En plein air.

You know it's almost summer in New York when you eat outside for the first time. This probably isn't so different for non-New Yorkers - when I was growing up in Connecticut, we used to eat outside as soon as it got warm enough - but there's a curious willingness on a New Yorker's part to brave the smog and noise of congested avenues to dine al fresco the second the thermometer passes 70 degrees. (My friend Miles is a notable exception to this rule.)

Last Friday, after spending an afternoon off from work baking my sunscreen-slathered self on a rock in Central Park (that's a shot of the Great Lawn, taken just before dinnertime), I met my friend Cristin for an early dinner at Bar Boulud, near Lincoln Center. We actually ate there together at about the same time last year - and this time around, we had basically the same meal. Except, this time, we got to eat outside and enjoy the sunshine.

We shared a few small things, which seems to me to be the best way to eat, the vast majority of the time. Cristin ordered a flight of red wines, I tucked into a flight of French whites (white Burgundy - is there arnything better?), and we shared escargot, pâté grand-mère, and some delectably crispy French fries. Bar Boulud wins many, many points for serving its fries with tangy, European-syle mayonnaise. MANY POINTS.

(They lose a few points for some pretty shoddy service, though. They were hovering and imposing for the first twenty minutes, and then, when we were ready to order, they disappeared. They forgot Cristin's second glass of wine, too. For shame, frankly, at the price of $17 a glass.)

But, aside from the service glitches, it was a great, warm, sunny meal. So what if it's back in the 50s today?

Charcuterie takes Manhattan.

When I was growing up, my mom almost always served cold meats, sausage and cornichons with her cocktail hour cheese plates. Since I was not a cheese-eating child, I assumed the saucissons and pickles were for me. I've since realized that she was simply honoring the ages-old tradition of charcuterie, the French art of taking bits of this and that and making delicious terrines, head cheeses and sausages out of the scraps.

Of course, these days, charcuterie isn't all about scraps - foie gras appears almost as frequently as the ubiquitous chicken liver - but don't worry. They still give you plenty of whole grain mustard on the side.

On Saturday night, Cristin and I visited Bar Boulud, the latest and greatest addition to Manhattan's charcuterie scene. Sure, they ("they" being Daniel Boulud, proprietor of Daniel on the Upper East Side) serve real food, too, but the draw is the brightly-lit case of terrines, rillettes and sausages that runs almost the entire length of the bar. Also on offer: a fantastic selection of wines, including three tasting flights. I started my evening with the flight of whites, a collection of white Burgundies, and Cristin sampled the red, which included a Burgundy, a Rhone valley, and a Bordeaux.

We ordered the escargots, which came out of their shells and were served alongside four delectable potato croquettes. Coated in the requisite parsley, butter, and garlic, they were delicious, though not quite as tender as I would have liked.

Next up, the charcuterie! We sampled the pork rillettes, which was the terrine du jour, and the pâté grand-père, a pork and foie gras concoction. Both were delicious; the rillettes were made with olive oil instead of pork fat, which made them wonderfully light, moist and slightly tangy. The rich pate paired beautifully with my flight of whites (and, later, my glass of Meursault). We splashed out and ordered some pommes frites to go along with our meat (I'd heard good things about the fries). To my delight, they came with mayonnaise - I didn't even have to ask! - and were crisp, light and decadently salty.

For dessert, we each ordered the flight of sweet wines and promptly fell in love with the Banyuls. It paired marvelously with the fraisier coupe, and we left floating on a cloud of fortified wine and strawberry cream. Not a bad Saturday night, nor a bad way to kill three and a half hours.