The problem with sushi is, by and large, you get what you pay for.

With expense account in hand, anyone can find truly excellent sushi here in the Big Apple.

But below a certain threshold – say, $50 a head – even we sushi snobs give up chasing perfection, settling instead for fish that’s reasonably fresh, for attempts at preparation not so bad as to (in the words of my high school Japanese teacher) “dishonor Japan”.

Which made the discovery of Mizu (29 E. 20th St., between Broadway and Park) particularly exciting. On two occasions in the past week and a half, I put myself at the mercy of Paul, their young, bespectacled, head sushi chef, and ordered ‘omakase’ – an assortment of sushi and sashimi at his discretion – with astoundingly good results.

Though we totaled in at less than $30 a person both times, the arrays of fish included such items as whole Aji, real ‘white tuna’ (from escolar rather than albacore), and translucent raw scallop, all rarely found outside of the most upscale stops. Even the basics – like salmon sashimi, or tuna hand rolls – were prepared expertly enough to distinguish Mizu from the crowd.

Add to that a young, energetic clientele, relatively classy decor, and waits short enough to make even weekend walk-ins a realistic possibility, and you’ve got an up-and-comer doubtless destined for success.

Having learned my lesson from past early calls, I’ll be stopping in often over the next few months, before the rest of you bastards catch on and I need to start lining up reservations weeks in advance.

A friend told me recently that he hated his hedge fund job, but that he’d stuck with it for years for one key perk: expensing unnecessarily extravagant business meals.

Unfortunately, running a small company, the money for meals I expense still comes rather directly out of my own pocket. But, as I’d otherwise never pay $300 for sushi for two, I’m always secretly pleased at the chance to dine top-shelf, inevitable check-time indigestion notwithstanding.

This past evening, through the savvy string-pulling help of my uncle, who owns the building it’s housed within, I managed to score sushi bar seats at the recently opened Gari, with only a few hours notice.

Gari, the west-side sibling of venerable Sushi of Gari, extends Masatoshi “Gariî Sugio’s sushi innovation dynasty. Though occasionally poo-pooed by purists, Masa has the last laugh, as he’s built a large and devoted following. Which makes sense, as his sushi concoctions are inevitably, exceedingly good.

From pieces that bend tradition (sesame-marinated yellowtail topped with jalapeÒo reduction) to those that redefine it completely (seared foie gras and daikon radish), his kitchen turns out creative piece after creative piece, with a remarkably high level of consistency, especially given some of the daring and counter-intuitive combinations.

While I wish I could say I’d be going back regularly, the dictates of cost likely prevent it. But, for anyone with a love of sushi and an appreciation of culinary flair, it makes, at least, a special occasion dining destination that’s tough to beat.

Yesterday evening, in an attempt to stay on the cutting edge of New York dining trends, I headed to Quintessence, one of the handful of “raw food” restaurants popping up around the city. Though I was fascinated by the CitySearch review, which proclaimed it “a menu with a mission–to lift you up and clean you out,” I apparently mistook for praise what the reviewer likely meant as cryptic yet rather dire warning. Therefore, allow me to translate by appending this advice:

If you’ve booked a reservation, consider also clearing frequent bathroom breaks in your schedule for the following day; the laxative punch packed by the super-fiberized dishes cannot possibly be overestimated.

Last March, I predicted that, within the year, Sushi Yasuda would be broadly recognized as New York’s sushi king.

Just eight months later, I can proudly say: I told you so. According to the just released 2003 Zagat New York, Yasuda’s “‘Sublime sushi’ to bring ‘tears to your eyes'” was voted number one in the survey.

It’s hard work being right all the time.

For a long time, I’ve been buying linguine, thinking it was my favorite pasta shape. But yesterday, as the supermarket was out of linguine, I picked up spaghettini instead, and was quite pleased by the perfectly al dente results. Logically, I realized, round pastas (like spaghettini or spaghetti) are more likely to turn out al dente than flattened linguine-esque shapes; the center of a round pasta is equidistant from each boiled edge, avoiding linguine’s frequent problem of overcooked far (oblong) edges.

Time to stock up on spaghetti, then. And on penne, which also happens to be a very fine pasta shape.

Head over to Fat-guy.com’s Guerilla Sushi Guide. The tubby culinary guru knows of what he speaks.

Here’s the scoop: While the plebeian believe Nobu has New York’s best sushi, any purist will poo-poo the idea. Like Japanese Raku earthenware, Sushi is an art form that has evolved over hundreds of years to a deceptive simplicity. Tossing in a bit of Peruvian ‘flair’ is a bit like painting a Raku vase in pastels – interesting and perhaps oddly enjoyable, but certainly not the genuine article.

True sushi connoisseurs often cite Kuruma Zushi as the city’s best, or perhaps Tsukiji Sushisay, which requires all of its chefs to train for a minimum of five years in the Tokyo branch before coming to prepare sushi here in the New York restaurant. Certainly, both are exceedingly good. Yet a relatively-undiscovered newcomer has thrown down the gauntlet. I suspect that, within the year, Sushi Yasuda will be broadly recognized as New York’s sushi king.

Chef Maomichi Yasuda, of Hatsuhana lineage, starts with one of the city’s widest assortments of extremely fresh fish. He then serves up slightly smaller than average pieces that literally melt in your mouth. (Nota bene: Along with the flawless sushi, make sure to try the nameko (mushroom) miso to start and certainly don’t miss the green tea mochi ice cream for desert.) The perfection is in the details: the chefs vary the size of the sushi pieces according to the size of diners’ mouths, and a different type of tea is served with each course. Topping it off, the minimalist blond wood decor elegantly reflects the simple perfection of the sushi itself. The place is small and increasingly popular, however, so make sure to book in advance (or, if you know Japanese, take my approach and kiss up to the Maitre D’).

Sushi Yasuda. 43rd between Second and Third. (212) 972-1001. Book now, thank me later.

The secret to enjoying a hot dog is avoiding over-thinking. You don’t actually know exactly what a hot dog is made of, and you’re probably better off that way. A bit of consideration, and your imagination is running wild: Just what sort of meat is ground up, died pink and stuffed into a little tube, anyway? And what exactly is that “skin?”

Yet, fillers and preservatives aside, the hot dog is genuine Americana: inextricably linked to our national pastime, the centerpiece of any backyard barbeque, not quite as American as apple pie, but a whole hell of a lot better with beer. And, here in Gotham City, the raison d’etre of another fine establishment: the hot dog cart.

For years, I’ve been fascinated by hot dog carts, perhaps owing to childhood impressionability. In fact, over the last few weeks, I’ve even been working on a series of hot dog vendor portraits. So I was particularly thrilled to discover All American Hot Dog Carts, the one stop super-shop for all your hot dog cart needs. These guys really are at the top of their game – they’re authorized distributors for both Sabrett and Hebrew National. Sure, I may not need a new cart at the moment. But if the corporate life ever gets old, I know just where to turn.