In the four newspapers that I read daily—the Portland Press Herald, the New York Times, the Boston Globe and the Wall Street Journal—each except for the Journal has Wednesday food sections that are sometimes good and informative or hit and miss.

In Portland’s paper today, one of the features was about the benefits of flax seed oil. Its taste is described as nutty and flavorful. I’m not so sure about that. I take a spoonful everyday and I sort of hold my breath, close my eyes and swallow fast. It takes like rancid oil to me. What it does offer is many health benefits. It even helps, with extended use, to sooth joint pain.

The Times had a curious article written by Frank Bruni, the paper’s restaurant critic, my least favorite reviewer of the last 30 years that I’ve been gulping down that column’s insights or lack thereof. In it he describes a juxtaposition of roles that he undertook recently posing as a waiter at a Boston area restaurant.

Charged with choreographing the seating flow in a bustling restaurant one hopes that it’s being done with skill and good common sense. At best it can be a thankless task.

It’s an art form, really, of which legends are made in the larger universe of posh dining establishments. World-class dining is often synonymous with getting the right table.

In Portland there’s no such thing as a good or bad table. That’s left to the likes of New York, LA, London and other international cities where placement and position are ruthlessly guarded.

In places like La Grenouille or the old Caravelle in New York if you weren’t seated in the front section you were considered inconsequential indeed. And only out of town visitors to The Four Seasons would request the Pool Room at lunch when those in the know summarily require power tables in the Bar Room

Though I have noticed some exceptions in little old Portland. Certain tables at Back Bay Grill for instance are often requested when reservations are made. Some diners will only sit downstairs at Cinque Terre or Five Fifty Five.

Of course, we’re not apt to see Henry Kissinger or Barbara Walters sitting next to us here. So for us and in so many other cities it’s a nonevent.

Less is more was not the case at 20 Milk Street last night when I went there for dinner with some friends.

Basically I like 20 Milk Street, Portland’s only posh--by Maine standards--dining room. The padded walls, the well spaced tables, the high ceilings and comfortable upholstered club chairs create a serene experience. The service is good and generally well paced.

And when you’re in the mood for a good steak, rack of lamb or roast duck, I’ve found that you won’t be disappointed here.

I made two mistakes in what I ordered for my dinner, while my dining companions had nothing to complain about whatsoever.

I began with the tuna tartar. Here it’s sushi grade that’s very good. However, gobs of accompanying wasabi were so overwhelming that it made the dish nearly inedible. No matter how much you pushed the tuna around you couldn’t avoid an encounter with the offending condiment.

What’s all this fuss about macaroni and cheese being offered in some of our finest restaurants when space on the menu could be devoted to more wholesome if not more interesting choices?

I suppose it’s one of those American dishes of the Betty Crocker era that rings in a note of nostalgia. At best it’s certainly a pleasant enough dish. We like pasta, we like cheese. Add a bit of crust and I guess it adds up to a winner.

I’m not impressed, though. I grew up on it like everyone else. It was one of the few dishes my mother, never an inspired cook, managed to do well.

What I remember most about it was the crust, something that I’ve yet to be wowed by from versions flung around town. Local chefs here and everywhere else manipulate all sorts of ingredients to give this dish more substance than it deserves. All kinds of cheeses are thrown into the mix. Unnecessary.