In mid-to-late August, it's my habit to visit Diner, at Berry and Broadway in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and order their heirloom tomato salad for lunch. Usually served with a simple bread salad, the heirloom tomatoes reign supreme in late summer. This time, after consultation with the waitress -who actually remembered me from a spring visit with Big Daughter- I also ordered a melon salad with prosciutto and heirloom tomatoes. The melon slices were translucent, and had a light pink, flesh color. In size, they made me think of Cavaillon melons -which I used to order at Grand Central's Oyster Bar back in the days at the U.N. The taste was completely different though, refreshing and light. The plate looked like a still life. Alongside the melon were two perfectly-shaped red circles, that looked like plums. They too were heirloom tomatoes. As I was eating, a table of three arrived and one of them asked what I was eating. I described both salads and he also opted for the melon salad (and mistook the tomatoes for plums). We were seated so closely, I couldn't help but overhear their conversation as I ate. It was all about art, but without attitude. Diner can be a bit sceney, not quite boho-squatter, but with a clientele moneyed enough to look homeless by choice. This table seemed to be the real thing. Serious young Latino men, who put their heart into their art, by the sound of it. Years ago, when Big Daughter was a baby and we lived on N. 5th street in Greenpoint, everyone referred to Williamsburg as the "South Side," (in a West Side musical kind of way). An invisible wall divided the north and south sides, and you crossed the divide at your own peril. I have nothing against the recent inhabitants of Williamsburg; mostly young and beautifully/creatively dressed. Nonetheless, my late summer lunch felt a bit more meaningful, because it harkened back to the genuine ferment of the 1980s East Village art scene. It brought back memories as I listened to their discussion about fellow artists in Miami and Genoa, Italy. A few weeks ago, I had a similar experience when we dined, en family, with Young Sir C, (Big Daughter's companion), at Trestle On Tenth, a Swiss restaurant at 24th street and Tenth Avenue. Big Daughter had just returned from Belgrade and it was a testy time in our household. She and I usually negotiate issues of re-entry during our first few weeks together under the same roof. I'd been meaning to try Trestle on Tenth for a good while, and this seemed the perfect moment. I was pleased to see that they place a premium on neighborhood "regulars." It was a gentle contrast to the fancy dining scene that so often defines Chelsea. As a steady stream of patrons trickled in, many were seated in the backyard garden. We sat next to the front window, with a direct view of Tenth Avenue and battled our way through a fiery political discussion about the recent capture of Karadzic. It seems apropos that we were eating on neutral territory. As we read the descriptions on the menu, we became hungrier, and the food did not disappoint. Carl ordered one each of the sides for the table; grilled asparagus with goat cheese and almonds, green beans with lovage and tomato, gratineed pizokel (little dumplings) with onions and gruyere and beets, and we devoured them all. I chose chilled tomato soup with crabmeat, basil and corn (and gave Carl the crabmeat because it's too rich for me) and a butter lettuce salad with bacon and buttermilk dressing (which was large enough for everyone to taste). It was refreshing on a warm summer night. Big Daughter ordered Roasted Chicken with seasonal vegetables in consomme and Carl followed suit. Young Sir C opted for the smoked and roasted pork loin with corn, green and wax beans and yellow squash and pronounced it outstanding. Little one shared my soup and Carl's chicken, and then promptly fell asleep on my lap after eating her dinner. We were too full for dessert but they also looked wonderful. Soon, I plan to visit for breakfast and order just the chocolate tart and a tea.