There’s a pretty mind-blowing array of restaurants in this city, but somehow I keep eating at the same 10 or 15—and, since I never cook, it’s turned improbably repetitive. Sigh. Such problems I face. Anyway, to rectify the situation, I’ve been trying to systematically work my way through the best regional restaurants. Singaporean Saturday, Indonesian Sunday, Malaysian Monday, Vietnamese Tuesday, etc. (Vietnamese Tuesday, incidentally, was supposed to be Japanese Tuesday, but the much-lauded Ohan was closed. So we wound up at Pho 24 next door which is apparently the McDonalds of Vietnam, only, you know, good-good instead of bad-good—real shrimp in the spring rolls, real beef in the pho, real glasses and plates and tea. One waiter wandered the place with an electric swatter and electrified flies with slightly too much glee. So good times all around.)

The real winner so far is Warung Bali, an Indonesian place where nearly every one of the 6 or 7 dishes we got was great. We gorged on eggrolls (a translated name unworthy of the delight that were these fillings wrapped in deep-fried melt-away skins) and tender chicken coated in lime and hoisin and garlic and who knows and omelets bean sprouts and chilies and peanuts and, and, and. Malaysian at Mamak’s Halal Corner was all curries and rotis and spicy noodles and the kind of place where you can’t complain about things being less-than-stellar because the meal was $2 and you get to sit in an air-conditioned room and stare at posters of Kuala Lumpur’s weird skyscrapers. And Singapore Kitchen just reinforced my desire to follow in Calvin Trillin’s footsteps and trek to the country for the sole purpose of eating. Some stuff was great (cold and dull-looking Hainan chicken that fell off the bone and fairly kicked with flavor) and some was a bust (the oyster omelet with too many giant gluttonous bits and too few shrivelly, flavorless oysters*) but the menu was huge and full of promises that a country that boasts food courts full of vendors could never disappoint. (Provided you can’t be disappointed by canings and $10 beers.)

So, to reiterate, yes I really do eat every meal out. No, I really never do cook. Once, literally once, I “made” cup of noodles (not even ramen, the thing which comes with a heat-proof cup and a folding fork). And a few times I’ve crafted a fine peanutbutter and jelly sandwich or bowl of cereal or cheese and apple plate. Otherwise, yes, honest, every meal out. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Lunchtime!

*”There’s an old joke - um… two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of ‘em says, “Boy, the food at this place is really terrible.” The other one says, “Yeah, I know; and such small portions.”“