Here, pour yourself a morning cup o' contempt, courtesy Frank Bruni's review of Delicatessen (pictured), the overpriced, overcrowded Soho comfort food lounge where tools and over-privileged scenesters flock to judge each other. (You know, the place that's driving neighbors to urinate on it.) After conceding that "this seriously mediocre but ingeniously conceived restaurant" isn't catering to epicures, but rather "night crawlers looking for foodstuffs that double as alcohol sponges," Bruni decides that "many of these dishes are clever, but their execution is usually matter of fact and sometimes quite sloppy...How to pass the time? During dinner I enjoyed watching the Delicatessen pirouette, a 360-degree spin some patrons perform on the way to their seats, allowing them to appraise the room fully and be fully appraised by it."

It seems the outer boroughs hold no more surprises for Robert Sietsema at the Village Voice. This week finds him schlepping to Newark for barbecue at the old school McWhorter Barbecue, where "the focal point of the room was a rectangular brick pit, like the kind used in Central Texas barbecues... The sausage sandwich was bliss: a thick hunk of Portuguese chourico thrust among sautéed onions and peppers, clearly inspired by Italian street-festival heroes." Coworker Sarah DiGregorio files a long, mixed review on Hells Kitchen South African barbecue spot Braai: "The chef (or braai master), Armando Mart, grills over ysterhout wood, which comes from an African olive tree... The results are generally very good, as long as you stick with the meat—this is not the place to bring your new vegetarian girlfriend."

At NY Mag, Adam Platt has fun with Sheridan Square, "the competent, blandly appointed" West Village restaurant that looks like "the inside of a first-tier Kansas City airport hotel." But the food surprises him, given the uninspired setting: "Most of these familiar dishes are well executed, however, and a few are downright good...Best of all, though, is the New York strip ($42), a beautifully textured piece of meat that has the complex, mineral taste of a first-class steakhouse cut." And Paul Adams at the Sun reviews JoeDoe in the East Village, where "portions run to the enormous, so that it feels at times as if the chef is trying to weigh down his customers so much that they can't leave—the meal starts with a complimentary pound or so of addictive batter-fried chickpeas—but to fill up before dessert would be criminal." His description of the banana bread dessert seals the deal.

Photo of Delicatessen courtesy Jason Schlabach.