By Helaina Hovitz

My dad always liked to feel special at a steakhouse. He had the (perhaps slightly unrealistic) expectation that everyone would begin to fuss as soon as we arrived, shouting, “Oh, my god, they’re here!”

To be fair, I think that anyone dropping over $100 on a meal wants to be treated like they’re important, and service is, after all, what you’re really paying for when all good steakhouses tend to bleed together. There are a million of them in the city, and a million upscale lunch places in the financial district. So why do I like this one? Because they’re doing something good, of course.

Through the end of next week, a special “Artist’s Series” wine will be offered to diners, with $25 of the $75 price going to Share Our Strength, an organization dedicated to feeding hungry children. The art on the bottles of 2009 Arrowood Cabernet Sauvignon is based on a painting called “Golden Moments” by North Carolina artist Sherry McAdams – the winner of a contest Capital Grille held to find the design for the bottles. The painting itself made a six-city tour, where diners at other Capital Grille locations had the opportunity to place bids on it. Last year, the painting auction and wine sales raised $22,000 for charity.

3 NYC Locations:
155 E 42nd Street – (212) 953-2000
120 W 51st Street – (212) 246-0154
120 Broadway – (212) 374-1811
Serving lunch and dinner.

Throughout the rest of the year, Capital Grille gives all of their leftover food to City Harvest every day, cooking it up, freezing it, and handing it over. Thanks to them, there are hungry homeless people eating $50 steaks all over town, which makes them a ten in my book. Here’s what else I loved.

As an ex-drinker, I appreciated the fact that the waitress brought over the bottle of Pellegrino like it was a fine merlot, cradling it in her arm and hugging it close to her body.

The décor created the feeling of a cozy, upstate getaway with its dark woods and colors, mood lighting, soft jazzy music playing, and a fire-burning tableside lamp (ok, it was a candle). Save for the creepy portraits of old people with weird eyes staring back at me as I ate my sirloin, it was rather romantic.

It’s a great date place for someone like me because they pre-sliced my steak, which spared me the humiliation of a potential deal-breaking mess (yep, it can get that bad). As an added bonus, they gave us black napkins for our black pants (white napkins leave lint on ‘em).

Most importantly, loudmouth brokers and banker bimbos aren’t spilling their drinks everywhere and shouting over each other — they’re all on Stone Street where they belong. The mixed drinks are the same price, anyway, so why not keep it classy? I would if I could partake in their homemade pineapple vodka.

Here’s what we ate: a coffee-rubbed steak (Bone-In Kona Crusted Dry Aged Sirloin with Shallot Butter), mozzarella wrapped in a gratuitous amount of prosciutto, a steak topped with jumbo lump crabmeat (Filet Oscar) that my date proclaimed “was the best meal I’ve ever had in my life,” lobster mac and cheese, and a slice of chocolate hazelnut cake the size of a football (yes, we forced ourselves).

If I were big on fish, I would’ve ordered their Chilean Seabass, which, like all of their fish, is sustainably caught. Their beef is sustainable, too.

On the way out, I was told that a special committee meets every few months to talk about recycling, environmental safety, and new ways for the restaurant to go green.

I’d say that the Capital Grille’s do-good efforts are yielding a rather juicy payoff, and I was left with the image of a cow and a bull happily mating in a field somewhere, sustainably.

As the old saying once went, “A you’re alright, B you’re brave, C you’re crazy, D you’re dead.” It’s not news that Alphabet City is no longer the minefield of socioeconomic misfortune it once was, but even today, when the focal point for gentrification outrage has migrated to Brooklyn neighborhoods like Bushwick and Crown Heights, there’s still a surprising amount of upheaval happening on the east side of Manhattan.

Avenue A is as established as Central Park West (hell, even the rhyme couldn’t find anything negative to say about it). Avenue B, for its part, was once a pleasingly lawless strip – close enough to the safety of A for a quick escape but darker, studded with rowdier bars, velvet-curtained second-floor hideouts, and those mystery loft/storefront/abandoned tenement spaces that drew band practices and parties. Now, that velvet-lined den is a well-marked, bowties-and-arm-garters cocktail lounge and Tompkins Square Park is home to hipster hockey leagues.

But even three short years ago, Avenue C was another story, a country unto itself where brand-name pharmacies and supermarkets still feared to tread. Between the Laundromats and bodegas were long stretches of rusting fire escapes, graffiti murals featuring neighborhood heroes, not rock idols, and families picnicking on their stoops. Since then, a smaller, more interesting kind of takeover has happened, one not led by kids looking for the next cheap buzz but by food and drink pioneers looking for a quiet space to do their own thing.

At Bobwhite Lunch & Supper Counter (94 Ave. C; bobwhitecounter.com), that thing is a concept that, by all rights, should be old news. All fried chicken, all the time? Hold on a second, Dirty Bird, Hill Country Chicken, all five locations of BonChon and Charles’ Pan-Fried just called to invite you to 2008. But what Bobwhite has done is subtler, more exciting than simply lodging another vote in the brine-or-no-brine debate. They’ve built an old-fashioned lunch counter straight out of small-town Virginia in an elegant, modern space – no tired red plastic baskets and gingham to be found. Fried chicken dinners come with a buttermilk biscuit, honey, hot sauce or the mustardy relish called chow chow for customization; sides include Brunswick stew, a homely regional favorite that includes tomatoes, corn and pork.

Edi & the Wolf (102 Ave. C; ediandthewolf.com) is another unexpected space, this one tying the nouveau industrial aesthetic of dark wood and iron to bright, big windows and bunches of side-of-the-road greenery dotting the communal table. Perhaps because Austrian cuisine’s reputation is still tied to hearty schnitzels and sausages, Edi’s food manages to be both authentic and innovative, depending on who you ask. The schnitzel is there, but so is a farmer’s cheese and pumpkin seed spread to share, and wild mushroom ravioli with grilled chard.

And while cocktail atavism is big business on the LES and across Manhattan, with “original formulation” spirits and ungarnished Old-Fashioneds the only way to go, nobody is going as far, and having as much fun, as Evelyn Drinkery (171 Ave. C; evelynnyc.com). Skip way over Prohibition, past the Roaring Twenties and back into the late 19th century and you’ll find the phosphate, the soda fountain standby that added an acid tang to everything from cola to claret. Evelyn plays with these in a number of cocktails dispensed through a CO2 tank for light, fizzy refreshers that belie the complex combinations of bitters, spirits and house-processed juices underneath. For the New Yorker’s take on the soda fountain, there are also egg creams, made with infused milks and flavored syrups to take on not just the old classic (in which they rightly use Fox’s U-Bet rather than making their own), but Earl Grey tea, an Orange Julius, and the root beer float.

Avenue C still feels like home for the families and the Laundromats, and in these heady days it’s easy to believe that the neighborhood will find its own balance, keeping out the cheap beer holes and encouraging the pioneers looking for a little room to express themselves. If not, there’s always Avenue D.

By Elian Zach

Just when I was about to formally change New York’s title from “The City That Never Sleeps” to “Sleepytown,” I found hope in the form of a delicious cardiac arrest.

At 2:30 a.m. on a Thursday night, I was walking with my man around the cold streets of SoHo, looking for a place to eat. Our three-hour long disco nap, from which we woke at 11 p.m., left us both wired and starving, and after two shots of overpriced tequila at a club full of douchebags, all we wanted was to have an amazing meal and gaze into each other’s candlelit eyes. Not too much to ask for in the greatest city in the world, right?

Wrong.

Apparently, “open late” is an incredibly subjective term. We were turned away from four different self-proclaimed “open late” joints, and my sexy strut was becoming increasingly painful to watch, as my cheap, yet beautiful, high-heeled booties started to betray me.

My man, a resourceful and devoted foodie and chef, knew all too well that our night couldn’t possibly end with a grilled cheese and a side of misery at some dingy diner. He was so eager to fulfill my insatiable craving for something of the “best I’ve ever had” variety, that I couldn’t decide whether his determination was more adorable or exhausting. I was about to accept my cereal in almond milk fate, when he suddenly gave me a knowing smile, squeezed my hand lightly, and said, “Oh, I know. I know.”

We walked a few blocks over to Sullivan between Spring and Prince, and entered Blue Ribbon Brasserie. I hadn’t been there in years and forgot it even existed. We ordered a bunch of delicious dishes from their classic and extensive menu, which they serve in full until 4 a.m. seven nights a week. After scarfing down grilled sardines with anchovy spread, steak tartare, matzo ball soup, and a great deal of bread and butter, we realized that one of the dishes had yet to arrive. When it finally did, we were far from hungry, which only proved how amazing it really was, because we finished the whole thing.

Beef Marrow & Oxtail Marmalade

Where do I begin? The marrow was smooth and buttery, and each bone had a generous amount of it hidden inside. The braised oxtail marmalade was subtly sweet and had the caressing texture that only a good long braising process can accomplish. The fried parsley garnish added a fresh and crispy twist, while the sel-gris (grey salt) brought it home, uniting the different elements on a beautifully toasted brioche, crunchy and slightly burnt on the outside and soft and spongy on the inside. In short, a delicate collage of flavors that equaled a truly perfect bite.

Price: $16.75

Blue Ribbon Brasserie

97 Sullivan Street

Hours: Every day between 4 p.m.- 4 a.m.

Phone: (212) 274-0404

Reservations available for parties of 5-8

One of New York City’s most curious native establishments is the steam-table deli. Sprouting like mushrooms wherever offices can be found, these one-size-fits-all, in-and-out lunch factories are baffling novelties to visitors. Where did they come from? How can so many of them co-exist in such a small area? How can the same place make sandwiches, sushi, bi-bim-bap, lasagna and roast turkey every day – and how could any of it possibly be good?

The answer to all of these questions is one simple word: Lunch. There are so many of these places because it’s unthinkable to go farther than three blocks away from the office just to eat something. Their selections are so schizophrenic to keep workers from realizing that they’ve trapped themselves into a rut deeper than a monster-truck tread. We have time-crunched ourselves into this convenience corner, and now the midday meal has become a race to see how quickly you can get back to your desk and hoover something out of a plastic clamshell container without ever taking their eyes off of Excel.

We’re calling for a return to the heady days of the power lunch, when Very Important people knew noon was time to toss back a couple of martinis and rub elbows with other Very Important People in high-ceilinged, velvet-trimmed dining rooms. Not just for the Very Important anymore, these days most of the city’s hottest, most well-respected restaurants are quietly serving amazing meals in the middle of the day to those brave few who dare to break free from the tether. Ready to join the revolution? There are just a few simple guidelines you need to know:

• Skip the line.  At night, Il Buco Alimentari & Vineria (53 Great Jones St., ilbucovineria.com) is packed with salumi groupies hoping for a shot at the expert sausages, prosciuttos and more that are made in-house, a rarity in this health code-crazy city. In addition to the salumi, hearty Italian appetizers like fried artichokes and beautifully fresh pastas keep hopefuls waiting for hours for a shot at a table. Not so during the day. Waltz in at 1 p.m. and sit down immediately, then gloat the next time your friends complain that they couldn’t get a table. Bonus: The casual dining room doubles as a grocery during the day, a gimmick that means nothing but dead space at night, when the counters are closed, but which allows for fantastic people-watching during a solo lunch.
• Compare the lunch and dinner menus. Some places offer special dishes only during the day, giving weekday lunchers yet another perk to lord over their deskbound brethren. Case in point: Momofuku Ssam Bar (207 2nd Ave., momofuku.com), which at night serves an entire rotisseried peking-style duck as one of its group meals. Get three of your friends to plan far enough in advance and you just might be able to enjoy the sweet, sticky bird, stuffed with duck-and-pork sausage and served up with chive pancakes and lettuce for maximum messy enjoyment. Or, walk in any day of the week for an individually portioned plate with all the same fixins;  no advance planning required.
• Whatever you do, don’t get the prix fixe. The sit-down equivalent of the McDonald’s meal combo, lunchtime prix-fixe menus are designed to satisfy the most people with the least fuss. Otherwise talented, creative chefs throw a salad, sandwich, and a scoop of ice cream at diners and shoo them out the door, ruining any treat yo’self aura you may be trying to cultivate. Paradoxically, while Aldea (31 W. 17th St., aldearestaurant.com), the Michelin-starred modern Portuguese restaurant just off Union Square, recently announced it was going prix-fixe only at peak dinnertimes, it still offers an a la carte lineup at lunchtime alongside the set menu. The arroz de pato, rice with duck confit, is a signature not to be missed – and it’s not available on the prix-fixe.

Handicapping the competition for Brisket King of NYC

Brisket is big business these days. After years of struggling in the Passover ghetto, the notoriously fickle cut of beef is having a full- fledged moment in the sun, thanks in large part to the awareness campaign begun some six years ago by New York’s Texas BBQ pioneers, Hill Country Barbecue Market. Unlike most other smoky locales, which worship the almighty hog, Texas has always been cattle country and, as the old saying goes, smoke ’em if you’ve got ’em. That’s not to say brisket doesn’t exist in other traditions, but it’s always been the ugly-duckling cousin to specialties like Carolina whole hog or Kansas City ribs.

Not so in Texas. There it’s all beef and it’s all good, from the Flintstones opening credits-worthy heft of the ribs to the Central Texas snap and spice of sausage. But the real test of the pitmaster’s art is the brisket—done wrong it’s a tragic husk, a cat’s cradle of stringy, lifeless fibers bound by a salty rub (no sauce to save you here). To do it right takes dedication and skill, which may be why New York chefs are almost monomaniacally focused on it (just ask Brisket Town-née-Lab’s Daniel Delaney). Now lifers and dilettantes are chasing the deckle dragon, after the perfect balance of fatty excess and smoke-laced, lean meat.

At next week’s Brisket King of NYC showdown, the city’s boldest will square off against reigning champion John Brown Smokehouse for the crown and the glory. The meaty affair now in its third year (the second under such regal auspices) is organized by Food Karma Projects, which could lead a master class in hosting tasting events. They’ve crowned victors in everything from gumbo to cassoulet, invaded Governors Island with pigs and celebrated craft beers, always with enough food and drink to go around and a ticket-selling philosophy that understands giving attendees a little elbow room is worth more than selling out to capacity every time.

While the rules of competition do not specify the BBQ treatment, it’s a safe bet that at least 75 percent of the dishes on offer will have gone through the smoker in some capacity; the lineup includes all of the city’s BBQ brisket Brahmins. There for the fight will be the aforementioned Delaney; Smorgasburg darlings and now brick-and-mortar East Villagers Mighty Quinn’s; Harlem grandpappy Dinosaur BBQ; the brand-new Fletcher’s Brooklyn BBQ, run by a former pitmaster for heavy hitters Wildwood and R.U.B.; lone ranger Robbie Richter, the Hill Country O.G.; and the reigning champs John Brown, back to defend their honor.

They’ll be rounded out by a broad selection of wild-card restaurants, from the Mediterranean/Middle Eastern-inflected Taboonette to the Caribbean Mango Seed, the Creole Tchoup Shop, and the grilled cheese specialists Melt Shop. Most interestingly, also on the roster are farms being represented by hired-gun chefs, clearly angling more for name recognition than for a chance at the big crown.  Of these, the most curious is Møsefund Farm’s apocryphal Mangalitsa pork brisket, which, we’re predicting, will get tons of audience love but no official recognition, like the Olympic figure skaters who were back-flipping before judges would give them any points for it.

Competition will be tough, but ultimately the field will be easily divided into a lot of sliced BBQ briskets served slider-style with a slaw, some just-like-bubbe-used-to-make braised versions, some way-outta-left-field (last year saw a deep-fried, panko-breaded meatball) and a few creative smoked treatments. The judges’ top three will be diplomatically representative, but our money’s on John Brown for the crown, for the Kansas City-style competitor has a secret weapon none of the Texas guys can match: burnt ends. Traditionally, the rub-encrusted, fatty ends of each brisket are saved up over the course of the week, held in their juices like a proper braise, and offered as a blink-and-you’ll miss-it special at the best KC smokehouses. It’s the best of both worlds; truly a brisket fit for a king.

Brisket King of NYC will take place Wednesday, Feb. 20, from 7 to 9 p.m. (VIP hour with open bar from 6 to 7 p.m.) at Santos Party House, 96 Lafayette St. Tickets are $45 or $75; to purchase, visit BrisketKingNYC.com.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: Valentine’s Day is a Hallmark sham, a manufactured non-holiday dreamed up in a craven bid to sell out-of-season roses in the middle of the long, dark winter. Singles hold this trope up like a string of garlic to ward off the vampiric specter of couples’ bliss, while longtime partners wearily use it to rationalize spending another night in sweatpants on the couch.

They’re right, to a point. There is nothing about Feb. 14 that demands plush hearts, teddy bears and cupids, boxes of chocolate and bouquets. But the original Saint Valentine made his name centuries ago when, right before his execution, he sent one final love note to his lady, signing it “From your Valentine.” Since then, the saint’s day has been a catalyst to fess up your true feelings, whether to a secret crush or the spouse you tell to empty the dishwasher more than you tell them how important they are. It’s a tradition that’s lasted more than 500 years—why mess up a good thing now?

Unfortunately, when it comes to dining on the day, too many restaurants fall back on the menu equivalent of the Russell Stover assortment: the caviar-steak-chocolate cake prix fixe. Rather than fall for this scourge of the Valentine-industrial complex, take a moment to consider the things that make your relationship unique, and do something meaningful to you. Go out for a meal that’s outside your usual routine, try a place you’ve been talking about for months, or stay in and cook something more complicated than pasta and jar sauce. Still not sure where to start? We’ve got you covered.

Was your first date a trip to the underground Flushing food court? Are you on a shared mission to try food from every country in the world? Head for Yunnan Kitchen (79 Clinton St., yunnankitchen.com), which specializes in the cuisine of this still relatively unfamiliar region of China in an atmosphere more conducive to hand-holding than most linoleum-lined Chinatown dens. Light, veg-focused fare that emphasizes unusual ingredients is the M.O. here—try the chrysanthemum salad.

Have kids? You’ve most likely been eating any meals out at ungodly early hours, in brightly lit barns that have room for tantrum throwing and crayon flinging (not that your kids do these things, of course). Do a 180 and have a Spanish night out at the tiny, dimly lit Txikito (240 Ninth Ave., txikitonyc.com). Arrive as late as you can stand to stay up—dinner in Spain doesn’t ever begin before 9 p.m.—and graze on the Basque specialty, pintxos, one- or two-bite toasts topped with everything from artichokes to foie gras.

Use V-Day as an excuse to restock your sugar high? Go for a three-course dessert meal at Chikalicious Dessert Bar (203 E. 10th St., chikalicious.com). Their seasonal approach to sweets means the menu is currently stocked with wintry options like hot caramel custard soup and butternut squash ice cream brûlée, all guaranteed to change the way you think about dessert (and keep you bouncing off the walls for hours).

Single? Take a page out of Amy Poehler’s Parks & Rec book and make it a gal-entine’s day (pal-entine’s day?). OK, you don’t have to go so far as embroidering faces on pillows, but there’s no reason not to take the day as an opportunity to appreciate whoever is special in your life, whether it’s your group of high-school besties or the people at work who listen sympathetically whenever Brenda in HR makes your life miserable. Crowd around a table at the wood-lined Rye House (11 W. 17th St., ryehousenyc.com), and raise a glass of the titular spirit (or bourbon, or scotch) from an extensive menu that’s helpfully organized by tasting notes. Bonus: This is probably the least crowded this cozy but decidedly un-romantic spot will ever get, so stretch out and enjoy the leg room.

No matter your circumstances, there’s a way to celebrate the holiday without inducing gags or yawns. This year, make sure old St. Valentine didn’t die in vain.

EATING HABITS AREN’T REALLY SO HARD TO CHANGE

Resolutions are an easy way to absolve yourself of the sins of December. Too much eggnog? You’re going to find the diet that really works. Black out at the company Christmas party? No more than one drink a week for you from now on! Suck wind at that Turkey Trot your cousin bullied you into? This is the year you run the marathon, somehow. That’s about the level of thought that most people put into their resolutions, which translates almost directly to the ease with which those resolutions fall by the wayside. Easy come, easy go.

But we are fans of using the New Year as an opportunity for taking stock. This exercise should be about behaviors and habits, breaking bad ones and making new good ones. It’s not about punishment and low self-esteem; most importantly, it’s not quantitative—you don’t get a gold star and permission to quit once you’ve lost those 12 pounds; make a fundamental shift and stick with it.
So. Now that you’ve awakened early to go for a jog exactly twice, only to discover that it’s still dark out at 6 a.m. and your bed is somehow exponentially more comfortable after that first snooze button, you’re ready to try on a different kind of resolution. Here are the ones we’re committing to this year.

Leave the borough. The amount of time we spend seeking out new restaurants is enough to have learned a new language. But the minute we see the address on that interesting new place is in Williamsburg, our defenses clamp down. “It’s so far! It’s full of hipsters!” Well, yes. But so is the Lower East Side, and we were first in line at the Bowery Diner.

To start, get yourself to Gwynnett Street (312 Graham Ave., Williamsburg; gwynnettst.com ) ASAP; it’s been the talk of the town all year and turned up on all the “Best of 2012” lists that matter. Whiskey bread to start and a seasonally driven menu full of surprising, comfortable combinations, exquisitely presented without toppling over into the precious, will be more than enough to outweigh that moustache-packed L train ride in.

Just say no to bacon. Yes, we know, bacon is delicious. It is concentrated fat and salt, two of the things our brains are chemically wired to seek out at all costs, so saying you love bacon is as unnecessary as expounding your love of oxygen. Unfortunately, chefs have started relying heavily on this meaty crutch to prop up otherwise unlovable dishes. This year, vow to read the menu in full, and don’t fall for the shiny object dangling in front of you. At brunch at Print (653 11th Ave.; printrestaurant.com), resist the maple bacon sticky buns, an overload of sweet topped with an obscene shower of chopped bacon, and go for a properly flaky croissant or semolina raisin bread French toast, a hearty foil to as much maple syrup as you can pour on.

Try things you think you don’t like. Obviously this does not apply to serious allergies. But if you’ve always hated mushrooms because they’re too slimy or avoided cabbage because you had an over-boiled boiled dinner as a kid, now’s the time to banish that old sense memory. Ninety-five percent of the time, the fault is with the chef, not the ingredient, so find someone you trust and put yourself in their hands.

If vegetables are the enemy, go kamikaze at Dirt Candy (430 E. 9th St.; dirtcandynyc.com), whose menu is entirely vegetarian, much of it vegan, and the restaurant nonetheless remains one of the New York Times’ favorite spots. Mushrooms don’t stand a chance against a portobello mousse served with truffled toast—chances are whatever your aversion might be, it will meet its match here as well. Unless you’re one of those people genetically programmed to hate cilantro. If so, we’re sorry.

In most of the United States, if all you knew about Spain came from the Spanish restaurants in your town, you’d be laboring under the impression that everyone in Spain listens exclusively to folk music, uses too much paprika and hasn’t yet reached the Iron Age, preferring to cook exclusively in terra cotta crocks. These are places to which you go out for tapas, apparently the staple food of Spaniards. Unlike many such national minstrel shows (the red-sauce Italian, moo-shu Chinese or plate-breaking Greek), these notions are based in a reality that continues to exist; however, they should never have come to represent a nation of millions.

In New York City, there is one kind of restaurant that is sorely lacking; one that is the bedrock of Spanish food culture. It’s a small, casual bar that just happens to serve better food than it needs to, a place where eating is not the point of your evening, it’s just an ever-present element thereof. You go out to meet friends, to talk, to hang out; you have some cheese, a plate of anchovies, a little bread to keep you going. Arguing about who makes the best pan con tomate and whether to get the squid or the chorizo may be most of the conversation, but you’ll never sit in front of a massive plate, taking photos and eating in silence until the next course comes. It’s aspirational living at its best, being incredibly exacting about food while treating it with the nonchalance it deserves.

This is what you get at Bar Jamón (125 E. 17th St., casamononyc.com), the round-the-corner companion to Mario Batali’s longstanding Casa Mono. The narrow, dark-wood-lined space is unforgivingly small, the room dominated by a winding, high-topped table and a narrow marble bar at the entry that also serves as wine display and prep space. Enormous mirrors cover the walls at both ends of the room, one marked in white with the menu, the other reflecting diners’ flushed, laughing faces back to them in the shimmer of candlelight.

It is a perfectly romantic location to put your date through a surreptitious battery of tests: Are they adventurous, or will they blanch when told that the “pulpo” in pulpo with spicy garbanzos is octopus (though you might let them—more for the rest of us!)? Can they appreciate a dish almost ludicrous in its simplicity like that pan con tomate, two slices of toasted bread smeared with olive oil and tomato pulp and a judicious scattering of chunky salt? It’s the best in the city precisely because of that simplicity, relying on the quality of the sharply green oil and obscenely red tomatoes rather than chef-y theatrics to dazzle.

Should your date fail the tests, there’s plenty to drown your sorrows in a wine list that is second to none for highlighting the varietals that are routinely overshadowed by dark red malbecs and tempranillos on most round-the-world wine lists. For a lighter way to spend your night, one of the Basque txakolis is the only way to go. What is otherwise an exceptionally well-balanced, mid-weight white is made sublime by its presentation: poured in a thin stream into a small carafe from as high as your waiter’s wingspan can manage, the aeration lending a slight effervescence that lurks without overpowering the palate. Like sparkling wines it pairs perfectly with rich, fatty foods like cheeses and the eponymous jamón, but as a heavier white it works just as well with brighter, more acidic foods like olives and stuffed piquillo peppers.

Whatever you do, don’t order all at once. Get one plate at a time, linger over your (generously sized) glass of wine, people-watch, have a real conversation with your companion. In other words, get Spanish.

Eating your way through the holiday market 

Over the past five years, pop-up holiday markets in the city’s larger public spaces (Union Square, Bryant Park, Columbus Circle) have become progressively monochrome, the Brooklyn-handicraft version of the tube-sock street fair. What were once venues for unique creative endeavors are now awash with the same five booths—hilariously screenprinted baby onesies, beaded jewelry straight out of summer camp, hand-carved Peruvian wooden wine boxes, framed illustrations torn from old science textbooks and purses made from license plates—repeating over and over like an M.C. Escher nightmare.

Paradoxically, the food options at these fairs have been getting better and better. Much as summertime events like Mad Sq. Eats and the Hester Street Fair have bested plain old street fairs by acting as incubators for small businesses and emphasizing variety over sheer abundance, so too do the holiday food vendors outshine their surroundings. No longer just a sugar-rush ghetto on the outskirts of town (though don’t worry, there are still plenty of sweets), these are bona fide food courts—with seating, even!

Now, if you spend too long ogling the hand-carved wind chimes, you have somewhere to restore your faculties—and maybe decide on a few edible gifts instead. Here are some of the best bets around town:

Taste of Persia (Union Square) undersells at the same time that they massively over-advertise—their menu is nonexistent save for a couple of scrawled-on styrofoam cups taped to the side of the booth (small and large, with prices. Meanwhile, the accolades they received from their appearance at the market last year literally paper the walls. The menu is secondary, really, as all they sell is a handful of soups, chief among them the “Persian vegetable noodle soup,” another remarkable understatement. (This glory has a proper name, ashreshteh, but that was apparently too much marketing for these guys.) The soup is rich and thick, but what really makes it is the à la minute assemblage of toppings afterward. From a compartmentalized condiment tray, spoonfuls of garlic, a yogurt-like whey and fried mint, black as night, add a welcome bitter, fragrant edge to an otherwise mellow cup. Eat it immediately—the toppings do not travel.

The bratwursts at German Delights (Columbus Circle) are to street hot dogs what the neighboring booths’ vintage subway map mugs are to a street fair’s plastic piña colada horns: higher quality, classier and way less embarrassing to carry around. Though the preparation is minimal and very street-dog-like—your options for topping are sauerkraut and mustard, though they are better versions of both—the robust flavor of the sausage shines through, making embellishments a moot point. Unless you’re willing to trek up to Yorktown, there are very few sources for fuss-free German fare in the city; take advantage of this one while you can.

The winner for most original vendor is Bryant Park’s Daisy’s Grits, the “only grits shop in the entire world and all of explored space,” according to them. I believe it. There aren’t many people who would stake their livelihoods on selling gussied-up versions of the Southern staple—options include Cantonese crab and vegan meatball—but bless their hearts, they’ve gone and made it a hit. Some flavors work better than others, and you’re generally better off erring on the side of tradition—creole chicken and collard greens are particularly good—but if you’re not sure, there’s always the option to add a pile of cheese (their words!) for $1. Now that’s money well spent.

For several years now, the good people at Stuffed Artisan Cannolis (Union Square) have been hoping theirs would be the next sweet nothing to hit the big time. After having suffered through the cupcake, mini cupcake, macaron and cake pop trends, we feel the same way. Their version of the old-school favorite is smaller than the one you might find on Arthur Avenue but not so small as to be foolishly “mini”; they’re just big enough to try a couple of flavors without having to roll yourself home. Oh, that’s right—did I not mention the flavors? In addition to good old-fashioned vanilla, seasonal flavors include pumpkin pie, eggnog and peppermint bark. Grab a box for your next holiday party and get ready to outshine all those who brought cupcakes.

THIS WEEKEND DOESN’T HAVE TO BE THE END OF THE LINE FOR THESE AUTUMN DELIGHTS

Thanksgiving is the last hurrah for the multitude of flavors that come together to spell “autumn” in our little lizard brains. Herbs like sage and rosemary, Brussels sprouts and squash, apples and ginger—soon we’ll say goodbye to all that and it’ll be all Christmas, all the time. Chocolate and peppermint will flavor absolutely everything—hell, they’ve already snuck their way into the Pringles can, once a bastion of salt. Orange and cinnamon will somehow find their way into the very air around you, like surplus oxygen pumped onto the casino floors in Vegas.

Some of this has to do with geographical seasonality—there’s only so much you can grow when there’s been 2 feet of snow on the ground for a month. But much more of it is due to the manufactured seasonality of holidays as consumer events. How are people supposed to go wild shopping for Christmas gifts on Black Friday if they still feel like it’s Thanksgiving, a time for being grateful for what you already have? How can you keep latte consumption running high without introducing a new limited-time-only flavor every three weeks?

Turns out seasonality means less and less these days, both from a meteorologic and a material perspective. Starbucks rolled out its holiday-branded cups weeks ago, along with all the eggnog/gingerbread/peppermint coffee-type beverages that go in them. And with a hurricane, massive snowstorm and mid-60s temperatures all within a week of each other, climate and season have only a passing acquaintance. So check out some of these autumnal flavors after Thanksgiving and assert your independence from the whole charade.

If you think you don’t like Brussels sprouts, you’re not alone. If all you’ve ever had are Aunt Gertie’s boiled-while-the-turkey’s-in rendition, there’s really not much to love. Cooked plainly, the little guys’ crucifer heritage comes out loud and clear, packing all the stench of boiled cabbage into a tiny, bite-sized parcel. But roasting opens them up to a world of caramelized sweetness, a slight bitter edge and the delightful contrast of tender interior and crisp exterior. Eat these anywhere, but especially at Mile End Sandwich (53 Bond St., mileenddeli.com), where they’re halved and tossed with shredded radicchio and a bacon vinaigrette that nestles in all the right crevices. It’s just the right thing to cut the richness of their signature Ruth Wilensky sandwich (that’s fried salami for us non- Montréalers).

Sure, there’ll be apple cider till Easter, but that over-spiced, over-sweetened hooch doesn’t do the apple justice. Over the years, New York has been home to some of the most brilliant apple breeders, who created a multitude of varieties that coax bright tartness, honeyed sweetness, floral undertones and more from the fruit. Go straight to the source at the Union Square farmers’ market, which is open all year round (apples keep for months in the right cold storage!), or try some of the seasonal sandwiches at Num Pang (21 E. 12th St. or 140 E. 41st St., numpangnyc.com), the Cambodian sandwich shop whose creations defy borders. Roasted, spiced chicken comes with slices of pickled apple, turkey breast is topped with a very Thanksgiving cranberry-apple chutney, and glazed pork belly is accompanied by Asian pear (OK, not an apple, but just as autumnal!).

For a full-on one-two punch of fall, try Crispo (240 W. 14th St., crisporestaurant.com) and their butternut squash tortelloni with chestnuts and sage. The below-the-radar Northern Italian spot (no mean feat for a restaurant that sits right on 14th Street) serves a variety of soul-warming pastas in a romantically low-lit, brick-lined room, along with plenty of their signature ingredients: prosecco, prosciutto and parmigiano. But the handmade pockets of rich, dense squash sweetened by the street vendor favorite, roasted chestnuts, and made savory with browned butter and fried sage, take the seasonal prize.