It was my most recent dinner at The Cecil on St. Nicholas Avenue that got me thinking about the  disappearance of blacks below 96th Street. Everyone I've taken to the sprawling brasserie of the African diaspora, run by Alexander Smalls for onetime Time Warner top gun Richard Parsons, has loved it. It's not only that we enjoy the cool urban mix. It's the grand theme of Asian, African and soul food so unlike what's cooking downtown. Some of the food is remarkably good and the odd cocktails are rather endearing.

       So here I am again just two weeks ago with a trio of first-timers. I suggest we get a side of the crispy  fried okra to munch with the drinks (which take a while to appear). The okra isn't as thrillingly crunchy as on my first visit but, even so, the ooze that makes so many of us hate okra is totally conquered. My friends are grooving already.

       When the oxtail dumplings flying a taro chip banner and the poussin with curry coconut sticky rice  and bourbon dried fruit are this luscious, the adventure  seems doubly rewarding. Two broiled giant prawns on a yam flapjack in a kicky piri piri sauce as a starter are probably not meant to be shared by four, though we try. I make up for that with the sensational chili scallion house-cut fries. I only mean to eat six but in the middle of it all, I forget. You'll want to go soon too, so click here for more on what to eat.
       There must be a reason the Food Network thinks it has a winner in its new show, "Beat Bobby Flay." Food hounds, chef star wannabes, pumped-up cooking rivals, and self-nominated amateur critics might get a kick out of seeing the food world's matinee idol flattened a little.

       Those same marginalized narcissists and gripesters may hope to report that the golden boy's ambition, his dream of affirming his mastery in the restaurant orbit at brand new Gato, is tarnished. That only fans blindsided by love will fall for his predictable game. Sorry, bad news bears. Almost everything I've tasted in three early visits has been bold, original, smartly creative and delicious, if not just plain masterly.

       I couldn't wait to try his new food. I've been a fan since Jerome Kretchmer first signed him to open Mesa Grill. ( Click here to read that first review, "The Corn Is Blue.") Indeed, it's only a few weeks into Gato's quiet opening. Too soon to engrave a triumph in stars, but not too soon to be excited by what I've tasted. Partner Laurence Kretchmer keeps the booking sparse. Yelpsters and assorted first-nighters have figured that out and crowd the big rectangular bar early, vying to be seated at tables.

       And there is Flay in navy blue -- the baby-faced  redhead, now as lean and grownup gorgeous on the line in the glassed-wrapped kitchen as his glamorous wife, Stephanie March, at the next table (every night I was there with friends at a different table). Yes, it's not easy to get a booking but you will. So click here to read what I loved and hope to be tasting again soon.

       I know Gerry Dawes as a passionate champion of Spain, an importer of its wines and a photographer with a big lens. We did a wild tapas crawl once -- click here to read about it -- but I never got to know him well till several evenings ago when we shared bar snacks and pizza at Gato.

       It seems Dawes is also an improvisational cook. I liked the look of his ad-lib scallops. You don't need measurements or even the same ingredients on hand to throw a similar stir-fry together. He used leeks, celery, corn, Israeli couscous, orzo and grain with lots of crackled pepper. I see a little red pepper too. or is that tomato? Couldn't hurt. Send me a photograph of your cooking or baking triumph and maybe I'll post it. A little food porn goes a long way and it isn't fattening.

       On its second evening, I found Buzzy O'Keefe's massively fortified and reborn River Café wildly romantic. I've never lost the shiver of thrill I get from the diamond-filigree of bridge and skyline across the East River. It was quiet, the room sparsely occupied. The exuberance of rose bouquets was wonderfully extravagant. The amuse of tomato soup and Lilliputian grilled cheese sandwich was indeed amusing. And between sips of a friendly red and dinner table confessions, I was taken by large portions, mostly not too fussed with.

       Chef Brad Steelman is back -- Buzzy paid certain core staff to remain available in the time it took to  rebuild. My companion's soft polenta agnolotti line up on a mound of Barolo-braised oxtail -- breathtaking in its sensual richness and caramelized edging -- an abundant starter. Scattered tendrils of baby mizuna give it a fresh-from-the-farm verve.

       I suspect certain spoiled New Yorkers will always consider The River Café best left to the tourists. But don't count me among them. I find it to be a world-class restaurant in a unique and magical setting. If O'Keefe can resist overcrowding and beat the staff into four-star grace, it could ultimately be recognized as among the city's best of the best.  Click here to read my Bite: "The River Café for the Next 100 Years."