuscan fries.

For pure strangeness, Pino Luongo's new Upper East Side establishment, Centolire, has a see-through elevator to transport diners all the way to the second floor, plus a curiously edible dessert composed of chocolate mousse bound in strips of caramelized eggplant. For a less radical form of sweetness, follow the Italian purists across the river to Al Di Là, in Park Slope, where, after an invariably satisfying dinner, you'll find glasses of the gooey Venetian ice-cream dessert called gianduiotto and fresh baked ricotta tarts flecked with orange and lemon zest.

For comforting pasta, I like the spinach-and-ricotta ravioli at Baldoria, the lasagna della nonna at Campagna, and the lemon spaghettini at Sandro's, laced with a confectioner's touch of cream and pecorino cheese. For everything else (chewy bucatini alla amatriciana, plump ricotta gnocchi with sausage and fennel), there's Lupa -- at lunchtime, of course, before the dinnertime hordes elbow in.

When Dining in Harlem . . .
The immaculately renovated Victorian townhouse that houses the Sugar Hill Bistro is lovely to look at, but at this early date, the restaurant's eagerly anticipated gourmet menu is mostly a mess (flat-tasting blackened salmon, chewy beef dishes, and tepid soups). Jimmy's Uptown remains the Toots Shor's of Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard, complete with shimmery nylon lampshades, luminous half-moon banquettes, and weirdly successful hybrid dishes like filet mignon and grits. The place for real pan-fried chicken, the neighborhood cognoscenti agree, is Charles' Southern Style Kitchen, although I always seem to miss the fabled Wednesday buffet, and never can get a table the other times I come. Instead, I end up standing on the sidewalk, gnawing my chicken from a flapping Styrofoam container. If it's a weekend night, you won't have much better luck fighting your way into Max SoHa, the new closet-size outpost of the East Village Italian joint, although the superior house ravioli are big as flapjacks, and it beats trying to bum rush your way into Rao's.

Want to tackle a wide range of the neighborhood's traditional delicacies in a single sitting? Travel up Lenox Avenue to Miss Maude's Spoonbread Too and order the mammoth sampler: $14.95 for a tasting of ribs, collard greens, smothered chicken, etc. For less traditional neighborhood dishes like soft corn tacos (more than ten varieties, including spicy pork, beef tongue, and tripe) and cheesy platters of chilaquiles (chicken or beef with salsa, served on strips of corn taco), drop into El Paso Taqueria, on the corner of 104th and Lexington. If you happen to be loitering around East 119th Street before lunchtime, indulge in a platter of juicy suckling pig at a little storefront establishment called El Rincón Boricua. The proprietors, Carmen and Luis Serrano, guard their singular pork recipes (fried pig tails are another house specialty) like the family jewels but say they are willing to sell out for a price. "I'm looking for the right deal," Carmen told me, as she ladled a heap of boiled cassava onto my plate. "My dream is to get into fashion. Cooking is just to pay the bills."

He Said, She Said
In restaurants, as in life, my wife and I often have opposite, though complementary, tastes. She is slim, decorous, and discerning; I'm hefty, unkempt, and omnivorous. No wonder her choice for a neighborhood gourmet dinner is usually Annisa, on Barrow Street, where Anita Lo continues to serve mysterious fusion creations -- lacquered squab with tea-smoked foie gras and candied walnuts; Shanghai soup dumplings, garnished with even more foie gras -- in a graceful dining space roughly the size of a commodious suburban garage.

When my austere Tyrolean mother-in-law comes to town, we reserve a table at Wallsé, Kurt Gutenbrunner's industrious little fiefdom on 11th Street, in the far West Village. There, the ladies can gaze at the spare, Adolph Loos-inspired interior, sip inventive cocktails with names like Forbidden Fig (Maker's Mark, fig purée, fig-infused balsamic vinegar), and nibble on savory strudels stuffed with mushrooms or fresh codfish. Recently, my wife's also been going bonkers for the blinilike potato-and-Gruyère dumplings (with crème fraîche and scallions for dipping) at Jane, on Houston Street. Aside from serving a roster of salads and three tasty varieties of eggs Benedict for brunch, this sleek new establishment is also conveniently named (we like to think) in honor of our 2-year-old daughter.

For exotic, big-budget occasions, we visit Jewel Bako, the precious, jewel-box sushiya on East 5th Street, in a former video store. Here, we dine on glittery slivers of toro and Jack mackerel dusted with citrus and ginger, Nobulike mounds of tuna tartare, and delicate after-dinner scoops of sake sorbet. Le Périgord on Sutton Place is her choice for a modest, Francophile dinner; for a gourmet three-course luncheon (preferably at one of the sunlit window tables), her favorite destination is Fleur de Sel, on lower Fifth Avenue. On a recent visit to this appealing establishment, $20 purchased a pillow of chestnut-and-white-truffle ravioli swimming in parsnip soup, a crisp sautéed country poussin in a sweet, pinkish foie gras sauce, and for dessert, an artfully constructed raspberry feuilleté, roughly the size of a commemorative postage stamp.