Alpha to Omani

Kayne and I are eating our way around the world, alphabetically.

And slowly.

We started almost three years ago in Argentina. From there it was on to Burma, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, and so on. The process has been instructive, in terms of cuisine -- we learned, for example, that it’s risky to be a cow in Argentina, or a chicken in Peru -- and not particularly expensive, since we don’t actually go to any of the countries involved.

That’s one of the benefits of living near the Big Apple Pie.

For example, Germany was a relatively easy drive to the Zum Stammtisch in Glendale, Queens. (Kassler rippchen, bratwurst und leberkase mitt sauerkraut. Yum!) Ethiopia? LIRR to Penn Station, walk to the Queen of Sheba on 10th Avenue. (Assorted meat stews and vegetable mushes, basically, scooped up with spongy bread. Better than it sounds!)

We did burn some miles for Lebanon and Morocco, both of which we sampled while on vacation last year in Vancouver. The food was pretty interchangeable, as was the belly dancer above, who appeared at both restaurants.

I’m not complaining. I love Middle Eastern food. And, given the right belly ...

A highly flexible rule is that we aim for less-familiar cuisines when possible: Filipino, not French; Tibetan, not Thai. Over all, there have been more hits than misses. At the top: Burma, at Village Mingala in the East Village.

There have also been some cases of what even a generous soul might be inclined to refer to as “cheating.” For “O,” we ate “Oriental,” on Chinese New Year. (Hey, Omani restaurants aren’t as easy to come by as you might think, even in New York.)

Most recently, we fudged some more on “Q,” with a single dish called poutine that originated in Quebec. (French fries with cheese curd, smothered in chicken gravy. Let me just say that Filipino, long at the bottom of my list, has edged up one notch.)

But at least now we can move on to hit Russia in Brooklyn, followed by a few relatively simple to find countries scattered around the vicinity.

And though “X” was looming as a potential stumper, a friend, in the spirit of further cheating, has recommended Xunta, a tapas restaurant in the Village. Onward to the former Yugoslavia, or Yemen! Zambia, or Zimbabwe!

But I will not eat zebra.

Ever Endeavour

My house is full of books, most of which I’ll never read. Some were gifts that didn’t match my tastes but I can’t bring myself to toss. Others I know I should read, but don’t.

But there’s only one I bought with the specific intention never to read.

The title is "The Remorseful Day." The author is Colin Dexter; the protagonist is Inspector Morse. Chief Inspector Morse. Fans of the PBS television series “Mystery” may be familiar with Morse. This is him in a nutshell: Thames Valley, England, police official; brilliant and enigmatic; devotee of classical music, crossword puzzles and a well-pulled pint; chronic failure with women; thorn in the side for superiors; mentor and tormentor to junior partner, Sergeant Lewis (seen with him above); grumpy.

Endearing.

I got the chance to interview Dexter in 1993, while he was on a book tour in England for the paperback edition of his 10th book, “The Way Through the Woods.” I asked if he had lots of other Morse tales up his sleeve.

“Certainly not,” he said. “I have to struggle to get any ideas at all.’’ But, he added, “I know if I start, something will come.’’

Dexter added three novels. The last one I read, “Death Is Now My Neighbor,’’ revealed a long, jealously protected secret, the chief inspector’s first name: Endeavour.

A revelation of that nature should have been a clue to what lay ahead.

There’s precedent for authors killing off their detective creations, most famously Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s dispatching of Sherlock Holmes. The public was outraged, and so Doyle brought him back. Holmes lived on to retire and keep bees in Sussex, where for all we know he still is.

Dexter rejected any such riding-into-the-sunset.

“Morse never would have lasted in retirement,’’ he told an interviewer in 1999. “He had no lawn to mow. He would have gone spare. No, it’s better this way.’’

Better for Dexter, perhaps, whose health, I gather, has not been the best and on whom the writing came to take a physical toll. Not better for those of us who dearly miss the good, grumpy inspector.