M. Wells doesn’t look like much on the outside: a dusty chrome diner car in a stretch of long Island City that seems gray no matter the weather. The restaurant, owned by New Yorker Sarah Obraitis and Canadian Hugue Dofour, isn’t a looker on the inside, either. The only things distinguishing it from its greasy spoon past are a modern light fixture by the entrance and two communal tables set apart from the booths and counter stools. What is striking are the prices—shockingly affordable considering it’s the best breakfast in Queens.

The restaurant opened for breakfast just a few weeks ago, lunch was added shortly thereafter and obraitis and Dofour are awaiting a liquor license before starting dinner (and, one presumes, weekend brunch) service. Understandably, the menu—a paper placemat—is in a constant state of flux, in terms of items offered and prices charged. The piquant chilled tomatillo soup ($6) I loved is gone, and so are the dreadfully bland chicken-fried chicken skins ($9). The popular egg-and-sausage sandwich ($8), a gut-buster of housemade sage-andnutmeg sausage patty, Cheddar, mayo, heirloom tomato and pickled jalapenos on a homemade English muffin, costs a dollar more than it first did, as does the frozen custard ($4) from Corona’s Tommy O’s— though the price of a shake mysteriously remains the same at $5. Both are still more than worth the price, but I didn’t try the pickled pork tongue ($6), so you’ll have to tell me if it’s worth paying almost double the $3.50 it cost before I blinked my eye.

With the exception of that breakfast sandwich, most of the portions are small, so you’ll want to order a few dishes and share. An egg baked in a pot of bright tomato stew ($8), served with a baguette to mop up every delicious drop, is a great dish to do just that. The tortilla española ($5), a small, fluffy omelet with potato and onion, is also a good bet for passing around the table.

Then there is the restaurant’s take on eggs Benedict, so good you won’t want to share. My favorite of the variations is a perfectly cooked egg set atop a pile of sweet crabmeat and summer corn chowder, all of which rests on top of a shredded potato pancake, the whole thing doused with expert Hollandaise sauce ($12).

If lunch is your thing, a version of a cubano ($7) with fatty roasted pork, Mortadella, Swiss and juicy pickles is tasty; a hot dog ($5) on a buttered roll with cole slaw is also a good choice, though both suffer from not enough side options.

Billed as a Quebec-American diner, M. Wells doesn’t have much on the menu yet to prove it achieves that goal: scattered amongst the pan-cultural menu are a scant few Canadian dishes, like an unceremonious scoop of the pork terrine dish known in Quebec as Cretons ($5) and thick buckwheat crepes served swimming in a pool of maple syrup ($4), both of which are among the restaurant’s least successful offerings. What the menu lacks in focus, though, it more than makes up for in craft. M. Wells is simple food with good ingredients done exceptionally well at affordable (dare I say respectful) prices.

>> M. WELLS

21-17 49th Avenue (at 21st St.), Queens, 718-425-6917.

M. Wells doesn’t look like much on the outside: a dusty chrome diner car in a stretch of long Island City that seems gray no matter the weather. The restaurant, owned by New Yorker Sarah Obraitis and Canadian Hugue Dofour, isn’t a looker on the inside, either. The only things distinguishing it from its greasy spoon past are a modern light fixture by the entrance and two communal tables set apart from the booths and counter stools. What is striking are the prices—shockingly affordable considering it’s the best breakfast in Queens.

The restaurant opened for breakfast just a few weeks ago, lunch was added shortly thereafter and obraitis and Dofour are awaiting a liquor license before starting dinner (and, one presumes, weekend brunch) service. Understandably, the menu—a paper placemat—is in a constant state of flux, in terms of items offered and prices charged. The piquant chilled tomatillo soup ($6) I loved is gone, and so are the dreadfully bland chicken-fried chicken skins ($9). The popular egg-and-sausage sandwich ($8), a gut-buster of housemade sage-andnutmeg sausage patty, Cheddar, mayo, heirloom tomato and pickled jalapenos on a homemade English muffin, costs a dollar more than it first did, as does the frozen custard ($4) from Corona’s Tommy O’s— though the price of a shake mysteriously remains the same at $5. Both are still more than worth the price, but I didn’t try the pickled pork tongue ($6), so you’ll have to tell me if it’s worth paying almost double the $3.50 it cost before I blinked my eye.

With the exception of that breakfast sandwich, most of the portions are small, so you’ll want to order a few dishes and share. An egg baked in a pot of bright tomato stew ($8), served with a baguette to mop up every delicious drop, is a great dish to do just that. The tortilla española ($5), a small, fluffy omelet with potato and onion, is also a good bet for passing around the table.

Then there is the restaurant’s take on eggs Benedict, so good you won’t want to share. My favorite of the variations is a perfectly cooked egg set atop a pile of sweet crabmeat and summer corn chowder, all of which rests on top of a shredded potato pancake, the whole thing doused with expert Hollandaise sauce ($12).

If lunch is your thing, a version of a cubano ($7) with fatty roasted pork, Mortadella, Swiss and juicy pickles is tasty; a hot dog ($5) on a buttered roll with cole slaw is also a good choice, though both suffer from not enough side options.

Billed as a Quebec-American diner, M. Wells doesn’t have much on the menu yet to prove it achieves that goal: scattered amongst the pan-cultural menu are a scant few Canadian dishes, like an unceremonious scoop of the pork terrine dish known in Quebec as Cretons ($5) and thick buckwheat crepes served swimming in a pool of maple syrup ($4), both of which are among the restaurant’s least successful offerings. What the menu lacks in focus, though, it more than makes up for in craft. M. Wells is simple food with good ingredients done exceptionally well at affordable (dare I say respectful) prices.

>> M. WELLS

21-17 49th Avenue (at 21st St.), Queens, 718-425-6917.

TAKING A DATE to a bar you’re reviewing is not standard operating procedure for me, as such work entails a certain level of throwing sobriety to the wind for the evening. It also causes you, as deadline approaches, to immerse yourself in memories of a fun date that ultimately went nowhere.Writing about bars can often make you want to drink, but it’s not supposed to make you need one.

Since we’re talking about Henry Public, the bar in Cobble Hill brought to you by the gang behind Brooklyn Social, the tonic I currently crave is their Brooklyn Ferry ($11). A deep, dark mix of rye, antica vermouth, maraschino and absinthe topped off with a fiery twist of orange peel, the drink provides to this palate the kind of complex flavor journey wine connoisseurs seem to get from great vintages. It’s my favorite kind of cocktail: strange, strong and demanding of your attention. Perhaps it’s me in a glass. My date for the evening tasted it and said, “Wow,” before indicating it wasn’t really for him. Insert hidden meaning here. His first cocktail was the Public Smash ($10), a Yankee twist on the classic Southern Julep that employs maple syrup and bitters to refreshing effect. In retrospect, it was a safe and noncommittal choice: perfect for a guy just three weeks out of a long-term relationship. But I didn’t know that until after round two.

Speaking of Yankee sensibilities, the refurbished gas lamps, recovered wood furnishings and crackly, old-timey music lend the bar a cozy warmth that combines with the potent cocktails to erase any wintery malaise. Unlike so many glossy, Prohibition throwback bars devoted to the slow cocktail movement—Brooklyn Social included—Henry Public radiates a more casual, heartening glow. Some of the bartenders do dress in that speakeasy drag, but it’s hard to quibble about anachronisms when people around you are taking pictures of their grilled cheese & apple sandwiches ($8) with their iPhones. Be charmed that the proprietors have embraced the theme hard enough to list a burger and fries as a “hamburger sandwich served with French fried potatoes” ($13-$16) and order another round of drinks to help you ignore any thematic hiccups that may occur.

You might want to avoid my second cocktail:The Oddfellow ($10), a too-tart mix of rum and maraschino with citrus juices. It got better as I got tipsier (as most things do), which is probably why I didn’t notice my date didn’t bother to sample the sour drink, and who can blame him? Oddfellows are an acquired taste, to be sure. My date’s second cocktail, a Ward Six ($10), is a nod to the Ward Eight cocktail and tastes like washing down a handful of white gummy bears with a swig of orange juice, which I mean in the best way possible. It’s sweet and tangy and childlike, a perfect choice for a guy who plays immature instant message games after ending your date with a kiss.

For our third round, I went for Beecher’s Tonic ($10), mostly because I’m a sucker for Pimm’s. It’s a bracing and light mix of the ginbased liquor with lime, Curacao and cider.The polar opposite of my first cocktail, it was cheery and fun (just like me!) and in retrospect tastes like denial. My date asked the bartender to whip up a non-alcoholic treat for him, and a few questions about what flavors he likes later, was presented with a personalized fizzy mocktail ($6). Is it the drink choice of someone who has already cashed out on the date at hand, or someone who has drunkenly realized they’re on a date too soon after a break-up? Unclear, but I do know a mocktail is the choice of those who can’t keep up with someone like me.

I won’t pretend that I’m likely to make the voyage out to Henry Public again. It’s a place for locals, like the nice guy you date because he lives down the street from you. It’s nice and warm and does the job, but you probably wouldn’t make the effort if it weren’t so easy to get to. And personally, I’m looking for something worth all the effort.

>Henry Public

329 Henry St. (betw. Atlantic Ave. & Pacific St.), Brooklyn, 718-852-8630.

Bartenders Miss Alyssa and Mike "Moose" Simpson.

TAKING A DATE to a bar you’re reviewing is not standard operating procedure for me, as such work entails a certain level of throwing sobriety to the wind for the evening. It also causes you, as deadline approaches, to immerse yourself in memories of a fun date that ultimately went nowhere.Writing about bars can often make you want to drink, but it’s not supposed to make you need one.

Since we’re talking about Henry Public, the bar in Cobble Hill brought to you by the gang behind Brooklyn Social, the tonic I currently crave is their Brooklyn Ferry ($11). A deep, dark mix of rye, antica vermouth, maraschino and absinthe topped off with a fiery twist of orange peel, the drink provides to this palate the kind of complex flavor journey wine connoisseurs seem to get from great vintages. It’s my favorite kind of cocktail: strange, strong and demanding of your attention. Perhaps it’s me in a glass. My date for the evening tasted it and said, “Wow,” before indicating it wasn’t really for him. Insert hidden meaning here. His first cocktail was the Public Smash ($10), a Yankee twist on the classic Southern Julep that employs maple syrup and bitters to refreshing effect. In retrospect, it was a safe and noncommittal choice: perfect for a guy just three weeks out of a long-term relationship. But I didn’t know that until after round two.

Speaking of Yankee sensibilities, the refurbished gas lamps, recovered wood furnishings and crackly, old-timey music lend the bar a cozy warmth that combines with the potent cocktails to erase any wintery malaise. Unlike so many glossy, Prohibition throwback bars devoted to the slow cocktail movement—Brooklyn Social included—Henry Public radiates a more casual, heartening glow. Some of the bartenders do dress in that speakeasy drag, but it’s hard to quibble about anachronisms when people around you are taking pictures of their grilled cheese & apple sandwiches ($8) with their iPhones. Be charmed that the proprietors have embraced the theme hard enough to list a burger and fries as a “hamburger sandwich served with French fried potatoes” ($13-$16) and order another round of drinks to help you ignore any thematic hiccups that may occur.

You might want to avoid my second cocktail:The Oddfellow ($10), a too-tart mix of rum and maraschino with citrus juices. It got better as I got tipsier (as most things do), which is probably why I didn’t notice my date didn’t bother to sample the sour drink, and who can blame him? Oddfellows are an acquired taste, to be sure. My date’s second cocktail, a Ward Six ($10), is a nod to the Ward Eight cocktail and tastes like washing down a handful of white gummy bears with a swig of orange juice, which I mean in the best way possible. It’s sweet and tangy and childlike, a perfect choice for a guy who plays immature instant message games after ending your date with a kiss.

For our third round, I went for Beecher’s Tonic ($10), mostly because I’m a sucker for Pimm’s. It’s a bracing and light mix of the ginbased liquor with lime, Curacao and cider.The polar opposite of my first cocktail, it was cheery and fun (just like me!) and in retrospect tastes like denial. My date asked the bartender to whip up a non-alcoholic treat for him, and a few questions about what flavors he likes later, was presented with a personalized fizzy mocktail ($6). Is it the drink choice of someone who has already cashed out on the date at hand, or someone who has drunkenly realized they’re on a date too soon after a break-up? Unclear, but I do know a mocktail is the choice of those who can’t keep up with someone like me.

I won’t pretend that I’m likely to make the voyage out to Henry Public again. It’s a place for locals, like the nice guy you date because he lives down the street from you. It’s nice and warm and does the job, but you probably wouldn’t make the effort if it weren’t so easy to get to. And personally, I’m looking for something worth all the effort.

>Henry Public

329 Henry St. (betw. Atlantic Ave. & Pacific St.), Brooklyn, 718-852-8630.

Bartenders Miss Alyssa and Mike "Moose" Simpson.

My first visit to Greenpoint’s Blackout Bar did not go well.The new bar, brought to us by the people behind clothing boutique Oak, was the site of an event that brought such a swarm of thirsty, hirsute homosexuals that the bartenders were slammed, unable to keep up even a little with the simple cocktail demands of their patrons, so much so that I ignored the well-curated selection of liquor behind the bar and ordered a boring old vodka and soda. I’m happy to report that subsequent visits led to much more positive results.

On a normal evening, this Manhattan Avenue establishment hosts a polysexual amalgam of plaid-clad locals, college kids taking advantage of the all day $5 special of a well shot and a Schlitz and homosexuals of every stripe. DJs here seem to favor straight up party music—not one of my three visits went by without hearing at least one tune by Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam.Which is to say, the place is far more laidback than you might think.

My beer-drinking companions complimented the bar’s choice of European brews on tap, but I’m a cocktail man at heart so I went straight for the specialty cocktail list.The Big Easy ($8) is a sweeter (though not sweet), fruitier take on a Manhattan with rye, muddled cherries and the ginger liqueur Domaine De Canton. More interesting is The Orchard ($8), a twist on apple cider made with Appleton rum, apple juice and Pimm’s. Speaking of Pimm’s, the bar is often so overheated that a summery Pimm’s Cup ($9) might be in order. It’s not on the specialty list, but someone will gladly whip one up for you, and I must say I quite enjoyed the muddled cucumber the friendly bartenders employed, giving mine a light, refreshing vibe that went down far too easily. Blackout indeed.

Speaking of blackouts, the name also nods to the design aesthetic, as the entire establishment is swathed in black: black-painted tin ceilings, black floors, black walls and black leather banquettes in the front area giving way to the even darker (and quieter) back area filled with even more leather banquettes. A back patio for smoking closes very early but it is a nice treat to have while it lasts.

Blackout Bar is most definitely a come-asyou-are place to spend your evening (and drinking money).Whatever your preference, be it boys, girls, cheap beer or well-made cocktails, as long as you avoid the place when it hosts big events, you’ll have a grand time that you may or may not remember fully the next day. But blame it on all that murky darkness; the alcohol never did anything to you.

–
Blackout Bar
916 Manhattan Ave. (betw. Kent St. & Greenpoint Ave.), Brooklyn, 718-383-0254.

My first visit to Greenpoint’s Blackout Bar did not go well.The new bar, brought to us by the people behind clothing boutique Oak, was the site of an event that brought such a swarm of thirsty, hirsute homosexuals that the bartenders were slammed, unable to keep up even a little with the simple cocktail demands of their patrons, so much so that I ignored the well-curated selection of liquor behind the bar and ordered a boring old vodka and soda. I’m happy to report that subsequent visits led to much more positive results.

On a normal evening, this Manhattan Avenue establishment hosts a polysexual amalgam of plaid-clad locals, college kids taking advantage of the all day $5 special of a well shot and a Schlitz and homosexuals of every stripe. DJs here seem to favor straight up party music—not one of my three visits went by without hearing at least one tune by Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam.Which is to say, the place is far more laidback than you might think.

My beer-drinking companions complimented the bar’s choice of European brews on tap, but I’m a cocktail man at heart so I went straight for the specialty cocktail list.The Big Easy ($8) is a sweeter (though not sweet), fruitier take on a Manhattan with rye, muddled cherries and the ginger liqueur Domaine De Canton. More interesting is The Orchard ($8), a twist on apple cider made with Appleton rum, apple juice and Pimm’s. Speaking of Pimm’s, the bar is often so overheated that a summery Pimm’s Cup ($9) might be in order. It’s not on the specialty list, but someone will gladly whip one up for you, and I must say I quite enjoyed the muddled cucumber the friendly bartenders employed, giving mine a light, refreshing vibe that went down far too easily. Blackout indeed.

Speaking of blackouts, the name also nods to the design aesthetic, as the entire establishment is swathed in black: black-painted tin ceilings, black floors, black walls and black leather banquettes in the front area giving way to the even darker (and quieter) back area filled with even more leather banquettes. A back patio for smoking closes very early but it is a nice treat to have while it lasts.

Blackout Bar is most definitely a come-asyou-are place to spend your evening (and drinking money).Whatever your preference, be it boys, girls, cheap beer or well-made cocktails, as long as you avoid the place when it hosts big events, you’ll have a grand time that you may or may not remember fully the next day. But blame it on all that murky darkness; the alcohol never did anything to you.

–
Blackout Bar
916 Manhattan Ave. (betw. Kent St. & Greenpoint Ave.), Brooklyn, 718-383-0254.

RESTO IS CURRENTLY serving a perfectly seasonal dish: a rich and meaty, sweet-and-savory tart made with pork, onions, cheddar, oats and pears. Oh, and blood.

If that ingredient makes you squeamish, you are not alone. “It tastes better with beer,” says Chef Bobby Hellen, possibly noting my apprehension. Despite the early hour, I acquiesce under the excuse of “Chef Knows Best.”The bartender presents me with a Rare Vos, a New York state beer served at this Belgian-inspired restaurant in Murray Hill.

The boudin noir tart ($13) arrives shortly thereafter, a flaky tart crust filled to the brim with a suspiciously reddishbrownish mixture.The scent of toasted butter and pear caramel wafting up alluringly, I pick up my fork and gingerly take a bite.The smooth and fatty texture resembles refried beans, but tastes far sweeter and slightly musky.The crumble topping of oats and cheddar provides a crunch both tangy and nutty, and the pearcaramel gives a bracing bite of fresh sweetness that blends nicely with the cinnamon and clove in the meat filling. My bites grow less tentative, and I inquire about how the dish is made. It’s when Hellen casually tosses off the phrase “emulsify the blood” that I realize I haven’t touched my beer.The fork goes down, the beer glass goes up. Emulsify the blood, you say?

What inspired this Staten Island-bred chef to add boudin noir to his menu? “There’s definitely no blood sausage out there,” Hellen explains, adding that he’d made a variation of this dish for a fancy Andorra pig-cooking event. “When I served it,” he says with a twinkle in his eye, “all 20 judges went silent. And I thought to myself, ‘When all the judges go silent…I think I’m going to put this on the menu.’” Though Hellen is quick to point out that Resto itself isn’t so fancy-schmancy. Sure, the restaurant uses the same carefully sourced proteins and produce other restaurants fetishistically trumpet on their menus, but the vibe is much more casual at this small gastropub. “Food is supposed to be fun, shared with friends and family,” Hellen says emphatically. “People have made it so fucking stuck-up. Eat with total strangers! You’ll probably have a better meal.”

Meanwhile, my fork has found its will again.The dish is compulsively strange and complex, the kind you keep eating not out of hunger but because it’s so damn good.With all that blood—“Pure protein,” Hellen says —the tart also provides a bit of a power boost, like a less homey (and horny) version of the True Blood hunter’s soufflé, without the demonic possession and cannibalistic ecstasy.

Remembering the lessons of gluttony that plotline provided, I place my fork down for the last time and ask if the dish is popular. “It’s not the burger, but it is popular,” Hellen answers, not entirely convincingly. I pick up my fork for one last nibble. It might not be popular, but it is great. Oh, and bloody.

> Resto

111 E. 29th St. (betw. Park & Lexington Aves.), 212-685-5585, www.restonyc.com.

RESTO IS CURRENTLY serving a perfectly seasonal dish: a rich and meaty, sweet-and-savory tart made with pork, onions, cheddar, oats and pears. Oh, and blood.

If that ingredient makes you squeamish, you are not alone. “It tastes better with beer,” says Chef Bobby Hellen, possibly noting my apprehension. Despite the early hour, I acquiesce under the excuse of “Chef Knows Best.”The bartender presents me with a Rare Vos, a New York state beer served at this Belgian-inspired restaurant in Murray Hill.

The boudin noir tart ($13) arrives shortly thereafter, a flaky tart crust filled to the brim with a suspiciously reddishbrownish mixture.The scent of toasted butter and pear caramel wafting up alluringly, I pick up my fork and gingerly take a bite.The smooth and fatty texture resembles refried beans, but tastes far sweeter and slightly musky.The crumble topping of oats and cheddar provides a crunch both tangy and nutty, and the pearcaramel gives a bracing bite of fresh sweetness that blends nicely with the cinnamon and clove in the meat filling. My bites grow less tentative, and I inquire about how the dish is made. It’s when Hellen casually tosses off the phrase “emulsify the blood” that I realize I haven’t touched my beer.The fork goes down, the beer glass goes up. Emulsify the blood, you say?

What inspired this Staten Island-bred chef to add boudin noir to his menu? “There’s definitely no blood sausage out there,” Hellen explains, adding that he’d made a variation of this dish for a fancy Andorra pig-cooking event. “When I served it,” he says with a twinkle in his eye, “all 20 judges went silent. And I thought to myself, ‘When all the judges go silent…I think I’m going to put this on the menu.’” Though Hellen is quick to point out that Resto itself isn’t so fancy-schmancy. Sure, the restaurant uses the same carefully sourced proteins and produce other restaurants fetishistically trumpet on their menus, but the vibe is much more casual at this small gastropub. “Food is supposed to be fun, shared with friends and family,” Hellen says emphatically. “People have made it so fucking stuck-up. Eat with total strangers! You’ll probably have a better meal.”

Meanwhile, my fork has found its will again.The dish is compulsively strange and complex, the kind you keep eating not out of hunger but because it’s so damn good.With all that blood—“Pure protein,” Hellen says —the tart also provides a bit of a power boost, like a less homey (and horny) version of the True Blood hunter’s soufflé, without the demonic possession and cannibalistic ecstasy.

Remembering the lessons of gluttony that plotline provided, I place my fork down for the last time and ask if the dish is popular. “It’s not the burger, but it is popular,” Hellen answers, not entirely convincingly. I pick up my fork for one last nibble. It might not be popular, but it is great. Oh, and bloody.

> Resto

111 E. 29th St. (betw. Park & Lexington Aves.), 212-685-5585, www.restonyc.com.

Though she made no stipulation regarding my reporting her age (I won’t), the Norwegian singer-songwriter wasn’t too keen about me reporting that the gig was the same day as her birthday until she realized the interview wouldn’t be in print until after the occasion had passed. “I wouldn’t like all that attention!” she said, improbably for any pop singer.

But then Annie isn’t your average pop singer. Commercially unsuccessful in the U.S., her debut album Anniemal garnered critical adoration: Pitchfork named her track “Heartbeat” song of the year in 2004 before the album had even been released domestically. For Don’t Stop, she reteamed with collaborators from her Anniemal days and added a few new ones to the mix: Alex Kapranos of Franz Ferdinand, fellow Norwegians Datarock and the U.K. collective known as Xenomania.  She was also more open about the record label issues that led to the lengthy delay of the album, originally slated for 2008.

“Record labels these days don’t know what they want, but they don’t trust you as the artist either,” she said. “They wanted something that sounded like Justice, something more modern and then I’d send some more songs. It was never enough for them. I probably wrote 100 songs for this album. But I got all the rights back, and am putting the record out on my own now.” A few of those unused songs are included on the EP All Night, also released last week.

“I had only written one song [“Songs Remind Me of  You”] for the album when I decided I was going to call the album Don’t Stop,” she said between bites of trout. “And then when everything happened with the label it took on a new meaning.”

What’s on the horizon now that the album has been released? “I’m going to keep working with Xenomania, and I’m writing for some other artists,” she said, having moved on to raspberry sorbet. “I can’t say who yet, but I think you’ll be happy about who it is.” Considering our conversation spanned everyone from Holy Fuck to the sisters Knowles, the mind boggles with possibilities.

It was 2:30 in the morning and the crowd at the Tribeca Grand was grooving to the third consecutive song that the birthday girl had a hand in creating. The moment lacked any postmodern irony and didn’t reek of egomaniacal self-promotion, both common—if not required—qualities in a modern pop star. Annie was just a birthday girl sipping white wine and playing records, hanging out with some dude in a mask right out of Equus. Nope, not your average pop singer at all.

Though she made no stipulation regarding my reporting her age (I won’t), the Norwegian singer-songwriter wasn’t too keen about me reporting that the gig was the same day as her birthday until she realized the interview wouldn’t be in print until after the occasion had passed. “I wouldn’t like all that attention!” she said, improbably for any pop singer.

But then Annie isn’t your average pop singer. Commercially unsuccessful in the U.S., her debut album Anniemal garnered critical adoration: Pitchfork named her track “Heartbeat” song of the year in 2004 before the album had even been released domestically. For Don’t Stop, she reteamed with collaborators from her Anniemal days and added a few new ones to the mix: Alex Kapranos of Franz Ferdinand, fellow Norwegians Datarock and the U.K. collective known as Xenomania.  She was also more open about the record label issues that led to the lengthy delay of the album, originally slated for 2008.

“Record labels these days don’t know what they want, but they don’t trust you as the artist either,” she said. “They wanted something that sounded like Justice, something more modern and then I’d send some more songs. It was never enough for them. I probably wrote 100 songs for this album. But I got all the rights back, and am putting the record out on my own now.” A few of those unused songs are included on the EP All Night, also released last week.

“I had only written one song [“Songs Remind Me of  You”] for the album when I decided I was going to call the album Don’t Stop,” she said between bites of trout. “And then when everything happened with the label it took on a new meaning.”

What’s on the horizon now that the album has been released? “I’m going to keep working with Xenomania, and I’m writing for some other artists,” she said, having moved on to raspberry sorbet. “I can’t say who yet, but I think you’ll be happy about who it is.” Considering our conversation spanned everyone from Holy Fuck to the sisters Knowles, the mind boggles with possibilities.

It was 2:30 in the morning and the crowd at the Tribeca Grand was grooving to the third consecutive song that the birthday girl had a hand in creating. The moment lacked any postmodern irony and didn’t reek of egomaniacal self-promotion, both common—if not required—qualities in a modern pop star. Annie was just a birthday girl sipping white wine and playing records, hanging out with some dude in a mask right out of Equus. Nope, not your average pop singer at all.