Though Starbucks can certainly take the credit for making it so convenient for us to obtain our daily caffeine fix—you can’t throw an empty Venti Latte cup in this city without hitting one—they’re also responsible for turning the experience into something that’s generic, mass-produced, cramped and devoid of charm. We gripe about them, and yet we all continue to patronize them. But there’s no need to settle for bland, generic surroundings and average coffee when more and more unique, independently-owned neighborhood coffeehouse are popping up.

After a week of sampling every coffee place in Manhattan (well, almost), I’ve become a Tums-popping, too-wired-to-sleep insomniac with an acid hole burning into my stomach the size of a double espresso cup. Here are just a few of the spots responsible—all definitely worth seeking out.

Though there’s one of those coffee places on Broadway and 111th, you’ll find The Hungarian Pastry Shop (1030 Amsterdam Ave.) just a block away. Nearly 50 years old, this little jewel is the place for Columbia students and neighborhood folk who eschew the mass-production of the chain stores on Broadway. Along with all the caffeinated beverages you desire ($.95-$3.75), they also offer an array of European-influenced pastries ($3.25-$3.50), all homemade on the premises. Order up front, then take a seat at one of the many indoor or sidewalk tables. Creative pricing is still cheaper than anything at Starbucks: a cup of “to go” coffee is only 95 cents, but have it “to stay” and the same cup costs $2, free refills make it worthwhile; you get them yourself from the pot sitting on the counter. Ah,

Gilileo Espresso Bar (176 West 94th St.) is an Americanized reinvention of the Italian espresso bar—a little bit of Rome in NYC. This modest oasis of caffeinated beverages is basically a glorified kiosk, and offers some of the best (and strongest) espresso you’ll find ($2 for a single), as well as some mighty fine regular coffee ($1.60-$2.40). They brew La Colombe beans, the same stuff served in some of the finest restaurants in the city. Basically a grab-and-go joint, there’s also some limited sidewalk seating. Close your eyes, and you can image that the sound of the traffic is actually the rushing water of the Trevi Fountain.

The entrance to Grounded (28 Jane St.) is very subtle; you could walk right by without even knowing it. This kitschy cement structure is adorned with overhead fans, tropical plants and cut flowers, lending it that basement den in Puerto Rico feel. Besides the usual coffees and teas ($1.60-$3), they also offer a selection of inventive coffee drinks like the Milky Way ($4.25, espresso, steamed milk, chocolate, caramel and almond syrup), Café Aloha ($4.25, espresso, steamed coconut and regular milk) and Mint Kiss Latte ($4.25, espresso, chocolate, mint).

Rapture Café (200 Avenue A) is somewhat of a hybrid: a coffeehouse with a bit of a loungey, clubby feel, and a bookstore to boot. Playing music like Radiohead and Morrissey over its powerful sound system, it has a relaxed party vibe, especially during the evening (when they also serve wine and beer). After you’ve enjoyed your coffee ($1.50), be sure to check out their small yet eclectic selection of books in the back. Rapture also actively promotes safe sex: a bowl of “help yourself” condoms adorns a table in the book section and another one rests by the couch up front. Come here for a cup of coffee and a condom. Not only will you be sure to have safe sex, but you’ll be wide awake while doing it.

71 Irving Place (71 Irving Pl.) is an unobtrusive hot spot on a tranquil street, just a few blocks from the madness and hurried pace of Union Square. This sanctuary of coffee ($1.40-$4.50) and baked goods ($.65-$6.00)—a sugar and caffeine addict’s paradise—has a large selection of blends and flavored coffees (roasted at their farm in upstate NY) and carries a decadent selection of desserts (all worth the extra 30 minutes on the treadmill). Homey New England chic is the vibe here—you’ll think you’re in a country store in Vermont.

There’s plenty of seating at Think Coffee (248 Mercer St.), but good luck getting a spot. In the heart of NYU-land, this cavernous place is always hoppin’, filled with wall-to-wall Macs. They sell only organic, Fair Trade coffee that is shade grown (no trees were cleared in order to grow it), and donate 25 percent of their profits to local charities. And their milk is produced locally where the cows are pasture-fed and hormone-free. This socially, politically and environmentally conscious caffeine house hosts a variety of events (like Indie Film Night), has live music every Thursday at 9 p.m. and also provides Scrabble sets for your gaming pleasure. As far as the selection of sweets goes, I recommend the Afogato ($4.75), a shot of espresso over vanilla gelato—there’s nothing better.

Klatch (9 Maiden Lane), in the heart of the Financial District, is small, quaint and brimming with character. It’s like something you’d find on a back road in upstate New York, complete with furniture that looks like it was all picked up at a yard sale. The coffee ($1.50-$1.75) here is de-licious: very strong, but not bitter. A rotating art exhibit hangs on the walls, which changes every few weeks. And, if you find yourself a bit peckish, they also serve a few lunch items: organic hot dogs ($2.50, beef or soy) and a quiche ($4.75) and soup ($4.75) of the day, as well as an assortment of baked goods.

Located on a quiet side street in the heart of Chelsea, Café Grumpy (224 W. 20th St.) is for those who consider themselves true coffee connoisseurs. None of these prissy, namby-pamby flavored coffees. The selection changes monthly, offering blends from a variety of regions based on what’s in season, availability and employee and patron requests. One of the things that make this place so special is that each cup ($1.75-$3.50, up to $9 for special blends) is individually pressed in something called “The Clover”—freshly ground and brewed right before your eyes in just a few seconds. Though extremely welcoming and friendly, they take their coffee very seriously here, turning coffee-brewing into a science (they can adjust the water temp, filtration and grind to bring out the perfect desired flavor).

Indeed, times certainly have changed since Joyce C. Hall, founder of Hallmark, sold his first Best Mom Ever card. From vindictive, child-killing Medea to supportive, perky Carol Brady, moms come in all shapes, sizes and temperaments. So tailoring a Mother’s Day celebration to one’s specific brand of mum can be daunting. But this is New York; luckily, there’s something for everyone.

Dad’s away on business, so it’s just your mom and the guy she’s cheating on your father with. (It could happen.) Take them to Jezebel (630 9th Ave., 212-582-1045). It sends a strong subliminal message without you ever having to say a word. This is not just a long-standing Theater District restaurant; it’s an indictment against every philandering mom. Sip mint juleps and dine on fried catfish at this southern/soul spot that resembles a Savannah bordello, while mom is forced to confront her tawdry reputation.

Where to take the Sapphic couple that shows the proper respect and acceptance of their life together while putting them both at ease? (A perplexing predicament, and an interesting kettle of fish.) Start out at iconic girl bar, Henrietta Hudson (438 Hudson St., 212-924-3347), for a little schmoozing, dancing and a quick drink. Then have them don their golf togs and head on up to the Chelsea Piers

Driving Range to hit a few balls.

To be honest, having a lesbian mom or gay dad is so passé. Transsexual ’rents are the new hot ticket item, and they’re everywhere—TV, books, movies. So, it’s conceivable that you may have a mother who used to be your father. If that’s the case, take your new mom to the drag-themed restaurant Lips (2 Bank St., 212-675-7710), where waitresses not only have male genitalia but have names like Gusty Wind and Miss Tique. It’s a gender bender theme ride with a party atmosphere.

Your mom is on the prowl to find a new rich husband. She’s no Anna Nicole (octogenarians aren’t her style); she’d be happy with any average-Joe-rich-guy under 65. Still, take her to swanky and uber-expensive Japanese restaurant Masa (10 Columbus Circle, 212-823-9800), where at over $400 per person (for raw fish no less), it ranks as New York’s priciest restaurant. Forget Per Se—that’s for rich folks on a budget. When the bill arrives, quickly duck out, taking mom’s purse with you. Sure, she’ll be pissed, and maybe even suffer a mini heart attack when she realizes she can’t pay. But just wait until Mr. Chivalry comes to her aid. You’ll be dancing at her wedding in no time.

If you have to tell your mom that you’ve decided to leave your six-figure job as a corporate lawyer to follow your passion as a puppeteer in an all-puppet street theater production of Dreamgirls, Mother’s Day offers you the perfect opportunity. So where do you break the news? Take her to dinner at Duvet (45 West 21st St., 212-989-2121)—“Happy Mother’s Day! Oh, and by the way, I’m indulging my inner puppet master.” You eat in bed here, so if Mom faints, she won’t have far to fall. Plus, she’ll have a cozy spot on which to regain her composure as she comes to.

You love your sweet, naïve, small-town minded Mommy Dearest, as long as she stays in her part of the country and keeps her George-Bush-is-a-brilliant-man politics to herself. But Mother’s Day is kind of a requirement. This is New York, so just walking around the streets is probably enough to make her feel like her child lives in Gomorrah. But if you’re feeling really hostile, take her someplace like Hogs & Heifers (859 Washington St., 212-929-0655). Long past its celebrity-slumming heyday, this Meatpacking District dive bar still gets pretty raunchy and wild.

Ensconced with bras from female patrons who’ve danced on the bar while exposing themselves, it’s bound to leave her

running for the nearest Jet Blue terminal.

So remember, wherever you take your mom, she helped make you the person you are today (tics and all), and raising you certainly couldn’t have been easy. So don’t forget to thank her, and, please, spare her the carnations.

With that in mind, I set off to revisit an old friend in the West Village, Piccolo Angolo. This tiny Italian eatery has stood its ground since 1992, even if I haven’t been there to see it.Five years had passed since I last visited this “little corner” on Hudson Street, so I decided to see if we still had anything in common.

Walking into this family-owned restaurant is a bit like entering a Fellini movie, and I mean that in the most loving of ways. It’s filled with quirky but endearing characters with thick Italian accents, and lots of chaos.Owner Renato Migliorini, who runs the restaurant with his son and daughter, serves Northern Italian cuisine from his native Genoa. When we arrived for our 7 p.m. reservation, he welcomed us like family invited to dinner (as he does with everyone).Except that at the end of this meal, we had to pay our family for the food and tip.

Devotees often refer to the food here as “authentic” Italian cuisine.It might be more accurate to say that it’s authentic Italian/American cuisine.Renato’s regional recipes have been somewhat “Americanized,” catering to our idea of Italian food—large portions and heavy seasoning.The complementary basket of garlic bread is not so much bread topped with some garlic as it is chunks of garlic covering an almost incidental piece of bread.By the end of the meal, the pungent oils are oozing from your pores. Back in Italy, seasoning is more subtle and portions are, well, not so American-sized.I lived there for a couple of years, and I remember being regularly chastised by friends whenever I added too much garlic or red pepper to my meal. They’d glare as I over-indulged with the spices, “Che cazzo fai?” Then roll their eyes and sneer, “Americano.”I finally learned better.

When it was time for dessert, Renato came over and recited the selections.However, while we were still mulling over our choices, he decided to take charge. “I bring you the Amaretto Tiramisu, it’s the best,” he declared.

He’s right—it’s absolutely amazing! I asked him if the deserts were made in-house, “They’re flown in fresh every day from Italy,” he exclaimed.

This somehow seemed incredible to me.Everyday, from Italy?He must be joking. My New York cynicism took over.“Really?” I inquired suspiciously. “Yes!” He then disappeared to retrieve the box as proof of his claim.

Though the meat dishes are a bit over salted and some of the pastas have too many competing flavors for my taste, his regular patrons would strongly disagree.They’re fiercely loyal.Even on a cold rainy night, when all other restaurants were empty, this one was packed with Renato’s extended “family.”Ever the consummate host, he also places chairs outside so you can sit during nice weather while waiting for your table to become available.Despite my quibbles about the food, the hearty fare includes standouts like chicken parmigiana, stuffed eggplant, lobster cannelloni and spinach lasagna.

This is a place to come to laugh, let loose, celebrate, have a great time and eat lots of food.OK, so it may not be the best Italian food in the city, but it is without a doubt the friendliest and most welcoming restaurant in New York. I don’t know why I ever stopped going, but I can promise that from now on, I’ll definitely stay in touch.

Piccolo Angolo

621 Hudson St. (at Jane St.)

212-229-9177

The sun had not yet set, and we were beginning during prime delivery time—between the hours of 7 to 9 p.m.—which meant we had to be quick, so we could rush right back for more. First stop was Perry Street, where we had to walk up four flights of stairs. A $26 meal; a $3 tip.

Next, we booked over to Bank Street—another two flights. Easy. But when the woman opened the door, I was attacked by three very excited Cocker Spaniels. She was dressed in what I assumed were her I’ve-had-a-long-day-at-work-so-now-I’m-relaxing-in-my-old-worn-gray-sweats sweats, her cherubic yet fortyish face popped out from floral-prints. She ignored this attack upon my legs. Her disheveled blond curls swept across her large, intent eyes as her plump, outstretched hand reached for the bag. Hey, she did give us a $4.50 tip.

Onto West 11th Street where (thankfully) there was an elevator. No smile, no thank you, just $3.50. Quickly over to West 4th. Another walk-up and three bucks. Then we sprinted back to the restaurant where three more orders were waiting. Back out again. It’s not that I’m out of shape. I go to the gym, so I’m not usually gasping for breath. But this pace was exhausting, and we’d only just begun. I tried not to ponder the minutes and hours ahead—too daunting. It was an endless (and tiring) cycle.

When my “shift” was finally over, I walked back to my apartment and only then was I able to feel grateful that delivery was not my vocation. All I had to do was write about it. Plus, this was just a miserable day in April; I can’t imagine how horrible it would be in February.

It seemed like the best thing to do if I wanted to begin to understand what these men (it was always men) experienced; the reliable troop of guys who trump up to my door with my dinner. What were they thinking when I ordered neighborhood Chinese, pizza and gourmet sandwiches with spreads many of them couldn’t pronounce?

I had offered up my services to various restaurants around the city—no takers. Something about rules and regulations. So, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I loitered around several popular Upper West Side restaurants and ambushed parcel-carrying men as they came out. I felt like a would-be Mafia infiltrator when I asked if I could accompany them on their runs. Some stopped to talk to me, but none allowed me to tag along. I suspected they feared losing their jobs—seemed perfectly reasonable—and I certainly didn’t hold it against them.

Finally, one of the restaurants came through. The general manger of a popular Southwestern on Hudson Street—a very nice and trusting man with nothing to hide—agreed to let me go along on a few runs. So I finally experienced a little of that delivery guy dead heat firsthand.

New York is the ultimate city of convenience (and a perfect place to live if you happen to be agoraphobic). Just about anything you desire can be delivered directly to your door: groceries, laundry, flowers, entertainment (from strippers to magicians), wonderfully prepared meals, drugs and, yes, even sex. Everything’s just a phone call away. Unable to run out to your favorite neighborhood restaurant? The legions of NYC restaurant delivery workers will carry just about anything to your doorstep.

These delivery guys—most of whom hail from Mexico—have become the urban equivalent of the migrant farm worker: Instead of working acres of farmland, they work the blocks of our concrete streets. Instead of food to be picked, it’s food to be delivered. Plastic bags filled with containers of prepared food have replaced the bushels and baskets of produce.

I began my research by visiting various neighborhoods and boldly approaching the staff. But getting a restaurant manager to talk to me, or allow me access to their stable of food transport technicians, proved to be more challenging than I initially anticipated. Several became belligerent and went as far as to ask me to leave. No wonder, since countless city restaurants practice blatant labor violations. They wanted me out—and not asking questions.

Not to get all César Chávez here, but there are a few facts of which everyone should be aware. Under New York State law, restaurants are required to pay tipped workers a minimum wage of $4.60 an hour. Yet, many are paid as little as $1.60 an hour. The majority of delivery workers in New York—most of whom are immigrants and many of them undocumented—make less than $2 an hour, according to Josephine Lee, coordinator of Justice Will Be Served, a campaign to unite restaurant workers.

“Restaurants use this under-class labor to drive down the conditions for everyone else,” explained Lee. “This is not unusual. This is happening in restaurants all over town.”

Saru Jayaraman, director of the Restaurant Opportunities Center (ROC-NY), a New York restaurant workers advocacy group, agreed, “There is a culture of non-compliance with the law, and there are no consequences. For years they’ve gotten away with it.”

Sure, you probably thought about it, but that couldn’t be the case with your nice, clean bourgie establishment. Just those corner Chinese dives that you’d never step foot in anyway, right? Wrong. “There also is a misconception that it’s just the ethnic restaurants,” Jayaraman added. “But it’s the higher-end restaurants that are the worst.” So there, you’re not off the hook yet.

There are currently several class-action lawsuits pending on behalf of restaurant workers, which not only concern money issues (such as unpaid wages and tip siphoning) but also health and safety violations. Of course, it’s essential to point out that some restaurants do comply with the law by providing for their workers and by paying minimum wage or above, but the fact of the matter is that most of us are loving our convenience and, by doing so, implicitly supporting the exploitation of thousands.

After several days of canvassing restaurants and not having much success, doors (and mouths) suddenly began to open. I was then faced with another problem: I instantly found myself with a language barrier keeping me from getting any answers. Many of these guys have only a cursory knowledge of English, and I didn’t think my high school Spanish was up to the task. Thankfully, my bad Spanish, coupled with their broken English proved to be … interesting, yet sufficient. I often felt like I was part of a bad “SNL” skit.

“So, how … many … deliveries … do … you … make … a … night?” That’s me, speaking as slowly and deliberately as I could muster.

“Yes.”

“No. How many?”

“Sometimes I ride bike, sometimesI walk.”

“No … no … cuanto, cuanto?

“Oh. $3.”

“No, cuantos. Oy! Umm … cuantos hace deliveries una notte?” Occasionally I slipped into Italian (which I do speak). It wasn’t always this difficult, but anyone listening in would have been completely perplexed. But, somehow, it always worked out.

“Oh, oh, about 15 or 20 a night …

it depends.”

Yay, exito! Success!

At last, I had a small window into how the guys busting their asses saw us and, best of all, our “gratuities.” Well, it turns out that we’re less generous at work than we are at home. Reportedly, while the average tip in the evening is from $3-$4, the average amount for a lunch delivery runs around $1-$2. Yep, that’s right, even on larger meals—or group orders that swell to $40 or more—we still only give two stinking bucks. Yeah, a few dig through pockets and wallets for change and give odd amounts, like $1.35 or $1.62, the delivery guys admitted. But it never reached the larger amounts of dinner.

At night, we tend to round off to a dollar amount. Here’s something to think about the next time you charge a meal: Although it’s illegal, a number of restaurants engage in the practice of deducting the credit card processing fee from a delivery guy’s tip (generally 2 to 3 percent of the sale). So, try to make those tips in cash.

Many of the guys told me that they’re paid just $20 for a six- to seven-hour shift (below the legally mandated minimum wage requirement), and average about $45 a night in tips. (Think about that the next time you fork over your change to those college kids at Starbucks who rack it up for just doing their cashier job—as well as getting paid above the minimum wage.) When I asked if they receive better tips during bad weather, Luis, who works in an Italian restaurant in the Village frowned and said, “Some people do tip more for bad weather, but not everyone. I don’t think they understand it’s hard to deliver food in the cold and when it rains. And even worse on bicycle. Nobody likes to go out in the rain or cold. Especially for many hours and carrying bags.”

I asked him what he thinks about while racing around all evening in the cold. “My home.” Another guy responded, “What else can you think about? It’s cold! I think about how cold my feet are.”

They all agree that men are generally more generous than women, and that people who live in elevator buildings tend to tip more than those who live in walk-ups. One fellow said that he walked 10 blocks in the snow, then up three flights of stairs, and will often only get a dollar. Interestingly, they all claimed that they frequently get better tips from those who live within just a few blocks of the restaurant, over those who are further away.

After scrambling for a couple hours with Cruz, I walked home and closed my door, completely exhausted. Then I picked up the phone and ordered my dinner: chicken piccata from my favorite Italian place just five blocks away. When the guy came to the door, he was short, thin and, of course, Mexican. I wanted to let him know that I was now a part of his fraternity, part of the delivery brotherhood. Instead, I just gave the guy a five-dollar bill. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was $2 more than I typically gave. And we both deserved it.

The decor of this dimly lit, yet light-hearted establishment is an amalgam—as if Gaudi and Dalí had a love child who ran off to live in New York. Everything here is curved and fluid—sharp angles have been banished. The mosaic-tiled bar, white-washed walls, warped ceiling and light fixtures that hang over the bar like wax dripping from the ceiling are all infused with a Catalan design sensibility as seen through the eyes of a New Yorker. Though I can see the urban concrete world of Seventh Avenue through the windowed facade, it feels far removed. I found myself transported and vacationing in Barcelona—if only the wait staff had Spanish accents and looked like Penelope Cruz.

With 19 Spanish wines available by the glass (ranging from $8-$14) and 23 tapas selections, making a decision can be a bit dizzying. Within seconds of placing our order, the first of our tapas arrived: Cruda de Bonita ($11), thinly sliced raw tuna with shaved fennel and blood oranges; and Ceviche ($9), which is served in a small glass bowl surrounded by a bed of spicy popcorn. We had already asked the waitress about the popcorn.

“Oh, that’s the traditional way it’s served.”

“Really?” I inquired.

“Oh, actually, I don’t know. I just made that up. But it’s good.” Hmmm, not so much. Both the ceviche and the sliced tuna should be served at room temperature, allowing all the subtle flavors to shine through. These, however, had obviously been pre-plated and stuck in the fridge (a dining pet peeve of mine). The plates and food were so ice cold, I practically got brain freeze. It’s unfortunate, because from what I could tell, the flavors were actually quite good—just too chilled to be fully appreciated.

Next came the Empanada de Ternera Picante ($10), a spicy beef empanada—a supposedly warm dish—which wasn’t quite warm enough. However, if patience is its own reward, then our patience certainly paid off with the next three hot dishes: Pinchos Morunos ($11), kebabs of cumin infused lamb with mashed chick peas; Solomillo de Pulman ($10), grilled hanger steak with roasted garlic; and, the shining star here, Costilla Fuego Lento ($11), sangria-braised short ribs with sweet potato bread pudding. It’s a succulent, tangy dish that’s not to be missed.

For dessert we had Crema Catalana ($7), a crème brûlée-type concoction topped with warm figs, as well as Churros ($7), fingers of fried pastry covered in sugar and accompanied by chocolate and dulce de leche dipping sauces. Both were exceptional and left me with a sugar buzz that lasted well into the night.

Depending on your own personal time constraints, you can eat and be out in less than an hour, or take the leisurely route and relax over a glass of wine and a light meal. But take note: If you require large, American-sized portions to satiate your appetite, it will take six or seven of these small plates to fill you up which, along with wine and desert, can add up to mucho dinero.

Besides offering dinner (5 p.m.-2 a.m.), they also serve a wonderful weekend brunch (11 a.m.-4 p.m. for $13.95), with Huevos Benedicto (Eggs Benedict with spinach and ham) and Torrija con Compote de Fruta (a kind of Spanish “French” toast) being the two standouts.

With the pleasing combo of savory food, interesting wine selection, engaging music and inviting atmosphere, Tasca overcomes its few shortcomings to feel like a little bit of Barcelona in Greenwich Village. OK, maybe it’s not exactly Spain, but I can dream.

Tasca

130 7th Ave. (at 10th St.)

212-620-6815

Stand is a 21st century reinvention of the 1950s corner malt shop—replete with a hip vibe. The bright and airy space—with its exposed kitchen and minimalist décor—has music ranging from hip-hop, classic rock and dance hits pumped through an overhead sound system. Black picnic-like tables dot the room with padded purple benches and high-tech, black plastic chairs. So, you know, you can feel like dancing in a trendy school cafeteria.

The cafeteria presentation continues with generic white plates with a solitary hamburger sitting in the center, but don’t let that deter you because the burger—a combo of prime chuck, short rib and brisket—is moist, juicy and packed with flavor. Each burger is cooked to a perfect medium rare, but all that juiciness comes at a price: I needed several napkins to clean up the sauce and grease dripping down my hands. Wetnaps are provided at the end of the meal—so let the juices flow!

The bun is thick and firm, a great compliment to the robust seven ounces of meat which lays between it. With eight varieties of beef burgers to choose from, the Classic ($9) is just about perfect, with or without the added cheddar or blue cheese. The Mushroom Burger ($10), with sliced porcini mushrooms and porcini sauce, and Burger Salad ($12) are also exceptional. The fries and onion rings ($4) were crispy, delicious and, quite frankly, some of the best I’ve had.

The Burger Soup ($10), a French onion-style soup—with cheese, veggies, croutons and meatballs—makes a great hearty winter meal. They also have homemade sodas made from their own fresh puree. The Homemade Ginger Ale and Fresh Blackberry Soda are a must—though at a steep $5 a glass, you might want to limit yourself to just one.

Three blocks away, BLT Burger, with its neighborhood pub atmosphere, welcomes like an old friend ready to cheer you up with good grub. The restaurant space is long, narrow and low-lit and lined with cozy, relaxed booths. Though the food is relatively good, there are two major problems here: meat and bun. We ordered our burgers medium rare, yet nearly every time they arrived medium to well-done. No need to worry about any messy juices here. And the bun is doughy and disappointing.

Despite its shortcomings, The Classic ($7) does have nice flavor, enhanced by layers of mayo, mustard, ketchup, pickle, onion, tomato and lettuce—making it an upscale version of its golden-arched, fast-food cousin. The patty itself is five ounces (two ounces smaller than Stand) and a similar meat combination as Stand, except they also add sirloin to their mix. The BLT Burger, with two four-ounce patties, smoked bacon, lettuce, tomato, and green peppercorn sauce ($11), is also quite tasty. Other than the American Kobe Burger ($16), which doesn’t taste much different from the Classic, and a Japanese Kobe Burger ($62), those are the only hamburger options. Fries ($3) are plentiful and crispy. Now, if only they’d change their bun and work on the timing of their burgers, things would greatly improve. So in the great big burger bust that seems to be taking over the city, Stand comes out as the current winner.

Stand

24 East 12th St. (betw. 5th Ave. & University Pl.)

212-488-5900

BLT Burger

470 6th Ave. (betw. W. 11th & 12th Sts.)

212-243-8226