Foodstuff

So your sizzling Latin mate is in the mood for a spicy dinner, the couple on the couch across from you are vegetarians, and your visiting sister and brother-in-law won't try anything they haven't eaten a thousand times before. Give Dragon Gate a call and order piquant beef in garlic sauce and Szechuan soft-shell crabs for your better half, vegetable egg foo young and fried tofu with red pepper sauce for the noncarnivores, subgum chicken chop suey for the in-laws. Add some hot-and-sour soup, the meatiest of barbecue pork ribs, and moo shoo pork for yourself. The bill will be outrageously affordable, the food fresh and delectable, the guests occupying your living room sated so that hopefully they will merely thank you profusely and leave you alone with your grateful mate. Just pray they don't return an hour later for more.

It's no secret that Louie Louie's pizzas win awards all over the place. Wouldn't it be clever to be come up with someplace new? But that would be like dumping your life partner because you lost ten pounds. The secret of the success of these pies, which don't even headline the menu of this Las Olas classic (now also located across Las Olas and on Delray's Atlantic Avenue), is the way the kitchen makes so much go such a long way. Served piping hot, the homemade mozzarella and tomato sauce blend with the extra virgin olive oil on the delicate margheritas and heartier Neapolitans so authentically that you feel like you'll get smacked in the back of the head if you talk with your mouth full. Not that this is our local version of dinner at the Goombahs. The vegetarian toppings and healthy pies and the grilled rosemary chicken pizzas take the selections into new territory with great style -- much like Garbo tackling laughter in Ninotchka. Perfection on a platter. Readers' Choice: Beach Bites

As you eat your way through this maniacal world, exposing the recesses of your mind, you might condemn the budded tongue as a forgetful little muscle. Not so. It is a passionate appendage that betrays our animal lust for the simple things in life, and once it's introduced to the unfathomably delicious slice ($1.75) at Times Square Pizza, your heretofore complicated life will revolve around the corner of Oakland Park Boulevard and Federal Highway. Gold-chained, strong, silent types slave at the ovens in this 8-year-old New York-style eatery, then deliver your slice right to your table. No frills. No chatter. Just slice. What's their secret? Is it the perfectly heated ovens or the high-quality Grande mozzarella cheese? Don't pluck the mystery; just obey the buds. Oh, by the way: It's a sweet spot to hit on your way home from the beach.

Put on a shirt with buttons and walk with your head upright. The doormen have no idea you drove up in a hoopty with a broken taillight. This place is a palace, a straight-up, steel-and-glass, 998-room hotel palace, with a lobby full of palm trees and waterfalls and a piece of $7 pie on the restaurant menu. It comes with a slice of lime on top, nestled into a puff of whipped cream, and smells like lime cologne. Walk out the back, past the pristine swimming pool and the fragrance of chlorine, past the fat-bottomed girls in bikinis and the pale men with gold chains alligator-wrestling their small children, to the second-story deck overlooking the beachless edge of that petulant, churning, blue-versus-green Atlantic expanse. Plop down into the deck chairs more comfortable than a mother's hug, recline, savor the cool shadow of the massive hotel and the breeze and the crish-splash sound of the ocean and the crumbly sweet crust and kids' laughter and the moist filling and the distance of it all and even the last juicy crumbs, and take just a second to realize that this is some pretty goddamned good pie.

Should we stop?

We're gonna be right there.

It's been, like, what? Three weeks?

Yeah, something like that.

Should we stop?

I dunno. What about the carbs?

C'mon, it's been three weeks.

Think it's still open?

The light's still on.

What about the carbs, though?

What about the chocolate/vanilla swirl? With Heath pieces? A small one is only $2.65.

What about the carbs?

Oh, fuck the carbs. We're stopping.

It's Sunday afternoon and you've got some room to spare after a medium-sized lunch. You're in the mood for dessert but don't know whether to have something cold and creamy or crisp and flaky. In this case, the simplest solution is to head over to Sonny's Gelato Café and let them choose for you. Sonny's offers roughly 40 flavors of Italian ice cream in cups and cones. For a single serving, prices range from $2.75 to $4.75. For larger, take-home orders, there are pints, quarts, and tubs (ten gallons). If you prefer something a little warmer, there's an assortment of baked goods as well, including cheese cake (New York, cranapple, or ricotta for $2.75 to $3.75 a slice), tiramisu ($3.75 per square), cannoli ($1.95), and biscotti (cinnamon hazelnut, chocolate chip, and almond, $8 per pound). And to keep your tongue warm, Sonny's has plenty of espresso and cappuccino that you can sip while relaxing in the piazza-like outdoor patio. Sonny's Gelato Café opens at 10:30 a.m. Monday through Saturday and 1 p.m. on Sunday. Readers' Choice: Cheesecake Factory

More than 30 years after Hoffman's Chocolates started in a dinky Lake Worth storefront, the place is now one of the country's premier candy makers. Sure, it's long been a favorite of Palm Beach County sweet tooths. They've flocked to Hoffman's for years, if simply for the coconut cashew crunch, a heavenly sweet and sugary concoction that goes for $6.95 a pound. But now the secret's out. Bon Appetit magazine has named Hoffman's one of the country's best chocolate makers, and the Wall Street Journal has claimed it has the best Easter baskets anywhere. The $75 wicker basket comes stuffed with toys and candy, including a six-ounce bunny and an eight-ounce fudge egg. Working out of a one-acre headquarters in Greenacres, Hoffman's employees claim the secret is in the chocolate recipe, made from a blend of beans, mostly from Africa, that are specifically roasted for the company. Hoffman's claims to have a cocoa powder and cocoa butter content that rivals any of the big-name candy makers. That's the secret, apparently, to the well-known chocolate-covered strawberries; Hoffman's are cell-phone sized and covered in so much dark, white, and milk chocolate that it pools beneath them. They're available only on Friday for $19.95 a pound. There's talk at the company of expanding outside Palm Beach County, but with five stores and an airport location, you won't need to make a long drive for some of the country's best chocolate.

Americans will consume more than 3 billion pounds of fish this year, but some of us know so little of piscine matters that we buy our seafood at the supermarket, where "catch of the day" should more accurately be referred to as "catch of the week." At Delray Seafood, the creatures are delivered to the back door daily, and fishmongers clean them so quickly that, to paraphrase Satchel Paige, they can put a knife to a snapper as you turn out the light and there'll be two clean filets on the table before the bulb goes off. Freshness is the whole game when it comes to seafood, but variety is still the spice of life, and Delray hauls in lesser-known species such as Spanish mackerel, butterfish, sea trout, and mullet -- all shining atop glittery crushed ice. Prices generally range from $4.95 a pound (flounder) to $13.95 a pound (Chilean sea bass), which is slightly higher than the supermarket, but the difference in quality is quantifiable. Delray Seafood has taken pride in its products since 1960, when Nicholas and Nellie Griek opened the shop. Their son and his family run things now and are knowledgeable enough ichthyophiles that they can help you choose wisely for dinner and perhaps also tell you what piscine and ichthyophile mean. Closed Sundays and Mondays.

If you haven't taken a boat on the Intracoastal, you don't know Fort Lauderdale. Seeing the multimillion-dollar mansions gives you an idea of why there's so much corruption here. These people need to steal just to pay their damn property taxes. But if you're looking for a good place to drop your own hard-earned coin, get to the Fisheries. Climb on the water taxi at Riverwalk, fork over five bucks, and motor there in style. The two-story restaurant is really two establishments: downstairs is casual, with live music and $8 baskets of fried food. Upstairs is all about fine dining and great service. It's expensive -- expect to spend about $30 for an entrée -- but the ambience and waterfront view are enough to justify the price. Built in the 1970s, it's not that old, but the late, legendary architect Bill Bigoney gave it the feel of an old packing house. Even the urinals are cool; they're wooden with old-fashioned water closets over them for flushing. And the food is wonderful, from the little shrimp salad to the sunflower wheat bread to the audaciously thick tuna filet mignon. If you're in an adventurous mood, go for the alligator and kangaroo, though we'd recommend prawns, lobster, or the Asian-sautéed snapper. The service is great too. All you have to do is kick back and enjoy the ride.

South Africans call them just "pies," their fast-food equivalent of the American hamburger. But there's nothing plain about the meat and vegetable pastries served by Rod and Tracey Wiggill, the SoAf ex-pats who run this storefront charmer. Service is deli-style, but two cozy tables await if you want to eat in. The pies, most under $4, are thick, bingo-card-sized delights, the kind of layered decadence crabby nutritionists campaign against. Stuffed inside are blends of meat, veggies, and gravies. The most popular among South Africans is the bobotie, which is crammed with Cape Malay curried ground beef and raisins. The Wiggills have modified one traditional favorite, chicken and mushroom, by tossing out the 'shrooms and adding peas and carrots. "It's more like the chicken pot pies everyone's used to here," the missus says. Not into meat? Try the spinach and feta cheese or the vegetable thai. The Wiggills also offer frozen pies, which you can bake yourself for a hot-pastry meal in about 20 minutes. South African groceries are also available.

Have you ever eaten a sandwich from a convenience store? They're fucking horrible. They're soggy. They're stale. That's certainly not egg salad, my friend. My Market is different. You've probably driven by it before. You might have stopped there to get tampons or perhaps a Slushy or a Powerbar. But have you even bothered to walk to the back of My Market? Because if you had, you would have noticed a full freakin' deli that's been there for the past 12 years and serves the best and biggest sandwiches allowed west of the train tracks. Turkey, pastrami, ham, roast beef, rye, whole wheat. It's all there, waiting. For instance, the Pee Wee ($5.50) consists of a mouth-watering combination of maple-glazed turkey on grilled rye bread with American cheese, mayo, brown mustard, lettuce, and tomato. It's served hot. Just give it a chance, baby. It won't hurt you this time.

Sometimes you can't get to Havana -- or even Miami. Sometimes, this five-table, 8-month-old splinter of a café at the western end of the Southland Shopping Center is as far as you make it for a Cuban sandwich fix so satisfying you'll wonder why Mama isn't front-page news. Oh, there are lots of breakfast items (topping out at $4.50) and soups ($2 to $3) and croquettes ($1.50) and the usual Cuban-y things on the menu -- like you care. What you came for is what you'll pull up your barstool to the blue plastic malachite countertop for: ham pork and thinly sliced Swiss cheese and pickles and mustard, all between bread ironed flatter than Bubba's forehead, blending neatly to form a taste as unique as a kiss. The low-overhead prices are much more in line with those of Havana than South Beach (where a Cuban sandwich can run $9). Although you hear mostly Spanish among the customers, gringos are welcomed by the capable staff. Mira. That means you. Open from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. every day but Sunday, Mama's packs 'em in at lunchtime, so drop by nearby Big Lots until the rush dies down. Either way, you're on to one of the real bargains in town.

A sub is a sandwich made on a lengthy loaf of crusted bread that is layered with cold cuts, lettuce, tomato, and numerous garnishings, splashed with olive oil and vinegar, and dashed with salt, coarse ground pepper, and, if you're lucky, oregano. You can also call a sub a hoagie. Or a grinder. Or a hero. Or a Blimpie if you hang with the wrong sort of people. The right sort would be the types who frequent Marco's Boulevard Subs, where they pile on the ham, salami, capicola, and provolone and top it with salad, pickles, and peppers -- hot and sweet. A dozen types of hefty cold-cut-based subs are tossed together with aplomb, including a kick-ass BLT. Sub rolls come in whole wheat too for those who wish to delude themselves into thinking they're eating health food. Does Boulevard finish its sandwiches with a sprinkle of oregano? Of course -- this is, after all, the top stop for those to whom subway means only that train in NYC.

Turkey. Turkey dull. Still, turkey good. Turkey tries. Could be better. Turkey meets rye. Turkey improves with mustard, oil, and vinegar. Turkey makes good with usual lettuce, tomato, pickles, and olives. Then turkey tackles pepper. Hot pepper! Sweet pepper! Green pepper! Cherry pepper! Banana pepper! Turkey tastes tangy, tantalizing, titillating. The hyperactive hots! The salacious sweets! And it comes in a hulking, fist-tall wad of a $7 sandwich that only a hippo could bite through in one chomp. Oh, if only lunch came more than once a day!

Liz Taylor will wear colored contacts before you'll have a bad brioche at Bonjour. Here we have le vrai McCoy. This sliver of a bakery just east of the Bimini Boatyard again proves that if you have what people want, there's no such thing as a poor location. Whether wolfing a Napoleon at a table next to one of the fabulescent Art Institute students who love this place or settled into a lounge chair for a quick croissant, café, and an eyeball of Le Monde, you can't go wrong with Chef Alexandre Rohfritsch's handiwork. Order a delivery of a sugar-paste dessert for your next affair, or hunker down on-site with a baguette stuffed to order with field greens, cornichons, and brie and you'll ditto the words of M. Chevalier: "C'est magnifique!"

As you probably know, bread was invented by the Duke of Sandwich, who was looking for something to put around his bologna. Unfortunately for the duke (or was he an earl?), creating bread was more difficult than he thought, and as the endless baking experiments bankrupted his beloved Sandwich, the angry peasants of that territory rebelled and exiled the duke to Hallandale, where he continued his attempts at forging a food from flour and water. After many years, the desperate duke finally succeeded and even came up with the idea of adding eggs to make an exceptional challah, though, sadly, by this time, he had become too impoverished to afford bologna. After the duke's death, his recipe for bread spread far and wide, and though an infinite number of bakeries have produced many a fine loaf since, few have mastered the art of baking like the Bakehouse. Since 1996, this retail/wholesale shop has offered a mind-boggling variety of artisan breads: honey wheat, whole wheat, onion rye, pumpernickel raisin, kalamata olive, sourdough, and, of course, the duke's challah. All breads are natural and made by hand -- no preservatives, no sugar (except for the chocolate cherry bread, available at Christmas), and no fat (except in the jalapeño-cheddar loaf). Loaves weigh up to one and a half pounds each and run $3.75 to $5.95. The bread here is, in fact, unbelievably good.

Morning has broken, the sun is up, and it's time to check in to Flakowitz Bagel Inn, the deliciously bagel-heavy breakfast restaurant in eastern Boca Raton. Flakowitz's bagels are homemade in the Boynton store, and its selection includes a diverse dose of doughy delight, such as cinnamon raisin, egg, rye, bialy, marble, and pumpernickel. Take your pick, and add some cream cheese ($1.45 per quarter-pound for regular, $1.60 for fat-free), scallion or veggie cream cheese ($1.70), or nova spread ($2.19). Like any good breakfast restaurant worth its weight in dough, Flakowitz is hardly a secret. Once noontime draws near, the waiting line stretches clear out the door. But don't be intimidated by the numbers; you really won't wait that long. Despite the crowd, not everyone's there to dine inside. The walkup window around the side of the building is an added convenience for a quick bagel to go. Flakowitz Bagel Inn is open 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. Monday through Saturday and from 7 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. Sunday.

It's Friday night, and you're hosting a party to celebrate your, uh... Well, there's no real reason; you just wanna get drunk. But you also want to take care of your guests, and yourself, for that matter. So instead of buying the same old, run-of-the-mill domestic beer from the corner store, take a trip to Case & Keg Beer World, where you can browse the more than 600 beer types and more than 140 keg beers. Gaze in awe as you choose from the huge selection of imported/micro ales and malts from breweries in the United Kingdom, Israel, Poland, India, Japan, the Czech Republic, and more. There are also plenty of wheat beers and sodas and even such creatively packaged stuff as Scotland's Legendary Heather Ale, which comes in a castle-shaped box. You can even get beer brewed with any name you choose on the label. Just imagine the possibilities! And if you're too busy with party-planning to pick up your keg order, Case & Keg will deliver it right to your door. Though it's probably best to just go there. It may take a few trips, but your guests will love you for it. How can anyone say no to this party?

They're $8, lack jalapeños, and the chips sometimes come singed. But, lawdy, if you want to make a meal of nachos, you've found the right place. Start with a pile of red, white, and blue chips, toss on chunks of mesquite chicken, Monterey jack cheese, two kinds of olives, and a mortar-like layer of spicy beans, then top it with an eruption of pico de gallo and sour cream. The whole mélange arrives in a skillet, which has exactly the sort of walls you need to scoop up stray beans and sauce using a single corn chip, as nature intended.

Why do the Brits fare so well with pub grub when they strike out so often with the rest of culinariana? (Bubbles and squeak? Boiled parsnips?) But here's one place where the Limeys can fly as many Union Jacks as they want. The building's 19th-century façade, including eight-foot-high English-oak front doors and stained-glass windows, was on London's historic Chancery Lane and was shipped across the pond in 1996. On nights when the Brit rock band Mad Cow is shivering the timbers of this Atlantic Avenue English pub-with-a-pedigree, you might find it hard to concentrate on the top-flight fish and chips in front of you. But persevere. Take a bite of just-right filet, get up and move to the beat, and then get back to your booth and try one of the homemade meat pies (suggestion: steak and mushroom) or Scottish fish cakes or even bangers and mash. Take a sip of one of the dozen imported beers (suggestion: Newcastle Brown Ale). Booty-shake a little more. Then finish with one of the fine fruit crumbles or a sherry trifle, followed by a glass of port and a hearty wedge of aged English Blue Stilton. There now. Life isn't so bad after all. And not one boiled parsnip in sight.

So you just ate the best meal of your life, but you're not sated. You still need that little buzz that makes a damn good meal perfect. You could smoke a cigar, but that's not allowed these days. Pot? You crazy? So how about a snifter of the finest French cognac? No better place to try this final step toward gastronomic paradise than Side Bar at the Himmarshee Bar & Grille. They have the three top brands -- Courvoisier, Remy Martin, and Hennessey -- in both VSOP and top-drawer types. Side Bar is connected to the restaurant -- which is fantastic -- so you can just walk around the corner for a toot or drop in after eating somewhere else. Prices range from $9 to $25. So relax, whirl it around a little, and let the fumes make your head spin, then sip slowly. All is well with the world, no, mon ami?

"Don't be a chickenshit!" "Smack my ass and call me Sally!" These are two of the more involved names of the 12 sauces (four regulars and eight rotating ones) in the bar at Tijuana Flats Burrito Co., daring you -- make that double-daring you -- to "Give heat a chance." As soon as you walk in the door, you're seeing red; the walls are a deep shade of it and decorated with photos of hot-sauce survivors. (If you're a glutton for punishment, try the aptly named "Ass in Hell.") The sauces, of course, are all there to accompany Tijuana Flats' budget-conscious menu, which includes drool-inducing dishes like the toasted blackened chicken burrito ($5.75) and the spinach artichoke quesadilla ($5.50). In fact, the most expensive thing on the menu comes out to a whopping $7.75. But your pockets won't be the only thing paying.

Face it: Our primordial ancestors had the right idea about how to eat shellfish. They'd find a handy club or fist-sized rock, smash it down on the calcium carbonate-layered sea creature, and finger out the fleshy parts. Early in our lives, however, too early to resist parental persuasion, Mom and Dad thrust a spoon and fork between our fingers and opposable thumb at mealtime. We're witless and soon come to accept those cursed utensils as the proper way to deliver food to the ol' piehole. That's why the Rustic Inn is such a fine place to get in touch with your inner Neanderthal. Tucked away in the industrio-wasteland west of the Hollywood airport, Rustic Inn staff spread newspapers over the wide tables and equip diners with wooden mallets. The crab meals -- blue and golden garlic -- begin at $21. More expensive crabs include the blue steamed, Jonah, queen, and king. For the ultimate meal, order the $63 king colossal crab, which comes with parsley potatoes and veggie (as if you'd have room for one). Once the heaping bowl of crab legs arrives, you just bash away. Forget the fork; dig that meat out with your seawater-soaked hands. Suck the tiny pieces out until you're blue. A caveman paradise. Open Monday through Saturday 11:30 a.m. to 10:45 p.m. and Sundays 2 to 9:45 p.m.

So you're drunk, having lots of fun, and you spill a greasy something down your shirt. It's after midnight. What's a slob to do? Well, if you are at the downtown hot spot Tarpon Bend, pick up one of the $15 all-cotton T's in the front. There's a pun-opoly to choose from, emblazoned with the following: "Nice Bass," "Master Baiters Welcome," "Spawn Till Dawn," "Best Piece of Tale in Fort Lauderdale," and that old classic, complemented by a picture of a very large fish: "Size Matters."

Don't be harsh on those folks who go to Tom Jenkins and order the barbecued chicken. They're not bad people, just misinformed. It isn't their fault nobody's told them the ribs here are the thickest, meatiest, and smokiest that you can possibly find this side of the Mississippi and that it's the ribs that set Tom's jaunty old barbecue joint apart from the rest. Besides, the deep, brick-red barbecue sauce here is so seriously and piquantly delicious that it can make even poultry seem irresistible. Tom's has other things going for it, like great corn muffins, slow-cooked ham-hocked greens, and an authentic Southern barbecue ambiance with African-Americans, good ol' boys, Latinos, and Jews sitting side by side not only in peace but openly communicating with one another -- as in "Could you please pass the paper towels?" Still, if you find yourself seated at Tom's next to someone eating chicken, don't pity or denigrate; just politely offer them one of your precious ribs. They will likely remember the gesture the rest of their lives. A rack costs $16.95. It's only $17.95 with two side orders and bread.

Browsing through the produce section of your average supermarket, you have to wonder: What the hell are we eating? What is all that white stuff on apples and plums? And who sat on the tomatoes? The more sensible thing, however, would be to do your weekly fruit and veggie shopping at the West Palm Beach GreenMarket. Not that produce is all the place has to offer; there's also lots of fresh tea, pastries, nuts, and pastas, as well as an assortment of plants and flowers from more than 60 vendors. But before the shopping begins, start your morning off with a cup o' joe from Cappuccino Express ($1.25 small, $1.75 tall) or a nice pancake breakfast courtesy of Tuxedo Gourmet Catering ($4 plain or with strawberries), which has a booth set up in front of the City Hall building. Or if you prefer something a little spicier, go get some jerk chicken ($5, kabobs) from the nearby Jamaican food vendors. Either way, you'll be serenaded by live music while breakfasting in the shade. Afterward, you can check your health with a free blood-pressure screening by West Palm Beach Fire-Rescue. Try getting all of that at Winn-Dixie. The West Palm Beach GreenMarket is open Saturday from 7 a.m. to 1 p.m. from mid-October through the end of April.

What most "gourmet" markets fail to understand is that the finest foods needn't be fancy; they just have to taste good. Laurenzo's Oceanside lets the competition focus on the fusion of multitudinous, multinational imports, instead carving a nice niche for itself as the best purveyors of old-world Italian specialties -- truth be told, the only store in South Florida to do as good a job is the original Laurenzo's in North Miami. It's not that there is anything wrong with pistachio-crusted meatloaf with wasabi mashed potatoes, but if you want a takeout dinner to lend the comfort of home cooking, might as well get the real thing. Like manicotti, stuffed shells, and lasagna prepared with Laurenzo's ricotta and mozzarella cheeses. Like Italian sausage and peppers, eggplant parmigiana, and meatballs that would make Tony Soprano cry. We're talking one-stop shopping too, as you can turn your main course into a full meal by picking up some antipasti from the prepared foods section, freshly baked Italian bread from a North Miami bakery, a bottle of appropriate wine from a well-priced selection, fruit and salad greens from the produce department, and freshly stuffed canolis for dessert. Yes, it's all a bit pricey but still a bargain compared to what you'd pay for the same dinner in a restaurant.

Looking for a ten-hour votive candle? A tortilla maker? You could go to Sedano's in Hollywood, as so many of the ordinary do, but why, when a visit to this muy amable grocery in the middle of Fort Lauderdale's version of Little Havana proves you're the cultural adventurer you think you are? Owned by the Linares family for seven years and patronized by people who know from marinating sauces and chorizos, Santa Barbara Grocery packs more variety of selections in its few hundred square feet than most larger "power" markets do in 10,000; it also boasts a neighboring bakery with superb café cubano and a nearby "Latin Sounds" CD store that blasts the latest salsa from an outdoor sound system worthy of Juan Peron. On the Santa Barbara grocery counters, you'll find choices of dried beans and rice, enough types of spices for an Indian wedding feast, and hundreds of Food World mysteries. The meat selection may cause most gringos to pull out their dictionaries, and some basic Spanish won't hurt you when approaching the friendly staff. But how hard is it to say "¿Que es?" when you're holding a package of what looks like corn husks? Go ahead. Ask. They really are corn husks.

The etymology of romaine is about what you'd expect, given that it sounds like a Frenchman's lip-squishing pronunciation of Roman. The stuff dates back, you know. Likewise, romaine tastes about as you'd expect it to, given that it's lettuce. As lettuce, if it's to taste like more than the popped polysaccharides of a plant cell wall, you've got to pour on the dressing. The Deli Den does that fine and then goes Caesar one better by adding splinters of grated parmesan, dense croutons, and mandarin-orange sections like plump wads of knuckle skin. Slap some chicken ($8.95) or salmon ($9.95) on that baby and heap it all in a bowl like an upturned umbrella and you're ready to top off the gratis pickles, slaw, and soup (try the matzo ball) that arrive just after the ice water. Readers' Choice: Houston's

Back when you were small, when you and your fellow neighborhood rugrats gallivanted carelessly through the streets attacking one another with palm fronds, you'd occasionally receive an invitation for dinner at Vince's house. You never turned it down. That's because the food at Vince's, made with spice-filled sauces so tasty and meaty that you could eat them separately, was cooked with the love only a devoted Italian madre can provide. Those were the days. But they ain't over. Reno's Pizzeria on Hollywood Boulevard specializes in making authentic Italian-style feasts to go at rock-bottom prices (expect to be stuffed for less than $10 per person). Whether it's a Blockbuster night or a romantic dinner for two in the backyard, you can always swing by Reno's and pick up an appetizer of fried calamari and two tasty Stromboli specials. And don't forget the cheesecake, capretto. It's just like the way Vince's mama made it.

It's a good thing when you go out for authentic ethnic food and the restaurant is packed with families of that ethnicity who are laughing and eating happily together. This is what you should expect when you arrive at Toa Toa, home to a genuine Hong Kong-style dim sum since 1989. Translated as "to touch your heart," dim sum is the Chinese equivalent to 'round-the-clock brunch, just without the mimosas. Toa Toa has a full menu complete with pictures to guide the novice. There is a variety of small plates of appetizers including sticky shrimp dumplings, fried scallop cutlets, a number of different rice pastes, and even marinated chicken feet -- scrawny, bent-pipe-cleaner-shaped things covered with red gelatinous goop. Brave virgins should just close their eyes and point their fingers at the menu, a good way to ensure variety. Top off whatever you land on with a baked custard bun and a pot or two of tea. Toa Toa is inexpensive (from $2.85 for a small dim sum to $6.95 for silver noodles) and tasty too, a bona fide culinary field trip. Even better, you can get dim sum there all day every day but Wednesday.

Diss the oncoming condo parades if you must, but if saturating downtown with monied, sushi-hungry aristocracy allows more restaurants like Shizen to open, then sunsets be damned. Bring on the noblesse and their concomitant garish high-rises. How else are you going to find a proper rainbow roll ($9) at 1:30 a.m. served in a stylish and chill joint? The servers at this 6-month-old restaurant are gracious, and the owner, Tom Kamioka, sometimes makes the rounds, even quite late, to introduce himself and welcome diners. Consider it fine Japanese dining without snobbery. Heck, after midnight, some morsels are two-for-one. Now who's feeling conspicuously wealthy, eh? Another round of spicy tuna rolls and sake already!

At first, it seems that very little about this unassuming, pedestrian, but perennially popular strip-mall eatery is outstanding. The Thai dishes are good if unspectacular, and most of the cooked Japanese fare is just perfectly... adequate. However, the raw fish served at Sushi Thai is unbeatable. No fancy places, no jam-packed out-the-door place, not even your favorite tried-and-true neighborhood standbys can possibly match the simply spectacular off-the-boat freshness of S-T's sushi and sashimi. Artsy presentations, innovative preparations, and obscure oddities are available all over South Florida. Go ahead, knock yourself out at the conveyor-belt place where the sushi travels to you on a plastic boat and the chefs wear silly hats (and the fish tastes like dry cat food). But raw-fish eaters who demand a consistently perfect product will not find better than Sushi Thai. Master Sushi Chef Sevee Mongkolsin is adept at the most crucial aspect of the sushi trade -- selecting the very finest fish available from wholesalers. Years of studying the sashimic arts have proven that the salmon, tuna, yellowtail, and scallop (did we say salmon?) sold here beat the competition fins down. Best times to visit are Monday and Tuesday nights (5 to 10:30 p.m.), when dollar specials on sushi and items like gyoza make it fun to indulge.

Ages: 36; 35

Hometown: College Park, Maryland; Weymouth, Massachusetts

Claim to fame: Co-owners of Hamburger Mary's Fort Lauderdale, a premier hangout in Wilton Manors for the gay community.

What they've done for us lately: The restaurant, which opened in 2002, seats 225 but regularly has a wait.

What it takes: "A tremendous amount of teamwork, all different backgrounds and age groups. We have a great mix of gay and straight, old, and young. We both work 60 to 70 hours a week. We try to make a lot of changes. It takes a lot of patience. The most fun thing we've done was a Hamburger Mary look-alike contest... She really is a trashier Dolly Parton... Dolly out of a trailer park."

Within the pink walls of this 1950s-style diner, it's not just about the French fries themselves (although those are available in straight-cut or crinkle-cut and get sliced up in the kitchen from fresh potatoes). It's also about what you can get on them. Gravy! Chili! Cheese! Chili and cheese! Cheese and gravy! Prices begin at $2.95 for plain fries and are a bit more with chili and cheese. The waitresses -- costumed in old-fashioned pink dresses -- can also serve you fries in a waffle cut or cut from a sweet potato (those types arrive frozen but get cooked to crispy perfection). The staff also whips up a mean mashed potato, for which there's a secret recipe. So, settle onto a stool at the old-fashioned ice cream counter, put some doo-wop on the jukebox, and hope the buttons don't pop off your poodle skirt as you scarf down fries beneath the omnipresent pictures of Elvis and James Dean. Readers' Choice: McDonald's

Georgia Pig has been around for more than half a century, which says a lot in restaurant-fickle South Florida. And not much seems to have changed except the jukebox, which now runs on CDs, and the parking lot, which was expanded a few years ago at this always-busy little eatery. The Pig still doesn't accept credit cards, and it retains its '50s-style atmosphere, which relies heavily on what can only be described as retro swine chic: ceramic pigs, carved-wood pigs, plastic pigs, etc. There's still a big heap of oak piled out back, and as you make your way to the restaurant, you can smell the smokiness provided by that wood. You get the picture. But the best thing that hasn't changed is the barbecue that dominates the small menu (in the form of a paper placemat). Sure, you can get breakfast and even burgers, shrimp, Brunswick stew, and daily $5.75 specials. But why would you want to when you can have some of the most succulent Deep South barbecue in South Florida? It comes in almost every imaginable variety: sliced pork and beef platters, spare-rib and chicken combos, even "small fry" portions. The standout, however, is the good, old-fashioned chopped pork (or beef) sandwich, which comes overstuffed with lean, tender meat you can enhance with a house barbecue sauce or hot sauce. There are a dozen or so tables and booths, but treat yourself and sit at the counter, where you can watch as the guy at the pit digs in deep to shuffle big chunks of meat around as they slowly cook, occasionally pulling one out to chop... and chop... and chop. Try not to drool. Readers' Choice: Tom Jenkins Bar-B-Q

This place, Jughead's idea of heaven, is so good that you'll overlook the missing "ed" after "fashion" in its name. The atmosphere is starker than Ellsworth Kelly's tomb. Sink your teeth into a half pound's worth of ground-fresh-daily-from-whole-briskets-of-USDA-inspected-beef burgers. Why not? They're individually pattied on the premises, grilled to order, and traditionally seasoned. Then they're stuck between buns large enough to soak up some of the drippings but small enough that you don't feel like you've put your mouth around Hawaii. Jack's offers no nostalgia besides what you'll find in the get-real menu, which is happily bereft of fad-burgers and silly dressings. This place offers homemade relishes and keeps the prices regular ($3 to $4 for burgers) and stays focused on the beef (though a few sandwiches and hot dogs are offered). Cute capper: You can get a Cherry Coke here. Now, what about a Green River? Readers' Choice: Cheeburger Cheeburger

Yes, there's a lot of local competition in this category -- from specialty spots to chains that play with your memories of ballpark dogs of yore. But forget those ghosts of ballpark 'furters past -- and the circle-of-hell crowds in the parking lot. Right here, right now, you can have it all -- if all means a mouthful of a quarter-pound, plump, steaming beef-a-plenty kosher dog that is juicier than the young Sophia Loren in a peasant blouse. And -- natch -- it's cheaper than the competition: $1.59 for a dog, a 20-ounce drink, and your choice of trimmings, including mustard, deli mustard, onions, sauerkraut, and ketchup. You don't even need to be a Costco member to sit down at one of the tables and chow down. Sound implausible? Believe Millie Goldstein of Davie, who sat next to us on our last visit. Says Millie: "Dad was from Coney Island. He knew from hot dogs and said these were the best." Go know.

Hiyeee! And, like, so totally welcome to the 8-month-old baby bean, Java Boys in Wilton Manors. Oh my God, like, what should you get? The regular coffee ($1.50 to $1.90) is supposed to be pretty killer -- not like that corporate diarrhea, eww -- but bore your taste buds to death! Come on, so at least get a frothy latte ($2.50 to $3) or one of their iced lattes and mochas ($2.75 to $3.25). Seriously, speak truth: Do you feel the munch? Break that starvation diet for, like, ten seconds and take a bite of this carrot cake ($3.95). Fine, go get your own crème brulée cheesecake ($4.25). You know you're just going up there to flirt with (owners) Ly and Steve. OK, OK, just kidding. But tell them about your pink faux fur handcuffs, 'cause precoffee-shop leisure life, they were both law enforcement studs. Such a major turn-on. Faux fur, tell them. Dare you. OK, meet you on the plush couches, where we can watch videos of Kylie Minogue sunbathing and Madonna and Britney almost making out until superlate (midnight on weekdays and 1 a.m. on Friday and Saturdays) when they throw us out with their big, muscular arms. Readers' Choice: Starbucks