Eric Korsh and his wife Ginevra Iverson have been talking about another place of their own since their Restaurant Eloise in Sebastopol, California didn't quite work out. It would be mostly French, seriously French, but fun and laid back. And it is. Call it "farm house European."

       Indeed, Calliope in the ever-so-slightly dressed up space that was Belcourt, is almost too laid-back on my early first visit. Chunky candles burn low on the deserted communal table and the place is almost empty on its eighth night. Our threesome doesn't mind. We're sipping $12 classic cocktails - Negronis and a Manhattan - and taking bites of mellow spring radish from a basket with buttery toasted bread alongside, typically wanting to try everything on the smartly tailored opening menu. The word "calliope" is stamped at the top in faded red, deliberately lower case C, almost a mirage. So named for a species of hummingbird, not for the noisy organ-like tooting machine in an old-fashioned circus.

       I doubt you'll find this dedicated classic French ambition anywhere in the East Village except at Daniel's DBGB where insistent crowds keep it anything but laid-back. Click here to know what Mom-and-Pop are cooking. 84 East 4th Street on the SW corner of Second Avenue.  

       I don't keep up with restaurant buzz in Chicago, except for the whimsies of Grant Achatz at Alinea, making news most recently at Next, his homage to AppetiteDeficitSyndrome. But arriving on Memorial Day with a week to spend, I sought the advice of my friend Francesco, the wily gourmand whose work takes him there often. You may recall this self-styled Don Juan's scaringly candid confessions on dining seduction. If not, click here. 

       "We want to go to Schwa," he said. "My friend will get us in." Schwa? doesn't sound very appetizing. I Googled: "Maverick chef cooks and serves. Cutting edge cuisine. Doesn't answer the phone." It gave me shivers remembering the unsmiling crew at the counter of David Chang's Momofuku Ko cooking and serving. I was wary. It seems the place is BYOB and Francesco's friend's cellar was deep and old and very French. At least the wines would be thrilling. We pulled up to a shabby storefront shrouded in black. "Get lost," it seemed to say.

       "It looks closed," said my driver.

       I tugged at the door. It opened. I knew at once I'd arrived at Schwa, a modest dump even after a decorator fan insisted on tarting it up with bizarre fixtures in each blackened show window and Edison bulbs above. A screen held up on crutches blocked our view of the bathroom. Call it unpretentious and whimsical to be kind.   

       Owner and no-longer sole chef Michael Carlson, the one in shorts and sneakers with standup forelock and standout beard, runs back and forth serving, seconding at the range and on the run, delivering a different course to each table, explaining it, and actually smiling. Unlike the Stepford Sons at Ko, these guys seem to be having fun.

       We started with an experiment or two. Sniffing, swallowing. By then I was hungry enough to devour the potato soup in the deconstruction of a stuffed baked potato on a plate with its emulsified bacon and a swatch of scallion puree. In fact, there were great moments - the truffled quail egg ravioli, a mini homage to San Domenico, smartly tailored tortellini in clarified apple consommé, a pad thai with jellyfish as noodles (better than it sounds) and shad roe with morels.

       Our benefactor with the connection had gathered wines to pair from his family's cellar, seven bottles for the four of us plus that half bottle of Sudiraut that went with the dish shown here featuring the chef's favorite drinks, Jameson Scotch and Dr. Pepper. 1466 North Ashland Avenue. 773 252 1466. You can leave a message. Maybe they'll answer.

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Is This Cartier or L2O?  

       As a born gourmand lucky enough to be recruited in time to document the dining revolution, I've mooned over tall food, drawings in coulis, geometric patisserie and even asymmetrical molecules as in Nathan Myhrvold's astonishing pastrami. Never have I seen food as beautiful as this exquisite flower at L20. It could be a vintage brooch from the Duchess of Windsor's collection. Incredible that this jewel hides smoked salmon and artichoke on pumpernickel with smoked crème fraiche, and is as delicious as it is precious.

      The tiny fish could be a whimsy from Faberge for Czar Romanov. Perhaps it provoked a fleeting smile before the bitter end. In fact, this almost too cute little swimmer is a tiny rouget barbet, standing on its fin, nesting in saffron pea risotto, perfumed with lavender.

      We managed to resist the $390 ounce of Caspian golden osetra caviar and the langoustine tartare with caviar as a $75 extra on the everyday $120 four course dinner. Still, I almost fainted at the bill, $817 after tax and tip for the four of us. I'm not saying we didn't have $800 bucks of nourishment, service and aesthetic stimulation; it's just that as you know, from my confessed pinchpenny habits, dinner at L20 was a rare experience for me. I'm sure it's easy to spend as much at Per Se or Le Bernardin and not want to wear the smoked salmon on your lapel. 2300 N. Lincoln Park West. 773 868 0002.

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Top Chef, Top Goat   

      Girl and a Goat. That I had heard of. Stephanie Izard, so far the only woman winner of "Top Chef." My Chicago family warned me her $1.5 million restaurant in an old factory in Chicago's West Loop was impossible to book except perhaps for a final turn at 10 pm. A friend with clout comes through. I walk in and am shoved back by a wave of riotous sound. Back to the wall, at least we're not drowning from the insanity ricocheting across the room. "Everything to share, everything to come as it's ready." I've heard that before. But here's a trend. They've found a way to charge for bread in Chicago and I'm a fool for bread. Since it's just $4 each, I ordered the pig in a blanket, Mr. Potato bread and the pretzel bread, all three warm out of the oven, each with a duo of spreads or dips. I probably would have ordered goat five ways too, but my kin look alarmed at the prospect. What bothers me here is that items I like - chickpea fritters and tempura soft shell crab - are muddied up by sitting in stew-like sauces. My sister-in-law can't stop eating the ham frites - potatoes fried in pork fat, to dip in smoked tomato aioli. Salty, dangerously addictive. Only a strong desire to wake up tomorrow gets me to stop after two handfuls. 809 West Randolph Street. 312 492 6262.  

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Paris Club

       Being the hottest new flava' in town rarely has to do with how good the food is. Given how booked the Paris Club is, I am surprised we are having the best meal of my week in Chicago. Perhaps the excellence of somewhat updated French cooking has to do with the presence here of Chicago fixture, Jean Joho, as a partner with the scions of the Lettuce Entertain You franchise. Joho's Alsatian roots show in the excellent crisp, free form tarte flambée with bacon and caramelized onion. Almost everything we tasted was not just good or very good but the way it ought to be: Sweet potato frites properly salty. Short rib bourguignon with fresh string beans.  

       We could easily have put together dinner on a budget with small plates like pretzel croquettes with "European butter" (more bread-for-bucks) the fabulous croque monsieur fingers (bread again) to dip into an eggy emulsion. Lamb meatballs, chicken drumettes and a generous serving of macaroni - crispy and not overly cheesy. But we shared the caesar too and classic skate wing, perfectly cooked. I could only take a bite of the chicken in its foie gras sauce. I had no problem finishing it next morning at breakfast. (Calories don't count when you're out of town.) 59 W. Hubbard Street. 312 595 0800.  

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Prepping With David Keh         

  

       Long before he first tasted the dim sum wizardry of chef Joe Ng and partnered with him at RedFarm, Eddie Schoenfeld was deep into Chinese culture. I met him when he was the first Caucasian captain at a Chinese restaurant, the stage for the brilliance of Uncle Tai's Hunan Yuan, in the golden moment for Chinese restaurants in New York. If you were still teething then or snacking on Gerber's, you cannot imagine the excitement in our discovery of Uncle Tai's asterisks, cool and blue on the menu, marking a glorious defiance of Chinese restaurant cliché: Frog's legs, eel, braised oxtail, and what a great bounty of game. Later, Eddie emerged as a partner with David Keh at the uniquely stylish Auntie Yuan, designed by Sam Lopata. Click here to read my vintage review.   

 

  

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Singapura Fusion

 

        I am going for the real deal - hot or diabolically torrid - on my first visit to Singapura, letting my companions, a Tiger from Singapore and a Lion from Malaysia, handle the ordering. The use of the abacus as room divider and décor, and the bold march of blowsy lotus lamp shades just above our heads - red, scarlet, turquoise, Astroturf green - is ambitious for this strip of Curry Hill. The welcome is warm if a bit shy.

       My pals debate what to try in the various categories. They are brutally critical. Clearly homesick for these familiars - Indian paneer, Hakka noodles, Malay rendang, Indonesian beef semur - they are not about to yield a unit of jolt on the Scoville heat scale. Can you get the house to lower the flame? Should you? Go to my web site Insatiable Critic by clicking here and find out for yourself. 106 Lexington Avenue between 27th and 28th Streets.

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