He's Japanese, and I want him to feel at home.

The sparkling freshness and the imported treasures at the sushi bar of Kuruma Zushi will earn points for you. Sushi Zen also draws homesick Japanese. Say omakase at Taka and let him be daled by the pottery and sushi art of a woman chef. The kaiseki tasting at Sugiyama can be scrupulously authentic for him, and should you wish, a shade less scary for you. Honmura An is the serene spot in SoHo for just-made soba.

I'm a health nut, so I only eat fish.

My passion is food, not vitamins. You'll find me in the great fish restaurants because I'm in need of an epiphany (Le Bernardin) or the casual feel of the seashore (Pearl Oyster Bar) or biscuits and chocolate pudding and salmon on a cedar plank (Rosehill). My affection for deep-fried clam bellies, rich chowders, and a lobster roll might take me to Rosehill, Pearl, or Fireman's of Brooklyn, where I might brave the "lobster shanty" (an outsize beauty buried under a hill of fried onion ribbons) and must certainly taste the banana-cream pie. For sublime smoked sturgeon and salmon or silken sable on a bagel, or any one of these scrambled with onions and eggs, head for Barney Greengrass. And when pals ask me to recommend a superior spot for seafood, I send them to Tropica, where the tuna tartare is my weakness and the fish is bravura without fuss. To Oceana, for its deferent service, its shipshape décor, its smoky chowders, and its perfectly cooked fish. And to Aquagrill for its friendly, laid-back air and creativity that never masks the pristine freshness of the seafood. Great-looking thirtysomethings flock to Blue Water Grill for its easy-going style, its raw bar, and the sensible prices.

Is it true there are dishes better than great sex?

No. Definitely not. But each year there are moments so transcendent they knock all one's senses for a loop. At Daniel lightning struck twice, first in satiny foie gras exquisitely dotted with quince and pear, then again with three plump rigatoni made even fatter by a force-feeding of foie gras, mascarpone, and minced porcini. Gotham Bar and Grill's seared yellowfin tuna tastes as if it's been pumped up to the ultimate of tunaness by some unknown alchemy, beside caponata similarly transubstantiated. At Lespinasse, the intense asparagus cream on lobster gelée with Osetra had all our heads whirling 360 degrees. Mustard-crumbed braised-pork terrine tuffet and perky frosted round of devil's-food hazelnut cake with buttercrunch toffee and caramel sauce did the trick at Butterfield 81. At Le Bernardin, it's the witty croque monsieur with caviar. Chanterelle's oysters floating in vivid cream get a flurry of white truffle. Danube's voluptuous braised beef cheeks in a superlative red-wine sauce and the powerful zing of elderberry fruit soup blaze in memory. The haunting citrus of lime-leaf paste makes squab on black sticky rice taste new at Sono. Is this the burger of the year? Mesa Grill's double-cheddar-cheese beauty with grilled vidalia onion and horseradish mustard on a house-baked roll, crisp southwestern frites on the side.

I need new ideas for before and after theater.

The smorgasbord plate and icy aquavit at Christer's bar will get you there before the curtain. There's a bar menu for pretheater snacks at Thalia, a smart and soaring new spot on Eighth Avenue. Or come late for a supper designed around starters by Michael Otsuka, the chef import from L.A.'s Patina: sprightly green-bean salad, the terrine of smoked ham hocks and leeks, crispy sweet-and-sour quail, and warm lobster salad with baby turnips and chanterelles. The Redeye Grill jumps late at night with live ja, a cacophony of paintings by artists those latter-day Duveens Saatchi and Giuliani have yet to discover, and a fine smoked-fish platter, plus the town's quintessential cobb salad.

At Palm West, a Broadway clone of Manhattan's legendary steakhouse, two can share the spectacular crab cocktail -- just fat lumps of freshest crab, meticulously cleaned -- or lightly breaded crab cakes (again, the same plump tendrils just barely invaded by foreign matter) followed by a standard thick cut of sirloin.

Monster trucks block the path at noon. At night it almost disappears behind the scaffolding of the new hotel rising above it. But one of these days, theatergoers won't be able to miss the eccentric sign that says Local, just steps from Schubert Alley. If anything, too much thought has gone into the details, the silly mission statement, the ridiculous steel-hinged menus that test one's digital dexterity. But there is definite verve and elegance in the design, and chef Franklin Becker doesn't let invention lead him to preposterous excess. His tangy borscht really dales. The tender seared nubbins of lamb with layered beet-and-cheese tort or the caramelized-onions-and-black-olive tart with tomato confit and goat cheese are billed as starters, but either one would be lunch for me. Judy Schmitt's dried-sour-cherry cannolis with supernal bittersweet-chocolate sorbet under a filigree chapeau of chocolate, and her marvelous banana dome are both showstoppers. Still, one might wish one's "local" would have friendlier prices.

Is it safe to go out on Sunday?

Sunday, chef's night off, can be risky. But, hey, this is New York! Didn't we invent Chinese on Sundays? Shun Lee Palace fairly bristles with a full house of demanding Chinese-on-Sunday faithful. Behind our table a chef I recognize is hacking away at a Peking duck. I'm eager to try the newest dishes. Owner Michael Tong (never here on Sunday) can't stop adding to the kitchen's already expansive repertoire. Soupy dumplings are the rage now in Chinatown's Shanghai joints, so he has to serve them, too. There is silken Chilean sea bass and slices of fresh water chestnut floating on shao-hsing wine, and gingered lobster comes with spikes of crisp angel hair. "Free range" makes a stunning difference in the familiar steamed chicken we dab with cilantro ginger sauce. Pickled mustard greens provide an earthen bitterness to sliced beef filet of unreal tenderness in a torrid but flavorful chile sauce. That sets off a cry for more vegetables. Crunchy yau choy with garlic is just the ticket. None of us is really hungry, but having watched a flock and a half of lacquered ducks divvied up before our eyes, we must have one, too. My idea of Sunday dessert: slivers of bird and crackling skin -- the fat neatly liposuctioned away -- rolled with hoisin, scallion, and cucumber in a pancake.

I'm not a cheapskate; I'm just broke from the holidays.

Make a date for the $25 lunch in the bar at Le Cirque 2000, or reserve at Gotham Bar and Grill but stick to the $20.00 prix fixe, which just went up by one penny for the new year. At the MetLife's Cucina & Co. and its new namesake in Rockefeller Center, the three-course dinner for two is a public-spirited $19.95. Our Underground Gourmet is high on the eclectic home cooking at Prune. For more comfort food, the kitchen-sink salad, yam fries, and a fabulous BLT comes cheap enough at Chat 'n Chew.

Come on, I can't believe you don't have a secret favorite.

It's boring, I know. But greedy as I can be, I've always shared my favorites. Most of them are longtime loves. Le Bernardin. The Gotham Bar and Grill. Nobu and now Next Door Nobu too. And Charles Palmer's Aureole. Daniel, where flutters of rose curtains have finally softened a stiff room. There I was pleased to find chef de cuisine Alex Lee, a strong stand-in for the absent Daniel Boulud, producing lush seasonal specials with the house's signature elegance, as in lobster garbure with root vegetables and savoy cabbage, bay scallops on cauliflower purée with kumquat and Spanish capers, and duck confit with wild-mushroom fricassee, sautéed potatoes, and black truffles.

Bobby Flay's Bolo and Mesa Grill (where Wayne Brachman does great American desserts with an excess after my own heart) are golden oldies on this hit parade. Months ago, Mesa Grill shocked me with unwelcome sweetness in one dish after another. It was like catching your husband cheating. I didn't want to go back. But sensational cobb salad and a wickedly oozing barbecued- buffalo Reuben sandwich just days ago at a marvelous lunch make me hope that misguided dinner was only a lapse. As for my longtime favorite Jo Jo, friends tell me it's always wonderful, but Vongerichten's Jean Georges is my neighborhood haunt now. I do know that If I lived downtown, Balthazar would be my canteen and my sanctum for breakfast too.

Not long ago I added Picholine, which chef-owner Terrance Brennan has groomed and indulged in his drive for the top -- surely such a grand inventory of cheeses with its own fromagier is a noblesse all my foodie friends rave about. Butterfield 81, with its winsome and romantic saloon look, hit the list just as soon as Tom Valenti took over the kitchen. A few nights ago the dining room suffered a meltdown. We waited 40 minutes for the first course. But seafood and avocado in a scrumptious marinade of lemon-cilantro oil and tomato water, along with the marvelous smoked-sturgeon-frisée salad with lardons and a poached egg, cured our grumps. Valenti's mythic lamb shank and his sure touch with short ribs made me crave a taste of tripe (my pals vetoed the order), but I'll be back.

Gramercy Tavern scores with me for its exemplary service, Colecchio's consistently fine cooking, Claudia Fleming's brilliant and majestically simple dessert. And the appealing fare in its no-reservations discount Tap Room. Add BondSt (where I mostly stick to sushi, sashimi, and salads dreamed up by Hiroshi Nakahara) and Shun Lee Palace, still the best Chinese food in town. When I crave a Vietnamese dinner, I head for Cyclo. I love Babbo for better or weirder, and its bargain-basement twiglet, Lupa. The serving crew at Patria seems a notch more poised than remembered. As the former chef's longtime compadre, Andrew DiCataldo, moves seamlessly into Douglas Rodriguez's abandoned clogs. Similar wit, same daring. I share this list with people I meet in Istanbul and Delhi and Aspen and my ex-sister-in-law outside Detroit. I send them to JUdson Grill in midtown for bravura food by Bill Telepan that matches the bravura of the room. And to American Park in historic Battery Park on the tip of Manhattan for splendid food and a glorious view of the harbor and Ms. Liberty.