When Dining Without My Wife . . .
I wedge into one of the downstairs checkered-cloth-covered communal tables at D'Artagnan, in midtown, for juicy slabs of country lamb from the rotisserie, great bowls of "macaronade" (nuggets of foie gras and big tubes of ziti in a rich wild-mushroom sauce), or a crock of Ariane Daguine's hometown Gascogne cassoulet, filled with fat Tarbais beans, garlic duck sausage, and dense strips of duck confit.

Another favorite trencherman watering hole is the bar at Olives, at the Union Square W Hotel. Despite what my more refined foodie friends say -- "macho stadium food" is what one of them called it -- it's always a pleasure to sample pedestals of tuna tartare with a drizzling of sesame dressing and several crispy rock shrimp buried at the bottom, slow-braised beef shanks as big as softballs atop scoops of whipped hummus, in minty Greek-yogurt sauce, and Todd English's patented hamburger, which is smothered in sautéed onions and pressed between two squares of toasted panini.

Beacon, in midtown, is where I go for a furtive taste of the eighteen-ounce Argentinian "ranch-grazed" rib-eye ($29) and platter upon platter of the delicious mixed-sausage grill: smoked duck sausage, blood sausage, and generous cuts of coal-fired chorizo. When my brother and I need a quick seafood fix, we sidle up to the bar at Mary's Fish Camp, in the West Village, to grapple with a bowl of those messy lobster knuckles, followed by the giant, structurally challenged lobster roll and (if it's dinnertime) the impressive house bouillabaisse, stocked with lobster claws, mussels, and scallops as big as tangerines. Finally, there's the bar at Babbo, where it's always a pleasure to indulge in Mario Batali's favorite offal delicacies, like beef-cheek ravioli decked in truffle sauce, pig's feet Milanese (deboned, breaded, and flattened, as if by a steam roller), and a melty mass of veal-tripe Parmesan. My wife always averts her eyes when this controversial dish appears, but from a distance, after a glass or two of Barolo, I swear it looks almost picturesque.

What's Probably Cool Now
Ladies and gentleman of a certain age are frantically congregating in the tiny, cable-car-like dining rooms at Swifty's -- it's still the happening place for Upper East Side Hooray Henrys -- and I have to admit that my lunch of tasty creamed chicken hash was weirdly enlivened, on a recent visit, when Liz Smith herself came hurrying by, trailing eddies of perfume. A few blocks south, members of the younger, leather-jacketed set are swarming into Commissary to enjoy the stylishly simple cooking of Matthew Kenney (fresh halibut in lemon butter, seared foie gras with salty hazelnuts and a smear of red-currant jam, like some gourmet peanut-butter-and-jelly treat), even though the gloomy Donald Trump space resembles the hippest in late-night dining circa 1979.

The giant dracaena tree at The Park seems to be turning a little brown around the edges, but I liked the "red room," strung up with Chinese lanterns, and the pleasure of flipping through Eric Goode's complete set of National Geographic magazines while waiting for my sour-apple martini and a glass of perfectly decent wild-striped-bass seviche (seasoned with mint, pepper, and lots of lime) at the bar. Midway, on Charles Street in the West Village, may resemble a clamorous nightclub after hours, but the clean, economical dishes that emerge from Bill Schutz's kitchen (hanger steak with Belgian frites, monkfish with braised cabbage and bacon) are refreshingly gourmet.

I prefer the Pan-Asian kitsch motif at Tao to the Pan-Asian kitsch motif at Man Ray, although my perspective may be warped by having been banished several nights in a row to a table in Thierry Kléméniuk's conspicuously celebrity-free basement, next to a row of urns that look suspiciously like Mandarin chamber pots. As far as I could tell, there are no chamber pots at the new Moomba offshoot, TanDa, although the lanterns hung here and there in the former Park Avenue OTB parlor are actually old Vietnamese fishtraps. You can procure a semi-authentic bowl of green chicken curry at two in the morning, however, and a few of the South Asian fusion items on the menu (lacquered five-spice squab, Maine lobster dusted with green mango) don't taste nearly as grisly as they sound.

A Trip Around the World
If you're still a little shaky when it comes to air travel, but crave a slice of modern Amsterdam, just hop a taxi to Sullivan Street and squeeze into one of the sleek little café chairs at NL. You'll find quirky mounds of risotto laced with sauerkraut on the menu, an authentic sampling of Indonesian-inspired rijsttafel, even a modernist version of Dutch hare stew (hazenpeper) flavored with cloves and slices of roasted pear. In a Latin mood? The Mexican province of Veracruz is Zarela Martinez's latest obsession, although her new restaurant, Danzón, isn't nearly as much fun as Paladar, her son Aaron Sanchez's racy nuevo Latino rendition of the original Zarela uptown. Whenever my globetrotting parents want a taste of Turkey's Mediterranean coast -- where they have never been -- they make a beeline for the Dalga Seafood Grill, off First Avenue on 62nd Street, to contemplate the restaurant's soothing blue-and-white interior and devour the house seafood bohca (a savory seafood stew baked in phyllo) or platters of fresh grilled anchovies, flown in from the Black Sea. If you want a taste of semi-authentic old Morocco, visit the perpetually doomed restaurant space at 46 Gansevoort, which has recently been reinvented as Zitoune. You'll find a variety of decent tagines (try the veal cheeks, smothered in dates, honey, and almonds) and an alarmingly large (and not at all authentic) beef short rib, infused with lemon confit and cumin and brought to the table in a ceremonial ceramic urn.

Four Ways to Have a Proper Breakfast
For atmosphere, let's begin with a plate of beans on toast (two eggs optional) at Pastis, in the very early morning, with the big louver doors thrown open so you can watch the garbage trucks go trundling by.

For counter dining, a helping of buttered grits and salmon croquettes at the M&G Diner up on 125th Street, or a platter of huevos rancheros at the Bright Food Shop, in Chelsea, complete with two layers of soft tortilla, two eggs, and a melty mass of beans, sour cream, coriander, and Jack cheese. For nourishment, the fruit bar at The City Bakery, where you can load up on wedges of fresh papaya and mango before moving on to healthful bowls of mamaligah (advertised to me by the porridge lady as "Jewish grits") or a palatable Americanized variety of Thai congee (made with jasmine rice, with sprinklings of salty soy nuts or shaved coconut).

For brunch, my friend the egg nut swears by the Gruyère-and-mushroom omelette available weekends at Le Zinc. I'm partial to the hubcap-size portion of codfish hash at Diner, in Brooklyn, under the Williamsburg Bridge, the chiffon-light lemon ricotta pancakes at Five Points, on Great Jones Street, and the strips of real corned-beef hash, fried with cubes of potato, at Leshko's, off Tompkins Square Park. You can get most of this and more at the new brunch at Ouest (plus prosecco bellinis spiked with peach purée), and the narrow layout is diabolically designed to frustrate the usual brunchtime invasion of baby strollers.