The main floor features the performance space, 40-foot ceilings with exposed ductwork (and a disco ball), and two tiers of wrap-around mezzanines. The third floor bar serves empanadas from the swankified Empanada Mama in Hells Kitchen.

We arrived tonight, catching the last 15 minutes of Superdrag’s opening set (and encountering at least one very enthusiastic superfan in the process.) We had opted for positions near the front on the floor, in full view of the stage set-up, which involved a series of five large round mirrors that reflected back into the crowd. By the time Nada Surf took the stage it was nearly 10.

The band was on tour to promote their fifth studio album, Lucky. Almost improbably it seems, the Brooklyn-based trio has been around for over a decade: back in 1996, their novelty hit “Popular” was on endless rotation on MTV — amusing in its skewering of teenage romance clichés, if not particularly representative of their later sound. (In his intro to the song, lead singer-guitarist Matthew Caws insisted that the band still enjoys performing it, despite rumors to the contrary.)

The multi-talented Martin Wenk of Calexico joined bassist Daniel Lorca and drummer Ira Elliot on back-up horns during a cheerful set that ran over 90 minutes. Caws interacted with his audience affably, inviting several sing-a-longs, and at one point, coaxed the crowd into a jaunty arm-waving two-step during what he called the band’s attempt at a Motown song, “Inside of Love.”

Caws dedicated “Beautiful Beat” off of Lucky to his first boss from a “basement record store on Cornelia Street“ (who was watching the concert from the first balcony — I wonder about the acoustics in the upper reaches). At the same time, he worked in a plug for Record Store Day (April 19) — a day to honor independently owned record stores across the country.

The four-song encore included the familiar “Blonde on Blonde” and “Always Love.” And here’s a video of the show’s “Blankest Year” finale. The tunes are not edgy; indeed Nada Surf’s music has a certain generic indie-poppiness that makes it extremely soundtrack-friendly. But sometimes — what can I say? — I’m a sucker for a competently crafted melodic hook. Judging from the loyal fanbase at Terminal 5 tonight, I’m not the only one.

The following night, Nada Surf continued their tour in Washington, D.C. Listen to a live recording of their entire April 12th performance at the 9:30 Club on NPR.

As the name indicates, their specialty is yakitori — bite-sized pieces of chicken (meat or organs) skewered and grilled, usually over charcoal. Japanese street fare, served in a dining room setting. (As an alternative to the small tables, a number of seats are set up around a counter in front of the smoky grill.) Quite a lot has been made about the default traditional chicken preparation — medium rare to raw — but I figured that there were far more dangerous things to eat than not-quite-cooked chicken, and perhaps the looming threat of salmonella poisoning would add an extra edge to the overall experience. Besides, this restaurant opened in January 2004, and surely would have been shut down by now if it posed a serious public health threat… and just as surely would not have been named to New York magazine’s Cheap Eats list in 2006 (#61)… right?

First, some sake for courage. B put in the order of Okunomatsu ginjo sake, and we were both a little taken aback with this supersized bottle arrived in a chilled bucket. It was easily twice the size we were expecting. In retrospect, I guess we could have sent it back…

We started our meal off tamely enough with the Hamachi Ceviche (yellowtail sashimi with citrus dressing) and a simple Totto Salad (Totto’s special mix salad, with shiso leaf dressing). From there, we pored over the truly impressive assortment of chicken part options, the familiar and the less so: wing and thigh… liver and skin… gizzard, heart, “soft bone,”(?) “soft knee bone”(??)…

I insisted on ordering the heart — the little chunks of muscle arrived three to a bamboo skewer, and were delightfully juicy — and B piled on the rest: the Shishitou Tsukune (chicken meatball and asparagus wrapped in thinly sliced breast), Sasami Shisomaki (shiso leaf wrapped in sliced chicken breast with plum sauce), some other non-chicken skewers: the Enoki Bacon (mmm… bacon), the Kuro Buta Negi Pon (organic pork with scallion and ponzu)…

I lost track. I blame the sake. But I do recall that it was all delicious.

Things ended on a sweet note with the Yawaraka Annin Tofu (creamy apricot kernel tofu) — similar to the dessert I sampled at Kyotofu, and just as tasty. No lingering, though… as we were licking the last creamy bits off our spoons, our server came over and in an apologetic tone that nonetheless left little room for negotiation, reminded us that there was a growing crowd of hungry diners waiting for our seats.

SYB and I made our way west to this somewhat desolate stretch of Tenth Avenue – along the way running into DM and her son en route to catch In the Heights — to find the restaurant closed. ¡Qué lástima! There were, however, a few tables set up inside the deli, so although it felt a touch strange to be dining within arm’s reach of the cold cases of queso fresco, chorizo and tortillas, we were willing to make the adjustment.

Tehuitzingo Deli Grocery, located a block north between 47th and 48th Streets, has what I understand to be a similar set-up: a no-frills lunch counter tucked in the back of a bodega, behind which a staff of Mexican women serve up some of the most raved about tacos in Manhattan.

The tacos at Tulcingo del Valle are pretty good, too; SYB ordered up this meaty trio:

And though the “extremely delicious” Pipian de Pollo was offered as a special tonight, I decided to keep things lighter with a bowl of the Chilate de Pollo (described on the menu as “Spicy Chicken Broth”). But at the last moment, concerned that $4.75 “broth” alone wouldn’t prove a substantial enough dinner, I added on the Lengua Torta – the beef tongue sandwich — Poblano style, i.e., with Oaxaca cheese, chipotle pepper, fried beans, avocado and papalo.

I should not have been concerned. The Chilate arrived in an enormous white bowl brimming with bone-in, skin-on chicken pieces, stalks of vegetables, and hearty chunks of potato, carrot and corn on the cob, accompanied by a basket of warm, foil-wrapped tortillas. I barely made it halfway through. Flavorful, if not actually all that spicy. And unlike the usually fine torta, it was just as good the following day.

This year’s festival featured a week-long engagement of Poor Boy’s Game, directed by Clément Virgo and co-written with Nova Scotian writer/director Chaz Thorne. The film premiered at the 2007 Berlin International Film Festival and was selected later that year for inclusion at the Toronto Film Festival. It stars Rossif Sutherland, the 6′5″ dark eyed, half-brother of Kiefer and son of Donald.

Sutherland plays Donnie Rose, a brooding young man recently released from prison, where he has served nine years for a brutal beating that left a black teenager handicapped for life. Nine years later, Donnie is a changed man, but his gritty, racial tension-filled surroundings in Halifax remain much the same. Sparked by the desire to settle old scores, a local boxing champ from the black community (Flex Alexander) arranges a grudge-match with Donnie. And although it’s clear that the intent is bloody vengeance, Donnie accepts the challenge and the $20,000 payment to fight. The victim’s father (Danny Glover), moved by a desire to overcome the violence of his and Donnie’s shared past, forms a tortured and unlikely alliance with the ex-con, leading up to a climactic showdown in the ring.

I’ve seen my share of mass destruction on film, but something about boxing movies always makes me cringe behind my fingers.

After dinner, we did some date location scouting in Midtown — no, not for me — passing Elmo along the way.

I’d been intrigued by Kyotofu, the Hell’s Kitchen branch of a Kyoto dessert bar and cafe chain, since it opened in October 2006, touting Japanese-inspired, homemade tofu-rich desserts. New York magazine called Kyotofu “a magnet most nights for dainty, delicate females and chirpy, dessert-nibbling aesthetes of the opposite sex,” which described the clientele inside architect Hiro Tsuruta’s mod, white jewel box of a dining room pretty accurately. We settled into stools around the front bar, in full view of the glass enclosed kitchen, to sample two desserts from chef Ritsuko Yamaguchi’s menu of sweet and stylish tofu, fruit, green tea, chocolate and sesame creations. (The cafe also features an extensive cocktail and beverage list, light savory bites, and on occasion, Sunday tea service.)

The Tofu Cheese Cake, topped with candied ginger, was wonderfully airy with a hint of tanginess, but I loved Kyotofu’s “Signature Sweet Tofu,” served with a shallow boat of kuromitsu black sugar syrup, candied apricot and a crispy black sesame tuile. The silken texture was reminiscent of the Chinese doufu fa, but creamier, with just the right amount of sweetness. Ed Levine called the dessert “strangely beguiling.”

Downtown location coming this summer.

Inase on the Upper East Side does not open on Sundays, nor does midtown’s Sushi Yasuda, which left us with Shimizu in Hell’s Kitchen. Except not quite, as we discovered upon our arrival on 51st Street: that restaurant is closed on Sundays as well.

Clearly, we were not meant to dine on sushi tonight. Down the block at the House of Brews we reassessed our options, and briefly caught part of what would be the Giants’ victory over the Dallas Cowboys, 21-17, that would send the team to the frozen tundra of Green Bay for next Sunday’s NFC title game. (Thanks, “Jessica”!)

We ended up at Uncle Nick’s Greek Cuisine a block away, on Ninth Avenue.

I’ve read gripes that “Astoria is better,” but all in all, Uncle Nick’s is a solid choice for simple Greek fare, a casual and more reasonably priced alternative to the other mid-to-upscale Greek restaurants in the neighborhood (Estiatorio Milos, Molyvos).

My favorite part of the meal — aside from the company, of course — was the “Four Combo Dip” platter: scoops of tzatziki (yogurt, cucumber and garlic dip), scordalia (potato and garlic dip), melitzanosalata (eggplant dip) and tarama (a fluffy, tangy fish roe dip), served with wedges of warm, grilled pita. I’d come back just for this.

Cretan Keftedakia (fried Cretan spiced meatballs):

Pastitsio (oven-baked macaroni, spiced chopped sirloin, and whipped potatoes, layered with Béchamel sauce) — like a Greek lasagna, or Shepherd’s pie.

And one of tonight’s specials: the Shrimp Santorini (large, white shrimp, smothered with fresh tomatoes garlic and feta). After seeing the waiter bring out my dish, a man at the adjacent table ordered the same.

Back at home after dinner, we took advantage of my free month of HBO, catching the umpteenth cable broadcast of The Devil Wears Prada, a film which until that night I’d not seen in its entirety. Fabulous outfits, and all around great fun.