DOS HERMANOS GO EAST COAST USA: A CHANG AND CARMELLINI JOINT

Someone once said if you have a bad meal go and have another. So the next day following a less than sparkling dinner I took a stroll down to Ground Zero to see how the construction of the Freedom Tower is coming along (final height: 1,776 feet) then wandered back up to the LES for lunch at Momofuku Ko.

I was told it's a notoriously difficult res having only a dozen seats at a bar and only two sittings a day available solely via the website. I got lucky and had got a booking the first time I went on the site a couple of weeks earlier.

They don't allow photographs so there's not much to report apart from the fact that I spent an enjoyable three hours or so for lunch and that David Chang had obviously hidden all his Dan Brown tomes and carefully selected cookbooks by all his chef chums to decorate the toilet (come on, we all do it).

During the meal there were one or two wow moments and there was a good arc to the whole meal although it climaxed with chicken which was a bit prosaic, nice though the chicken was. It was good to have visited but I wouldn't be in a hurry to return.

I would return like a shot to Andrew Carmellini's The Dutch though. Situated in SoHo this American restaurant had only recently opened and when I popped by for an early supper the place was rocking. The friendly FOH directed me to the bar where I knocked back one of those American beers that taste as if a three-year old (remember, the one with the gun?) was now in possession of strong alcohol and a DIY beer flavor kit (No: 3 Porter).

I needed it mind you, on a Saturday night the sound levels were, er, quite challenging. Eventually the nice lady came and retrieved me and sat me down at the Oyster Bar which is not a bad place to be – there’s a quieter back room for those with reservations.

To be honest I wasn't expecting much from the food so when I started eating I was surprised at how good it all was. After a platter of Oysters (well I was exhorted to Eat Bivalves) tender Asian White Boy Ribs finished with a sort of soy glaze and sprinkled with sesame seeds were excellent but even better was the little Oyster Sandwich.

A riff on the slider/po’ boy, the oysters were fried in cornmeal and served in a toasted sesame seed bun with some sort of mayo-based relish. Possibly one of the best things I’ve put in my mouth all year and believe me there’s a lot of stuff that’s been in there. I quickly ordered another one. In case they ran out.

When I said it was one of the best things I’d eaten so far that was only because I hadn’t had the Fried Chicken yet. I don’t eat a lot of Fried Chicken – finding the good stuff in London is a bit tricky – but I’m willing to wager that I’ll never eat any as good as the Dutch’s version.

It had obviously just been cooked because it was very hot and a big waft of steam escaped as I broke into its coating, exposing the moist meat underneath. Normally I indulge in a certain amount of analysis (too much?) when eating a meal but this was one of those occasions when the response was purely visceral.

The chicken came with some warm, crumbly biscuits which were slathered in a honey butter and a tray of trad accompaniments, (almost condiments): coleslaw, collard greens and mashed potatoes and gravy.

Oh yes, and the fries were the best I had on the whole trip.

Sure, it’s just fried chicken and trimmings but to get them this good requires no little effort and a big heapin' helpin' of skill on the part of the kitchen.

Desert was a bit of a flop - the flavours of the Ice Cream and Sorbet selection I had ordered to fill in any small gaps in my stomach were too diffuse – although the little cookies were nice. Dear reader, I forgave them.

DOS HERMANOS GO EAST COAST USA: JOHN DORY, OTTO & AL FIORI

I had hoped that by being in the United States on the big day I would escape the brouhaha surrounding the Royal Wedding but I was quickly disabused of that notion when I switched on the big screen TV in my hotel room. Most Americans seemed only vaguely aware of what was going on in London but the media sure was having a whale of a time. I rang my uncle who lives on the UWS to confirm he was showing due respect by genuflecting towards the screen.

Ensconced as I was near the West Village it was inevitable I would have to endure Little Britain and even more bombast and bunting but at least I could walk past The Village Vanguard and make-believe it was November ’61 and I was waiting to see Trane and his Quartet play their seminal set.

After a pleasant jaunt along the High Line - the second section extending it to West 30th Street is due to open in June - and a large hand-pressed OJ from a random 10th Avenue deli I dodged past the ne’er-do-wells around Penn Station, collected my Amtrak tickets and couriered a super-secret package to HS in LA. Chores done I wandered along to John Dory.

Part of Brit chef April Bloomfield’s burgeoning portfolio (The Spotted Pig and The Breslin being the others) John Dory is a sort of fishy brasserie situated on Broadway. Like a lot of places in the City it comes over as a casual sort of place with friendly tattoed staff and an interesting rock/reggae soundtrack.

No surprise that I was immediately drawn to the Oyster Bar which was piled high with ice and bivalves. As a snack a bowl of peanuts came roasted with cloves of garlic and rosemary and were good messy fun and yes, I did eat the garlic thus ensuring my continued success with the ladeez ("Helloooooooo....").

Oysters while not up there with the best of British Natives were nevertheless very enjoyable especially the West Coast Prince William (is there no escaping these people???). So enjoyable in fact that I had another dozen. I usually prefer my oyster au naturel but little relishes of cilantro and chilli, and a mixture of freshly grated horseradish and Champagne vinegar were good enough to eat on their own.

Chorizo stuffed squid with smoked tomato at $16 sounds like a lot for a single, small cephalopod but what a cephalopod! It was all soft and savoury and stuffed with a delicious rice cooked with chorizo and saffron and no doubt lots of other lovely things. It was sat on a ladleful of small, soft white beans and was topped with smoked tomatoes. Terrific stuff and I almost ordered another but instead got the check and headed onwards and, er, downtown-wards to Mario Batali’s Otto Enoteca and Pizzeria, my go-to place for gelato in NYC. Specifically the Olive Oil one created by ace gelato maker Meredith Kurtzman. Coffee, Grappa and a small mooch around after and I needed a little lie-down in a darkened room to prepare for dinner.

Al Fiori is a swanky joint in the swanky Hotel Setai. I had hoped for an atmosphere of understated elegance but it was as calm as a Pitcher and Piano on a Friday night in The City and the lighting was set veeeeeeeery low (if you value the appearance of your food it's worth visiting NY restaurants during the hours of daylight).

Food, when I could make it out, was the usual overworked small pieces of protein. Pasta a speciality of Executive Chef Michael White was a bit chewy and Desserts so unmemorable I didn't even take a photograph of them. Service was poor and we seemed to get a different person at each course, most whom didn't know who was having what or even what was on the plate. There wasn't even the recompense of good conversation as the noise levels meant I couldn't heard a word of what my guest (my uncle was saying).

The one highlight was discovering an Italian Saison ale that was really rather good but overall a pretty grim experience and one which just goes to show that NYC is quite capable of matching London for blah fine dining experiences.

DOS HERMANOS GO EAST COAST USA: MWELLS MMMMM.....

I like New Yorkers: endlessly surprising; friendly; enthusiastic. But they do need plenty of hugs. Dis something they're proud of and you risk a strop of massive proportions. They're a bit like a precocious three-year old...with a gun. That said the positivity in NY can be a refreshing change to the naturally cynical, eyebrow constantly arched pose of us Brits.

It's been over five years since my last visit to New York and things have certainly come on apace food-wise. Their raw ingredients may not always be up there with the stuff we can get here in the UK but the creativity, energy and plethora of ideas can be breathtaking. Certainly, London, often touted as a competitor in the restaurant stakes comes over as moribund and, well, a bit hick by comparison.

M.Wells is typical of that dining chutzpah. Located only a couple of subway stops from Grand Central Station (in Long Island City) and created by an alumni of Au Pied de Cochon in Montreal and his American partner it's actually quite hard to describe what they do here - bourgeois diner maybe?

Dinner, a relatively new addition - lunch/brunch was the only option before - began with an impeccable Gibson but with the added twist of blobs of chive oil languidly floating Monet-like (pronounced Moan-A) on the surface. A lava lamp for Flatlanders.

As always menu options these days are confusing for the older diner (that’s me). Small Dishes are more like mains and Big Dishes are like sharing plates for two or more. Still, the friendly staff are more than happy to help granddad navigate the options and were pretty on the ball all evening.

My first plate came on like something you might fashion when you got home after an evening on the beer. Let's see what I've got in the fridge, some whelks, some black pudding, a few crackers, some potatoes. But bound together with a dill sauce there was a curious logic to the whole dish – it just worked.

The whelks didn’t seem to be the dark chewy specimens we know and love in this country but had a more conch-like provenance and a taste which worked well with the homemade black pudding. Only criticism was I could have done with more of the protein component. Lucky then that I had accessorised the dish with slices of Foie Gras - possibly de trop but I did it anyway and I saw and tasted that it was good.

Veal Brains were classically cooked with a crisp exterior and served with a Grenobloise sauce i.e. croutons, capers, brown butter, lemon juice. The insides were all creamy and marshmallow-like in texture and had me wondering how such a fine dish could be the product of such a diner setting. Certainly watching the chefs hard at work it looks like short-order cooking but there’s a deftness to the dishes which surprises.

A Steak Tartare, served with a poached egg and a herb-driven salad, had a great texture and the taste wasn’t bad either although there was one odd ingredient in there I couldn’t identify which kept popping up.

While trying to digest that little lot I watched other dishes go out: huge trays of Porterhouse of Pork (how great does that sound?) served with Pineapple and Cherry Sauce, giant Hamburgers and Shanks of Lamb which had been cooked in a special ovenproof wrap fashioned into a rudimentary Tagine – all clever stuff and incentive to come here mob-handed.

In retrospect Lemon Posset probably wasn’t the wisest choice for pud but was rather good being rich and tangy. The accompanying madeleines were a bit solid but provided excellent dunking material for my morning coffee the following day.

As with most popular places in NY there was a hubbub – they do like to yack out here; the music was loud but the track selection great – The Smiths were on heavy rotation on my visit; and it all seemed pretty hectic, but I loved every moment of it.