Arthur Schwartz, the Food Maven, hates eating out. First of all, he's on Weight Watchers. He's already dropped two suit sizes and doesn't want to be tempted.  But the truth is, he likes his own cooking better than almost anyone else's. Still, we agree it's been too long since we had a good gossipfest. I toss out a few options. "Anything," he says, "as long as it's pasta."  I had thought we might try Olio Pizza e Piu, a ballyhooed effort by an import of the Neapolitan pizza faith. But a preview tasting foray on a fiercely sultry night had found the spot a work in progress. Click here and scroll down to read the details.

        Arthur was sipping a black stone martini at the bar when we arrived, already snickering at the wild and woolly fixations of Il Matto. The manager at his side had offered him a choice of a black stone or a white. Black makes for a drier martini than a white stone, it seems, or maybe it was the other way around.

        "I'm not a fan of cucina creativo," he warns, clutching the menu and descending to join us. The rows of red and white bulbs overhead are whimsical and the tight circle booths remind us we are intruders on a turf hoping to draw size 2 mannequins.  Stale bread - cut too far ahead - in rolled paper bag and mini hand grenade-shaped salt and pepper shakers send another message.  I'm not sure what.

We wade into the menu seeking the more conservative concepts. "These are okay," I say, loving the way my tiny artichoke balls are arranged with swirls of saffron sauce like a constellation of planets on the plate.

        "High praise," Steven mutters, dismissing the pecorino crème brulee with red pepper jam which I actually enjoy, sort of. And we all agree we almost like the chef's offering of steamed octopus with mortadella and potato compote, lard cream and pesto.

        And then amazement. All three pastas are straight out good: Steven's fat, firm pici noodles with clams and bottarga on celery puree, Arthur's saffron pappardelle with osso buco ragu and a bone marrow sabayon, and my spaghetti with sea urchin. Have I ever met a sea urchin I didn't like?

        This esoterica is a mission for our host, the scraggly Antonello. He makes sure our eggplant millefoglie with white chocolate mousse to share is divided in the kitchen and mounted like jewels on three dramatic plates. Yes, the pastas were wonderful but I can't imagine I'll be back. Though I didn't notice any snickers coming from the two young men sharing the chef's tasting right next to us. Is Il Matto their dream? 281 Church Street. 212 226 1634

***

        At least Il Matto has us giggling. Ça Va, a seeming step-child Todd English has sired in the Intercontinental Hotel is clean-cut, hotel beige-and-brown bland and totally lacking energy. I can't even imagine the matinee idol chef in this room. Granted, the place is very new. And come to think of it, this is the best onion soup I've tasted in I can't
remember when, full of flavor, not too sweet, a paragon. But what's going on?  Onion soup, cassoulet?  Is it possible English signed on to do a menu for a projected winter opening and there wasn't cash in the budget to redo it for summer? The foie gras torchon is pitiful - salty with an ugly vein running through one slice.  Sirloin sliders look great but are dry, nothing like the delicious mini- burgers at the wonderful English-designed Plaza Food Hall.  Four scrawny little ribs are crisp and delicious, miserably decked out with a few leaves of wilted raw spinach. What is this ridiculous slivered pasta in the truffled mac'n'cheese? Maybe with time, the kitchen will find itself, making Ça Va a good option before or after theater. I'll wait for a kind word before I'll risk it again. 310 West 44th Street. 212 803 4545

***

       I thought it might be fun to go to my 60th High School Reunion in Detroit. Actually, there is no Detroit anymore, despite numerous official "Renaissance" attempts. The reunion would take place at the Glen Oaks Country Club in Farmington Hills, once a small country corner that boomed with the diaspora from Detroit proper. I got some encouraging emails from Ann Willis Benderoff, who I was supposed to remember from Durfee (our intermediate school). I nicknamed her the Hubba Hubba Girl in our graduation book. "I'll never forget that!" she wrote.  She remembered my father's store, Nat Greene's on Livernois and Seven Mile (it didn't survived the exodus long), and she reminded me of the time I dyed my hair green.  It wasn't for St. Patrick's Day, as she recalls. It was my response to the movie, "Boy with the Green Hair" for a story in the school paper. I caused an uproar and was sent home to wash it out.

        "This will be the last class reunion," the email said ominously, as if we weren't all taking our Lipitor and planning to live a while longer. I kept debating a trip, But finally decided I couldn't handle airport chaos in the full heat of July. Almost 300 people showed up.
 
        Ann emailed a report. "The room was decorated with blown-up pictures of classmates. By the way, we had a blown-up picture of the class play, which I recall you were in - "Willie the Worrier." And we read your letter and showed your photo which everyone enjoyed. We were dancing to the DJ until a guest collapsed. "Happily the inn had a defibrillator (Michigan law)," she reports. Two classmate physicians stepped in. A pacemaker was installed the next morning and the man is recovering.

        "There seemed to be a clamoring for a 65th reunion." Ann assures me. It won't be in fall, alas because it seems most of our class now spends several months a year in Florida.