A co-worker's recent query about people's fears reminded me of my phobia of Italian food. Having to eat it, that is, in a geographic region where no sons or daughters of Italy ever settled.

This goes back to a family trip to northern Michigan. The meat was a cubed approximation of veal, the sauce canned and bland. The cheese was a slice of American. A few years back I found myself in the same town and the place was still in business. I did look at the menu and the offending item no longer was on it.

Flash forward to a recent road trip when I settled with my wife and daughter into a motel west of Allentown, and had the Indian manager recommend the restaurant across the road with the name DiMarco's. This was Amish farm country with quite a number of establishments serving up chicken and dumplings and scrapple among other homey foods. I knew that Italians began their colonization of that region a few miles away in Allentown and Bethlehem. But it was fear versus a short 50-yard walk through the parking lot and across the road.

DiMarco's turned out to be one of those bar-in-the-front, walk-around-to-the-restaurant places that appeared to be defying the economic downturn. Half the tables were full and we were told that we were just in time for karaoke. I thought about escaping but, seeing a glare from daughter, sat down. Ten minutes later and we would have been turned away. The place was jumping, the waitresses were cracking jokes, one of the chefs stopped by the table speaking with a thick Spanish accent, and we were off and running with lasagna, fettucine Alfredo topped with shrimp and fresh ravioli.

It got even better. The tomato sauce was bright and well-herbed. The fettuccine was al dente, the sauce rich and not at all gummy, and the big handful of large shrimp, while slightly overcooked, tasted like the sea. The bread was baked fresh in the pizza oven. Perhaps the only drawback was the iceberg lettuce in the salad, of which we were each served a huge bowl, doused with a house vinegar-oil-and-herb dressing.

I had hoped to get so lucky on a recent solo eating trip to New York City, where my plan was to eat more than my beloved hot dogs (although New York's frank offerings have only been growing in sophistication).

Still, it was affordable delicacies, and perhaps a connection to home, that I sought with the help of my favorite New York resident, my son, Chaim, and his girlfriend, Jess.

Five Napkin Burger at Ninth Avenue at 45th filled the affordable bill and set the bar very high. Think 10 ounces of succulent beef cooked precisely to medium, sitting on a toasted brioche bun crowned with comte cheese and buttery grilled onions. Backstop this with a stack of pommes frites as no one but the French can do them. Add home-cured pickles and a hard cider, and wow! I wouldn't kick Jess' turkey burger off the table, either.

It was in Lower Manhattan that I stumbled on Tasty Hand-Pulled Noodle Inc. at 1 Doyers St., open seven days a week from 10:30 a.m. to 10:30 p.m. I ordered a large bowl of noodles in broth with a handful of exquisite dumplings, filled with minced meat and vegetables rather than a processed paste, that set me back, including drink and tip, a whole six bucks. They also do knife-cut and other types of noodles. The place was clean, crowded and jammed with those who should know great noodles.

Onward. Long before the Chinese settled in the land of Peter Stuyvesant, the Germans and Czechs did. What did they bring? Beer gardens. Do you dream of pitchers of dark beer and platters of sausage served at long tables? I generally don't, but my son and his girlfriend live within walking distance of the Bohemian Hall and Beer Garden on 24th Avenue in Astoria, Queens. Although there are some modern copies, this is the city's only remaining original beer garden. My son's stories about this place usually revolve around the guy tending the grill out in the garden behind a fairly cozy set of dining rooms. Unfortunately, the grill was decommissioned until spring and we had to make do with the full Eastern European menu from the kitchen.

In true Czech style, we had them lay out a big plate of mushroom pierogies resting against long-simmered sauerkraut, half a roast chicken displayed with roasted potatoes and steamed winter vegetables, an order of potato pancakes, one of bread dumplings with gravy, and 12 inches of kielbasa next to a mountain of tangy potato salad. In the words of sated children we made "all gone," washing it all down with a couple of pitchers of dark beer.

I couldn't leave town without dipping my tongue into the New York food fight over Neapolitan pizza.

When I was a kid eating pizza in Brooklyn, what came to the table was a huge thin crust slick with sauce and smothered in cheese. When sold as slices, the thin crisp crust permitted folding and an ability to walk and eat something that kept its shape and did not drip. These pizzas were baked in gas-fired ovens.

This was New York-style pizza. Its connection to Naples was the thin crust. Sicilians had a thick crust. Chicagoans touted their deep dishes.

Sauces differed. Some were good and some were not so good. But the neighborhood competitions were nothing compared to the international brouhaha created by those pizza chefs currently crafting Neapolitan pizzas as served in Italy. The designation is an official one. To carry the name, the pizza has to be a specific size, using a sauce of crushed San Marzano tomatoes, fresh buffalo-milk mozzarella and torn basil leaves. Oh yes, and it has to be slipped in and out of a wood-burning oven.

And what has been called the finest in New York City has a Pittsburgh connection. Roberto Caporuscio, known from his pizzerias in the 'Burgh, now owns Keste Pizza & Vino on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village.

Regular readers might recall that Dine Quixote missed a Pittsburgh-New York link last summer when I hunted down a merguez sandwich but couldn't find its Pittsburgh-trained creator.

Getting to eat at Keste was a matter of divine mischief for me because the lines usually snake down the block and our party of three had no reservation. Chalk it up to rain and a remark overheard by the maitre d'. We gave him our names and then my son asked about my latest photo gig for PG+. The maitre d' overheard and moved away from the next couple, asking, "Are you from Pittsburgh?"

A couple of minutes later we were ushered inside to a table with a view of the oven and a waiting Roberto, who wanted to talk about how much he loved Pittsburgh and to give me a little show about how he made the pizza. All I can say is that his pizzas were superb, from the basic to one made with pecorino cheese and lardo, a cured pig fat. Everyone in the restaurant seemed happy and content and the bright dining room crackled with sounds of delight. I just did not know whether, for me, the most important part of the dinner was the exquisite pizza or the fact that I finally found a Pittsburgh-New York dining connection.

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