It may be an unpalatable truth, but a lot of what we learn to like and come to regard as normal begins life on the other side of the Atlantic. People whose business it is to project trends and prepare accordingly often start by looking at the state of play in America and deciding that whatever trends the markets follow there will eventually come here too. Over the past thirty years that's a view that has been correct a lot more often than it's been wrong. Recently I've returned from eight days in New York where I heroically managed to eat in twelve different restaurants. Obviously I won't attempt to review them all, but there are common threads and I've no doubt some of the newer eating fashions will come here eventually.

On my first night there I ate in Sparks, which is one of New York's older steak-houses and on a par with Peter Luger's when it comes to fine meat. One of it's many claims to fame is that the mobster Paul Castellano was shot there in 1985 and people still go in the hope of sensing vicariously a little incipient violence. It's a big, busy place with lots of waiters bustling around in white aprons and there's a definite feel of French briskness, even though it's not remotely French.

The menu comes on an enormous sheet of four printed pages, the first page is the menu and it contains a modest selection of fish dishes including large, live lobsters, but mostly there's beef in a variety of cuts and ways. All the main courses are about $30, salads around $10 and starters range from $10-18, so at current rates of exchange it's not cheap. Despite being tempted by lamb chops and veal chops, steak seemed like the only real choice for a first visit. It arrived before me, huge, underdone and tender beyond belief; a carnivore's feast. The first thing that you notice - apart from it's sheer size - is that it's how steaks used to be in Ireland long ago. The meat is marbled. For anyone under thirty let me explain that. There are veins of fat running through the meat and once upon a time steak like that was prized here for its flavour. Health and fashion stepped in and it's as rare as hen's teeth here now, but in New York it's normal. I've no doubt the animal it came from was also fed on growth hormones, but the steak was superb, better than any I've tasted in years. Prime beef in New York means just that.

The other three pages of the bill of fare is made up of the most spectacular wine list I've seen for a long time. You'd expect to find Californian Cabernet Sauvignons on an American wine list, but 100? Follow that with 37 Pinot Noirs, 29 Merlots, 23 Zinfandels and you get an idea of the depth and range of this list. But the real surprise comes after the sixty Italian wines and you get onto their claret list. There are about 130 great Chateaux from good vintages going back to 1961 at prices that make Dublin prices look like theft. !970 Grand Crus are listed for under $300, not far off what we would pay at auction and in some cases on this list, less. If a generous and profitable company were picking up the tab, this is a wine list that would be a delight to explore.

Belgian brasseries of the moules and frites variety are plentiful, but there are increasingly Belgian-style restaurants that have the ambience of a French brasserie, but reasonable prices. One of New York's new hot-spots is a restaurant called Pastis which is in the old meat-packing district on Ninth Avenue. The interior is a pastiche of Frenchness, white tiles from a Metro still stained with Gauloises cover the pillars, while posters and enamelled advertisements from la belle epoque cover the walls. The menu is simple and the prices are cheap by New York standards; starters at under $10, main courses well under $20. The lay-out follows the common pattern of a third of the floor area as a bar and smoking area, the other two thirds dining and non-smoking. I was there on a Saturday night and when I say the place was full, that's no exaggeration: it was full in the sense that there was scarcely room for even one more person to stand in it. The food was well-made and plentiful and the service brisk and efficient. For getting the buzz and excitement of the city nowhere else came close to this.

One of the classiest meals I ate was in Otabe, a Japanese restaurant on East 56th Street, whose name means 'to eat'. It has the rarefied chic that you tend to expect from expensive Japanese restaurants and although it's big, it's divided into dining areas and booths, so if you want privacy you can find it. We sat in a booth where the table is set on three sides. The centre of the table is a steel hot plate and your personal chef stands on the fourth side of the table and cooks for you. A big air extractor grill is above the table so no smells of cooking intrude. We started with a platter of Sushi, salmon and tuna Sushimi, smoked eel, sea urchin and California rolls. A thought: why is it that the best eating implements a five-thousand-year-old civilisation has come up with is a pair of knitting needles? While we were eating this the chef started on our main courses.

Curiously the main courses are almost entirely beef, although chicken was on offer as well. Garlic beef is their signature dish and we watched entranced as the chef browned sliced garlic on the hot-plate, turning them continually with two square-ended spatulas. Pushing these aside her deftly sliced the sirloin steaks and seared the slices before adding the garlic. As the meat was cooked we got to eat it. I noticed that the chef was cutting off the tails of the steaks, the bit I like best, so I asked if he'd cook them for me. He obliged, but the look on his face made it plain that he considered me to be little more than a yahoo with barbaric eating habits. Vegetables were similarly cooked to order and were presented crisp and nicely flavoured. For this kind of food, service and ambience expect a hefty dent in your wallet.