William Grimes, Times restaurant critic. (1) - By William Grimes

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Entry 1

Posted Monday, Dec. 17, 2001, at 1:10 PM ET

The policeman on the corner near the local mosque has disappeared. I pass his spot on the way to the newsstand and, in yet another sign that life is returning to normal, he wasn't there. The "mosque," a bricked-over corner store, has been keeping a very low profile since September, but as far as I can tell, the neighborhood pays it no mind. Most of the Muslims in Astoria are from Bangladesh and Pakistan, although on the northern fringes a thriving enclave of Egyptians and Moroccans has emerged. My personal beef with the mosque is that somehow it has convinced the city to replace four parking meters with a No Parking Anytime zone.

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To me the shifting local ethnic mix means new restaurants. The Mexican situation is definitely improving. I head over to a combination grocery store and restaurant called Tulcingo Deli IV for lunch, a blessed event. Sunday has become my favorite day of the week because, for once, I don't eat out at night. The thought of chiles rellenos, refried beans, rice, tortillas, and an ice-cold grapefruit soda has a double appeal today because I spent four and a half hours at a certain brutally expensive French restaurant last night, and I'm suffering from severe foie gras blockage. Also the profound fatigue that comes from the social demands of eating out, something I grossly underestimated on taking the job of restaurant critic. It's not the eating, it's the smiling. Not only do you have to eat your own food and bites from everyone else's plate, you have to perform. You are the host, so it's your responsibility to make sure that everyone has a nice time. The effort of dealing with the waiter and sommelier, fending off the constant attentions of the bread runner and the water, and making conversation while tuning it out so I can think about what I'm eating adds up to one long evening. At the very formal French joints, it all gets multiplied by a factor of four. Last night turned dessert into an eight-part miniseries.

At any rate, I need cheap, hot food to cut through what must be a solid block of fat studded with truffles and simmering in five wines. Tulcingo Deli IV, like others of its ilk, has a jukebox that always operates at full blast, waitresses who should not wear short skirts, and a shrewd-looking owner. Not shrewd enough, however, to give his place a name that local residents can get their tongues around. (He's one up on Taqueria Xochimilco, though.)

Fortunately for me, Tulcingo Deli IV is a couple of steps from the local betting shop, so I can step up to the windows and throw away some money at Aqueduct, the local track, and the Fair Grounds in New Orleans. I've reduced the Sunday Times to a highly disciplined, 20-minute encounter that doesn't intrude too much on my day of rest. The racing form, however, demands long, deep study. It is an endlessly fascinating, often frustrating challenge to dope out a race and come up with the right horse. I am still a rank amateur, although this year I cashed a couple of tickets that sent me to the IRS window, just like one of the high rollers. It no longer bothers me that I am the only one in the OTB with all my teeth and all my marbles.

Little chores take up the day. The week has been a killing round of force-feeding. Like an invalid, I take immoderate pleasure in small tasks like vacuuming the Christmas tree needles out of the trunk of my car or cleaning my office, where I discovered a dust ball so large I'm thinking of putting it in a glass display case. Dinner is a non-event. I make some rice and break out the packaged leftovers from my $500 dinners. The smell of microwaved foie gras and truffles fills the kitchen, putting our two cats, Soda and Sweetzie, on high alert. They like foie gras. I slip them a tidbit or two, click on the television, and settle into a full evening of doing what normal people do at night: staring slack-jawed at the TV set.

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