Lamu

On a too-cold evening I pass ABC Carpet and Home’s frou-frou, abundantly chandeliered windows, so pretty I’d like to live inside them, take a turn past its crowded and slick Pipa and cross the street to cozy and quieter Lamu. On entry into the many-votived and -mirrored, worn wooden-floored, low-lit restaurant, I see my dining companion at the bar talking to the bartendress, tasting wines, on the cellphone, daytimer and notebooks out, pen in hand. She says "Oh. I didn’t expect you so soon." I could leave. Blame it on the Broadway express train that seems to have me everywhere quick lately.

Perched on a retro dark red leather barstool, she settles on a glass of the ’98 El Coto Rioja ($8), smooth and full, like a plum lozenge. She had rejected the "Reds" blend from Laurel Glen, Sonoma Mountain ($6) as thin and bitter, "but maybe you should get it to see if it’s really bad." Now there’s a good idea ("I think this milk’s gone sour, here—try it..."). I opt instead for the Pomme-tini ($9), described on the cocktail menu as "lemon vodka, apple flavor, fresh lemon juice." A little sour, a little sweet, a little fizz, and its floating slices of green-skinned crisp apple are pleasantly crocked by drink’s end. There’s a constant shuttle of trays of these and cosmos from bar to dining room. But you could also sip the more season-appropriate Lamunation ($9) of dark rum, brandy, lemon juice and ginger. Wines are midrange; there are 10 bottles under $30 and many tables here are working on bottles of red. The list is conveniently divided into categories like "light/crisp" and "earthy/rich."

Although there are some pre-clubbers and afterworkers, for the most part the patrons are upper-middle-class boomers, casually sweater-and-khaki clad, about a third Jewish and a third black. "All these people look like I know them." They do look like people you would find in her living room. I avoid these kind of people, because they always assume you’ve read the op-ed page and want to discuss it with you. (My old boss used to stop by my desk in the morning with the incorrect assumption that I’d read that day’s business section. It was quickly made clear to me that familiarity with the Sunday business pages, at the very least, was a job requirement.) A large tray of bread holds an herbed ficelle, a crusty hard white roll and thick slices of rustic sourdough with a saucer of peppered virgin olive oil for dipping. We order the special appetizer, the cheese plate ($10), which has two wedges of smooth not crumbly blue cheese, which are perfectly accompanied by anised crackly wafers, a few dressed lettuce leaves of green and purple, a fan of juicy sliced pear and a winding row of lightly smoked almonds. "How do they decide to place the almonds like this?" "The chef says it shall be so." Other starters include butternut squash soup ($8) with quince, roasted chestnuts and scallions, and ravioli mascarpone and radicchio ($13) with diced quail and a truffle-infused sauce.

Entrees arrive and my pan-roasted codfish ($19) is so white and supple, but rich. The fish has been treated to a light saffron spice rub and comes over perhaps the homeliest vegetable, Jerusalem artichokes (that have a very pleasant taste somewhere between potato and artichoke, although they are stringier than either), and there’s a couple of tablespoons of cool chopped roasted red pepper adding color and flavor. There’s a good amount of thick tangy coral-colored sauce to dip into. (Internet cod trivia: you can tell how old a cod is from the annual growth rings on the white ear stones in its skull.) I think the cod is really good until I reach across the table to sample the black bass ($23). The thin fillets are piled high; they’re crispy on the outside, melty on the inside. Over and between the pieces of fish are hedgehog mushrooms and chopped fresh tomato. Under all is steamed swiss chard—a bit watery and bland; flavorful and nicely chewy fingerling potatoes and bits of slender scallions surround. The fish itself is a standout. (Internet bass trivia: larger bass are known to eat birds and mice.) Some other intriguing entree options are cocoa-spiced squab ($23) with pureed parsnips, beets and 25-year-old balsamic vinegar, and a rack of lamb ($24) with a fig and almond crust served with fennel, artichokes and tomatoes.

For our dessert, a thinnest slice of almond cake ($9) is topped by a pane of dark chocolate that’s covered with smooth hazelnut mousse that’s topped by another chocolate square and there’s a crispy wafer in there somewhere. Tart raspberries lay about the plate. It’s precious, but filling and tastes too good—I’m unable to practice any control whatever after a mouthful. Our waitress told us about two other desserts; I don’t remember what they were, but they involved poppy-seed cake and mousses and plum sorbet and pomegranates and ice cream and other good stuff. Cappuccinos and coffees are served up in tall and wide-mouthed glass mugs.

Service has been earnest and not at all intrusive. The pacing relaxed, and the soundtrack lounge and jazz. The knee-weakeningly charming manager pulls the heavy lacquered wood table out to release me. The hostess, who speaks and looks more like a Washington correspondent than a restaurant worker, retrieves our coats. Back in the cold, I say goodnight to my dining companion; we know we’ll see each other at an upcoming party. But she also says, "Let me know if you want to do something during the week," with an unexpected note of concern. Maybe I seem blue or light-deprived or something.

The Q whisks me back home and my supposed date calls, but at 11 still doesn’t know when he’ll be able to leave; working on some big deal or something, but how about tomorrow. When tomorrow comes, I meet him right back in Flatiron at Duke’s. It’s really crowded, loud in the bar, but a reasonable din in the dining room. There’re 45s on the ceiling, old vending machines, mason-jarred beers, huge flat bowls of yellow mac & cheese passing by, Atlanta vs. Philly on the big and plentiful tv’s and signs encouraging the consumption of Diet Rite Cola. My date tells me the owner of Duke’s also owns the very nearby City Crab, L’Express and Chango. I tell him that I was at Chango a couple of months ago for an overpriced so-so drink and laughably bad service. At Duke’s, the service is pleasant and fine. I have an ample chicken caesar with a little cayenne kick. He has a burger, but doesn’t put the tomato slices on it. And he likes the Dolphins. He’s very odd. A couple weeks ago I told him it wasn’t too late to become a New York fan and that I was willing to sponsor him, but he turned down the offer. He asks what did I do today. Well, I ventured out into the gloom to go to D’Agostino but didn’t actually buy a whole lot of meat or fish due to prohibitive prices. They might do better placing their wares at Sotheby’s: "I have here a 9-ounce shell steak. Let’s start the bidding at $8.15... Do I hear $9?" Almost cheaper to eat out. Walker’s at N. Moore and Varick offers an 8-ounce. Angus shell served on garlic crostinis with caramelized onions for $10.75.

For nightcaps, we head to the surreally wintry holiday decorated Rolf’s with Victorian dolls and Santas everywhere you look, one riding a scooter. One gent comes in and comments on the decor, "I wish I was tripping." I’ve been here before with Barb; she likes the sweeter German wines and I like the big puffy plate-covering German pancakes they turn out here. Tonight it’s a light and dry Pinot Grigio for me and some good dark flip-capped beer for my date. One of his old pals is there and my date’s college nickname is revealed. Mine remains a secret. When I was in school, I thought if I ignored it, it would just go away, but instead it spread like Norwalk virus. My date mentions he saw a Stroke at the laundromat. Last week Adam noted the proliferation of Strokes wannabes downtown, but I think he should take a closer look. I think he may be surrounded by actual Strokes; my friends seem to be bumping into them everywhere. Most recently uptown, at Ryan’s Daughter. Rolf’s bartender is really nice and pours everyone’s drinks right to the rim. Later I’m asked, "So did you like Duke’s?" "I liked the company and I liked my salad, but the Eagles were irritating me."

My date has to go into the office on Sunday, so the rest of the weekend is spent pondering the mysteries of life, like why does the White House still think Reaganomics works? Why do they find fiscal responsibility so distasteful? And why do people get tax deductions for having children, when families use up more resources than the child-free. Or, if you had a young phenom QB who couldn’t settle down by the half, even when he had some time he was still overthrowing, and you had a seasoned senior-citizen QB, who certainly had experience playing with intense pressure, suited up and ready to go, why would you not put him in? If things are going downhill anyway, why not try something else? Perhaps proximity to a black hole sucks the logic out of a coach’s brain. />