Food & Drink

There aren't a whole lot of good things you can say for rampant development in South Florida. But one quality-of-life improvement associated with those high-rise condos blocking your view of the beach is the arrival of the upscale corporate eatery. For as surely as the moneyed snowbird flies south, so does the better restaurant chain follow in her updraft. Goodbye, Olive Garden; hello, Seasons 52. Good riddance, Taco Bell; bienvenidos, Rosa Mexicano. Rosa was the first upscale Mexican restaurant in Manhattan, opened by the late Josephina Howard — who invented the tableside-guacamole phenomenon where servers dice and mash onion, tomato, peppers, and avocado into the dip of your dreams. The tables at this Palm Beach Gardens location are filled not only with bowls of guac and warm tortillas but also with pasilla chili soup, zarape de pato (pulled barbecued duck between tortillas), boneless beef short ribs, and baby goat tacos. This ain't one of those frozen-margarita-and-chimichurri palaces that have simultaneously wrecked your waistline and your taste buds.

Psychologist Marla Reis gave up her practice last year to open Café Emunah in Fort Lauderdale with a friend and kindred spirit Rabbi Moishe Meir Lipszyc. With hip, calming décor and a rule that "only positivity is allowed," Emunah is a place where the pair hoped to offer "an experience for the senses and an oasis for the mind, body and soul." That, and really killer sushi.

New Times: Is it true that one of the menu items at Café Emunah is "a side of conversation"?

Reis: A side of table talk. It's offered in 15-minute increments. I sit tableside with guests, and if they have questions or issues as far as bringing about a greater consciousness, we could discuss it in an informal way. It's very flexible and tailored to individual needs, or we can do a group conversation.

What kind of discussions do you have?

People might ask, ‘How can I find a husband?' or ‘I want to increase spirituality in my life -- what can I do to increase awareness?' or ‘I'm having a hard time getting along with my best friend – what do I do?' It's a little less imposing than traditional therapy. Almost like a tune-up to help people continue in their lives. I'll have hours where I can be scheduled. I recommend making a reservation. It's $20 per 15 minutes -- much less expensive than a regular therapy session.

Speaking of people who need consciousness-raising, there's the man who sometimes carries his Walther PPK in a hollowed-out Bible. Got any favorite James Bond locations?

Well, I have investors I've spoken to about bringing the café into Manhattan! The only real James Bond locale would almost have to be the café, because it's a very modern, hip atmosphere. Oh, and my townhouse in Victoria Park.

Aiyee. If we're ever invited, we'll wear a kevlar vest.

Jean-Pierre Brehier's mother was a Cordon Bleu chef, so by the time he was five years old, the French-born chef/cooking school maestro could make a cake from scratch. At 12 he began his professional career, first learning to trim zee lambchops in a butcher shop, then braiding dough in a bread shop, and finally apprenticing in a restaurant. Before opening the Chef Jean-Pierre's Cooking School in Fort Lauderdale, he had been the proprietor for 20 years of Left Bank, one of South Florida's prime dispensers of delectable wine sauces and pouffe pastry.

Jean-Pierre still has the outrageous French accent and attitude, as well as the unpredictable sense of humor that makes every class a laugh session. There was this bit of wisdom for Jean-Pierre's charges recently: "Dose people at the Bennigan-again-agains – they do not love you…they do not caramelize de on-yon."

New Times: Do you think you could you teach a kitchen-challenged dufus like me to cook French delicacies?

Jean-Pierre: I just believe that anybody is capable of becoming a phenomenal chef. There is only one way to slice an onion.

What's the big secret?

There are only 40 or 50 ingredients you use on a regular basis; if you learn how to handle those then you know how to cook!

Are there any exotic destinations that you would like to see that you haven't gone to yet?

I would love to go Australia. Of course, it's very English influenced and that's the problem. I don't know how good the food is going to be.

What's the coolest spy tool in your kitchen arsenal?

I have the coolest toy! It's a digital thermometer that shoots a ray of light, and it bounces back and gives the proper temperature. It is very, very cool. So you are now sure the temperature is 375 degrees by shooting this laser beam into your oil. It even looks like a gun.

We remained stoic through the mad cow scare. We refused to buckle to e. coli hysteria, and we snickered through Super Size Me. We'd never turn our back on the hamburger, our comfort food through many a dark night of the soul. But when the $100 burger arrived in South Florida (at the Boca Raton Resort), we knew we were in the End of Times. The people's snack that had evolved from chopped, salted beef favored by 19th-century German sailors into Macburger for the masses had suddenly taken a very scary turn: into pretentious Kobe beef and Argentine grass-fed steak territory. It's definitely time to get back to basics, and Prime 707's chopped beef on a bun doesn't pretend to be anything but what it is: an addictive, soothing mouthful of meat, best slathered with mayo and a shake or two from a bottle of Heinz. This is not, at $12 for ten ounces, the cheapest burger on the market. But it's made from prime, well-marbled sirloin tips and filet mignon scraps that chef/owner Tony Acinapura says are ground daily in the kitchen, then charbroiled and set inside a pillowy bun made at Le Petit Pain French bakery (twice a New Times "best of" winner). The smoky, fatty juices tend to dribble down your chin when you bite into the burger, and it comes with a mountain of perfectly respectable salted shoestring fries. In short, it thoroughly restores the good name of a sandwich that has lately been much abused and maligned.

In an era when it takes a cool couple of mil to open a restaurant with any hope of success — what with the obligatory solid-gold threads in the throw pillows, the de rigueur kryptonite flooring, and the water walls — take comfort that a little candlelit closet in Hollywood is flourishing without pretensions or spectacle. The only circus act at the cozy, year-old Boulevard American Bistro comes at the end of your delicious meal, when co-owner Jean-Paul Varona sets your rum-laced guava bread pudding alight. But don't rush things. Truffle-oil-laced fries scattered with pecorino and provolone are meant to be savored, along with Chef Jorge Varona's terrific New Orleans-style grilled andouille with creole mustard and spectacular artisinal bread, or his pan-seared blue crab cakes with fruit salsa and a dash of chipotle. Generous servings of fat-loaded braised short ribs, big plates of grilled marinated hanger steak with crisp red pepper and polenta fries — it all looks like the people's food, but it's so beautifully conceived and executed that you'd almost think the people had done something to deserve it. For once, the best restaurant in South Broward is a place you can afford to go back to, week after week.

The downtown lunch crowd packs the tiny parking lot on weekday afternoons like a parched pack of bison at a watering hole, randomly wedging their oversized SUVs between yellow lines and racing in to place orders. A few Windy City-themed hot dog joints flourish in Florida, but Michael's is the lone local franchise of an actual Chicagoland institution. So what you'll find here are the same staples you'd encounter amid the gum-splattered sidewalks around Wrigley Field: Polish sausage, char dogs, chili cheese dogs, and, of course, the perennially awesome Chicago dog, top-loaded with pickles, relish, and peppers. The Sears Tower of hot dogs, this time-tested tubesteak is truly a tastier-than-thou, top-of-the-line victual item. And that soppy, drippy masterpiece, the Italian roast beef sandwich — which Michael's deifies with beef juice, giardinera (pickled carrots, celery, cauliflower, and peppers), and cheese if you want — is so hot and yummy you'll swear it just arrived on a first-class flight from O'Hare. Eat one with your eyes closed and a Cubs game on and you might think you're standing on the corner of Addison and Clark outside the stadium. Best of all, the counter kids here are so damned sweet and friendly, you'd think they were on an Up With People tour stop. If you're nice enough, they'll even remember your name and what you want — and if you call ahead, you can beat that long-ass lunchtime line. Also available: Italian sausage.

This modest little restaurant is probably not the kind of place you'd stumble into accidentally. What looks like a sullen strip mall transforms, as you walk through the door at Josef's, into a full-blown fantasy of a quaint, alpine inn. Nor does it resemble in form or spirit the grand eateries that tend to gobble up all the "Best" awards year after year. It's run not by a celebrity chef but by a taciturn, practically anonymous bear of an Austrian named Josef Schibanetz and his American wife, Beth, who've been quietly going about the business of making Plantation gourmets ecstatic for four years. Their menu is distinguished by its devotion to the Friuli-Venezia-Giulia region of Italy and its major city, Trieste, where a hybrid Austrian-Italian cuisine has developed over the years, incorporating influences from Spain and France. Thus, a casserole of shrimp with grappa and Edam sits comfortably next to garlic-sautéed frog legs Provenale, and a venison loin with pomegranate sauce and roasted pear might appear at the same table as crispy soft-shelled crab with fennel salad and yellow pepper aioli. These luscious European dishes are served with no pretensions, just hospitable warmth and perhaps a glass of good, fruity Friuli wine. Dessert appears as homemade strudel with a jaunty paper-thin hat of pastry and a complimentary plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries.

The South Florida pizza wars are hereby declared officially over, and to the victor — chef/owner Demetrio "Big Dog" Zavala — go the spoils. Kudos are due any tomato pie emporium that not only fires up a coal oven every day (you really can't get those charred bubbles in your crust without one) but puts together combinations of toppings like smoked salmon/sour cream/tomato/red onions/preserved lemons or wild mushrooms/pesto/fontina/mozzarella/crispy leeks, along with less outré meatballs and ricotta or a classic tomato-basil-mozz. To say nothing of a white or black truffle pie with roasted garlic, black pepper, and parmesan (market price). And Zavala leads yet another charge from the Big Apple: no trans fats.

All good things don't come to an end. After 21 years as the restaurant that put South Florida regional cuisine on the map, Café Maxx has finally, like some respectable old dowager acquiring a facelift and an iPod, got itself a liquor license and a bit of interior renovation. Thus does the Maxx slough off any lingering stale whiffs of its mid-'80s origins and take a sprightly step into the 21st Century, balancing a ginger-cucumber martini in one hand while keeping a firm grip on what has always made the place great: the seasonally inspired menu, the subtle and creative use of local ingredients, an unrivaled wine list, and a sophisticated vibe. Chef Oliver Saucy and Darrel Broek are a foodie's dream team, a partnership that has lasted longer than most marriages and never gone stale. Ever the innovator, Saucy turns out dishes like honey-and-lavender-glazed duck breasts with baby carrots, peach cornbread, and peach salsa, along with swordfish fillet rubbed with ancho chilies and served alongside conch fritters with succotash and lime butter. Broek's wine list, chosen to complement Saucy's palate, includes hundreds of personally selected French, Italian, and American bottles guaranteed to taste marvelous with those giant shrimp sautéed in Pernod and lamb chops crusted with wasabi peas.

Sometimes you just need a piece of pizza. Not a deep dish Sicilian or something coal-fired with broccoli rabe. Just a good, old-fashioned, thin-crust New York-style slice. In such times of need, there's Johnny's, where $2.25 gets you a plain wedge of heaven and 50 cents more sweetens the deal with toppings like salami, pineapple, jalapeños, or (regular, thank God) broccoli. Johnny's is generous with the cheese, and when you order a Dr. Brown's root beer or a Heineken to wash the goodness down, they bring it to your table with a frosted mug — a plastic one, thank you very much.

Is there an inverse ratio of pretension to quality? Because judging from the décor (casually handsome, if a bit dated), the service (unreservedly nice), and the food (inspired but never showy), you'd never guess that 32 East, wedged in among the hubbub and scuffle of other fine restaurants on Delray's Atlantic Avenue, was the cream of that decidedly excellent crop. Chef Nick Morfogen has been quietly cooking away, changing his menu daily and sourcing local, sustainable, and organic ingredients — along with locally caught fish, black truffles, and foie gras — for nearly a decade now. Against all odds, he has become a fixture more interested in challenging his own and his customers' palates than becoming a brand. You'll find Morfogen's menu reassuringly familiar: There are the short ribs, only served as a ragu under homemade ceppo with truffles and porcini. There's the filet mignon, but with sauteed chanterelles and Neuske's bacon. And although the kitchen's hand may occasionally slip with the salt shaker or a piece of fish may arrive just shy of dry, Morfogen will never bore you. If you could marry a restaurant — smart, good-looking, modest, creative, and destined to age gracefully — this one would be the love of your life.

Paula Palakawong and Ravin Nakjaroen have their finger on our collective, turn-of-the-century pulse. They take Thai food, upscale it, and purify their menu with organic meats and locally farmed produce and seafood. Then they create from them gastronomic works of art and set the whole caboodle in a space with all the attributes of the most luscious spa imaginable, so that eating becomes an intensified, transcendent experience. What could be more au courant? Raised ponds, geometric rows of lotus flowers, Thai poems written in bas relief, and a menu featuring American products like Niman Ranch pork and Maine lobster cooked with Thai accent and spirit make eating at Four Rivers a thoroughly voluptuous experience. This young couple, who have never run a restaurant before, have managed to outclass the most experienced and well-capitalized restaurateurs in town with an effortless grace that comes from doing exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. You've been waiting your whole life for sweet chili-glazed foie gras with spiced lychee and pineapple compote. You just didn't know it.

Started in 2006 by two Fort Lauderdale school buddies, Vaughn Lazar and Michael Gordon, Pizza Fusion opened in Deerfield purveying organic pizza. But the guys pushed their concept right to the cutting edge: delivering those organic pizzas in Prius hybrids, powering their website with wind, printing their menus and boxes on recycled paper, using biodegradable flatware, and even taking your order with pens made of recycled cardboard. Their oblong, thin-crust pies — baked with organic white, whole grain, or gluten-free crusts and topped with combinations like Key West shrimp and pesto (yummy) or chopped plum tomatoes, red onions, fresh basil, and balsamic vinegar and olive oil (fantastic) — are damned well worth picking up the phone for. All their vegetables, chicken, tomato sauces, and oils (and even most of their beer and wine) are 100 percent organic. Prices start at $13 for a medium and $16 for a large, ranging up to a $48 surf and turf topped with organic strip steak, shrimp, and lobster. A second store opened in Fort Lauderdale in March, and the boys have already begun to take the concept on the road. They say they're "saving the Earth, one pizza at a time," but they may well save our stomachs and our consciences too.

Trying to tell the difference between one fried chicken or another is as tough as trying to tell one live chicken from another. Can you really discern if your leg came from Publix or KFC? At Fran's, the difference is noticeable and tasteable. Fran's opened in 1964 in a depressing Boca Raton strip mall as a takeout joint. When Stacey Fuentes bought Fran's in 2003, she inherited the cooking style, which involves scalding the birds to rid them of the yellowish fat, then frying them in vegetable oil. What emerges is golden and crisp on the outside and meaty and sweet on the inside. The pieces are huge, and Fuentes is credited with bringing in homemade collard greens, mashed potatoes, candied yams, rice, and black-eyed peas. As it says on the wall: "The rooster may crow, but the hen delivers the goods."

Housed in an old bank building at the foot of the Southern Boulevard Bridge, Sapori exerts a gentle magnetism upon Palm Beach island's "smart set," though judging from the placidly banal conversation of these sartorially challenged plutocrats, the smart set could use some reeducation. Owner and Chef Francesco Blanco and Fabrizio Giorgi fled Worth Avenue's Bice to strike out on their own this year, and while Sapori is as pricey and its clientele equally annoying, they've clearly and successfully avoided Bice's creeping mediocrity and built themselves a restaurant far lovelier and more pleasing, thanks in part to their gracious, well-trained staff. A huge menu of tapas, Italian specialties, and — weirdly — sushi (perhaps as a sop to those size-0 socialites) is outstanding, from warm chickpea cake with goat cheese and sautéed mushrooms to mini rice balls stuffed with mozzarella and meat, from baby spare ribs in apricot sauce to homemade white pizza. The kitchen's attention to detail is so exacting that even a simple roast chicken almost outshines a perfectly composed plate of osso buco. Don't be put off by the Maseratis at the valet station; sitting amid flickering candles on the outdoor patio, forking up hand-rolled ricotta cavatelli, you'll feel like you could buy and sell every one of those assholes three times over.

You're not the type to take undue advantage of your expense account, but corporate is flying in to evaluate your department, and you'd like to take the CEO somewhere she'll feel very, very comfortable. You and the boss will slide into Chops the way a chunk of flash-fried Australian lobster tail (market price) slides into a bowl of drawn butter — with barely a ripple. The first foray of this Atlanta steak and seafood mainstay into South Florida territory is already a frantic hit with the kinds of people who want to impress somebody else. Here, deals are sealed (be it a marriage proposal or a merger), seductions are furthered, and excellent impressions are made over a dozen coldwater oysters from two coasts ($24), an iced shellfish tower ($56 for a whole main lobster, gulf shrimp, Alaska red king crab, and oysters of your choice), tenderloin steak tartare prepared tableside ($14), prime aged bone-in steaks ($38 for a 22-ounce rib eye, $48 for a porterhouse for two), and a surf and turf of eight ounces of filet mignon with a quarter pound of king crab meat ($45). The signature Gold Digger cocktail ($11) seems particularly apropos of this Boca location: vodka, creme de cassis, lemon juice, and Grand Marnier-soaked raspberries finished with a splash of champagne. A tiled, barrel-vaulted back room reminiscent of Grand Central and rose-red leather banquettes in the bar make this a setting worthy of a hefty salary raise. Don't spend it all in one place.

First, let's define our terms. What, exactly, is a sub? Does it resemble a hoagie, a hero, an Italian sandwich? And is the phrase meatball sub, for example, a contradiction in terms? The submarine sandwich has generated many a lively and plausible origin story in dozens of American cities, so choosing a "best sub" is a rather futile exercise, as the entity "sub" exists only as a continually transforming concept in the collective mind of America. However, it should be noted that the "Italian combo sandwich" — capicola, mortadella, Genoa salami, provolone, lettuce, tomato, and sliced red onion drizzled with oil and vinegar on a crusty Italian roll that's trucked up from Cusano Bakery in Miami — is prepared at the Porta Villa Italian Deli by the skillful hands of Warren and Janet Kart (who opened the place four years ago), and it does indeed resemble the sandwich we commonly call by that name. It's also delicious. And $7.

There are half a million Cubans in South Florida and something like four decent Cuban restaurants. OK, maybe five. Evidently, the ex-pats have far better things to do than to open cafés where everything on the menu costs less than $15 — like manage gargantuan sugar farms, run for office, or study for the Florida bar. Who can blame them? Standing over a hot iron pressing sandwiches all day is no picnic. You Ôd have to, in fact, be a crazy Italian to want to do it, especially to do it twice. But when Sam Mancuso opened a second outlet in Boynton Beach last year (the first Crazy Cuban was in Vero), he answered the prayers of many a hapless local who, when faced with a hearty appetite and the contents of his change jar, thinks inevitably: Cuban sandwich ($5) with extra pickles (free). If the jar runneth over, he might even splurge on a Cuban Special ($6.25), which adds sliced turkey breast to the classic ham, pork, Swiss, pickle, and mustard combo. Both, of course, are served on excellent, deliciously oily pan Cubano — heated, smooshed, and crisped in a sandwich press — so the textures and flavors that have rightly made this neat little meal a staple of penniless hacks everywhere are thereby perfected.

Let's imagine, for once, that your out-of-town guests are under the age of 70 and not living on a pension. Let's fantasize that your guests like to stay out late and drink strong mojitos, that they have their own sporty little coupe and a suitcase full of shimmery minidresses and linen trousers, and that they'll undoubtedly offer to buy the empanadas and capirinhas if you'll just point them in the right direction. A night of their lives is waiting at Spice Resto-Lounge, the Hollywood epicenter of what South Florida might have been had it taken its cues from Havana: lots of booty, rum, and rumba set on a busy, breezy boulevard where the moon seems ever full. The menu here is supper-club Latin-Caribbean, and the floor show is nonstop, from a series of crooners singing Astrid Gilberto hits through the bouncers and cocktail waitresses who'll hop up on raised platforms and dance their asses off at the slightest provocation to a house band that strikes up around 10 p.m. seven nights a week and keeps the place rocking until the very wee hour of 4 a.m. Anybody who fails to have fun here isn't your friend.

Everyone knows necessity is the mother of invention. It's also the mother of Big Al's Steaks, a recently opened Philly cheese-steak joint that gives a damned good reason to visit otherwise lame Coconut Creek. Big Al Costillo and his son Adam migrated from Philly to South Florida expecting to find some place that compared to their favorite local cheese-steak shop, Geno's. But they didn't. So they opened one in a little space (and by little, we mean ten people fit, at most) in a depressing strip mall between State Road 7 and the Sawgrass Expressway. It really didn't look like much — your typical little sandwich shop with a couple of TVs, some barstools, and white walls adorned with Flyers and Eagles paraphernalia. But then we watched the assembly of our sandwich behind the plate-glass window. The thinly sliced rib eye searing on the flat-top grill. The American cheese whiz dripping from the ladle. The even distribution of fried onions. Our saliva was practically gushing when we finally took a bite, chewed, and entered cheese-steak heaven. Then we found out that our Philly roll had actually been in Philly earlier in the day. Big Al wasn't about to compromise on fluffy Philly bread. Now we just wish he'd throw some good brews on the menu. Coming soon: Big Al's expansion into Delray Beach.

OK, so it isn't set in a railroad dining car, and there are no waitresses named Madge. Henry's doesn't serve breakfast all day — there isn't an egg on the menu unless you count the organic egg-white omelet served at lunch (with mushrooms, spinach, Gruyre, and a side of skinny fries). But in spite of a brave attempt to attract the young and the feckless in Boca and Delray with a spiffy martini list and generous ladles of lemon aioli, the well-to-do Northeastern retirees who frequent Henry's know exactly what this place is: the Jersey diner they always aspired to. The place gives itself away with the cushy booths, the banging pots, the shouts emanating from the open kitchen, and its list of American classics like gourmet pot roast, chicken pot pie, spaghetti with meatballs, and stuffed roast chicken with Brussels sprouts. Don't let the demi-glace and the "balsamic roasted" fool you. These are meals best finished off with a hot fudge sundae — and there it is on the dessert menu. And damned if that sundae isn't improved with a shot glass of 100-year-old Grand Marnier ($17.50) upended into it.

If aliens invade our planet tomorrow, the odds of our having anything they haven't already thought of are slim-to-none. Our one saving grace, ace in the hole, and lone olive branch to extend might be the sandwich. Because, when properly executed, the perfect sandwich represents centuries of architectural design, layered with worldwide gourmet influences, all served with two handy slices of bread so your fingers don't get sticky. Yes, it might be our greatest invention to date. And with all that said, we should find ourselves fortunate to have the sandwich masters of My Market so close at hand. My Market is an unassuming corner store that, when driving by, looks like an ordinary bodega. But go inside and you find shoulder-to-shoulder crowds of construction workers, business folk, and pretty much everyone else who could squeeze in. They all know that the deli-style, made-to-order sandwiches are concocted out of Boar's Head meats and cheeses and whatever homemade sauces and extras My Market feels like throwing in. Are you craving something exotic? Maybe bite into the French Quarter, a French bread-based hot sub made of brie, roast beef, "Want Mo!" sauce, and fresh rosemary. Heading to the beach? Grab a La Baja — it's got fresh cracked peppermill turkey and jalapeno pepper cheese slathered with Russian dressing and then pressed flat and hot. But the real trick about the folks at My Market is that they understand our human love of all the accouterments that go with the sandwich experience, which is where the store's minimart alter ego comes into play. Any size and variety of chip and dip is at your beck and call, along with every fathomable type of juice, soda, and iced tea. So when the invasion happens (and just wait; it will), let's nominate My Market to be our ambassador.

French fries are like air: all around you and important as hell but never given a second thought. Most eateries just open the bag of freezer-burned potato lumps and dump them in the fryer. But not the Rum Shack. This indoor tiki bar (with a real thatched roof) offers big, wedge-cut fries available straight-up, beer-battered, or beer-battered and covered in a special secret gorgonzola cheese sauce and with a side of herb au jus for dipping. And at just $3.95, they're damned near a meal in themselves.

For an abridged history of Tony and Erica Sindaco's culinary progress in Broward County, look to nearly a decade of New Times Bests-awarded Sunfish Grill. In the nine years since they opened, chef (Tony) and owner (Erica) have brought crab Charlotte, a jewel-toned tower of gastronomic power, to the collective consciousness of South Floridians, along with an appreciation for the way seafood becomes a transcendent experience in the right hands. But about 2003, after word got out about their braised littleneck clams, seared rare tuna over oxtail ragout, and grilled swordfish with mushroom reduction, to say nothing of their Symphony of Chocolate, our once-cozy, one-room Sunfish morphed into the sort of place where you had to scream your endearments while playing inadvertent footsie with strangers. That was the year we awarded Sunfish Best Restaurant Ready for an Expansion. Four long years later, we've been granted our fondest wish, as Sunfish has reopened in a spacious, grown-up couple of rooms without missing a beat or compromising a flavor.

As tasty as it is eccentric — Tom Jenkins' is right off Federal in a log-cabin-inspired building that began accepting credit cards only last year — this is a communal dining establishment. There are no reclusive tables for two here. Just long tables with benches, where blue-collar, white-collar, and no-collar types bump elbows as they munch on racks of secret-sauce-drenched spare ribs and coarsely chopped pork sandwiches. The desserts are just as sought-after: homemade sweet potato pie and a weekend-only treat of juicy, bubbling fruit cobbler. Started in a roadside stand by two frat brothers from Florida A&M in Tallahassee, Tom Jenkins' is now marketing two sauces (Original and Country Gold) in grocery stores.

You probably thought we'd pick one of those fancy Mexican restaurants with tableside guacamole engineers. Nope. Have you seen the price tag on that shiiiiiit? Like $10 plus tax plus tip for a bowl that's gone before the Sangria even arrives. For guac that's just as fresh and delicious, why not make for one of the South Florida green markets, where you can shop among crisp vegetables and pulchritudinous plants, then stumble on Anita's Guacamole, a small business based on an authentic Colombian recipe that's been passed down for four generations of Mauricio Mendez's family. Mendez, just 25 years old, has been running the business from North Miami for two years now, sending out worker friends to deliver his great-grandmother's mouthwatering guac to the masses. When we found this avocado dream at the Lake Worth green market (sadly, now closed for the summer), it was a young Colombian architecture student named Giovanni who delivered the goods. We watched the graceful mashing of his sinewy, twitching forearms and listened intently as the ingredients spilled softly off his supple lips — avocados, lime juice, onions, tomatoes, and secret herbs and spices. Let's just say the process was appealing. We were dying to hand over $6 for that eight-ounce container of guac that came with a bag of yellow corn chips. If only there were some price we could have paid to keep our beloved Giovanni in the country.

Does a milkshake have to contain ice cream? Not always. Cuban batidos are beyond sweet (that's what you get from a country running on sugar cane) and invariably swing on a fulcrum of tropical fruit. At the Tropical Cafe, they serve tamarind, mamey, mango, papaya, cherimoya, guanabana (or sugar-apple) — all yummy and all slightly exotic. But the regular old native banana makes a thick, creamy milkshake that's addictive and sugar-rushy. And the banana batido allows you to order spicy dishes without fear, since it takes the edge off any taste-bud burn you may encounter. Grab a stool at this working-class lunch counter in Searstown and they'll make you a bad-ass batido in a blender, just the way mami would do it back home: ice-cold milk, sugar, fruit. Order two and they'll pour a pair of tall glasses, hand you a spoon and some straws, and leave you the ample icy remainder to finish up later. And believe us, you will.

Considering that the bulk of Florida's Cuban population resides in Dade County, sometimes it's a challenge to find mouth-watering Cuban food in Broward that's worthy of making us proud. And unfortunately, there tend to be more haunts that specialize in Cuban sandwiches without putting much flare into the other delicacies of the country as well. The folks at Las Vegas Cuban Cuisine, however, are good at preparing both — large, meat-filled Cuban sandwiches that live up to their name and oversized dishes of delectable entrées that are as enjoyable as they are filling. Their wide selection covers various regions of the island, and they've also got a generously priced lunch menu that goes from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m., so take advantage. The filete de pollo is a must-try for chicken lovers and is best-served with lime, yellow rice, and saucy black beans. It's generally on the lunch menu as well and under $6. The ropa vieja (pulled beef) and filete de cherna (grouper fillet) are irresistible and come big enough that taking home leftovers is recommended. For fans of platanos, Las Vegas serves them as maduros or in tostones form, and both are a treat. If you've got room, try the café cubano with flan — your taste buds will love you for it.

It's not common to find stellar ice cream in places that specialize in gravy and cheese curd, but after spending a few minutes at Dairy Belle Ice Cream, you'll quickly realize there's nothing common about this establishment at all. Friendly owners Gilles and Ritane Grenier are famous for serving the dishes of their native Quebec, and most of the buzz revolves around their French fries smothered with white cheese curds, then topped with hot brown gravy. It's an immensely popular dish in Canada, and people drive for miles to get their hands on authentic Québecois cuisine. And while that's fine, it shouldn't overshadow the fact that Dairy Belle has the softest and most delectable ice cream in South Florida. It offers homemade caramel topping for its sundaes, and the topping is just sweet enough to whet the palette without being overwhelming. The milkshakes are good, and the serving size of the strawberry shortcake is more than enough for one person. The somewhat-oval French Canadian crowd that flocks to this place during season is cordial and great for people-watching while enjoying a banana split made with all fresh ingredients and served with a smile.

We'll be honest. We went for the gelato but stayed for the accordion player, and when that beautiful septuagenarian belted "That's Amore," we had to wipe a tear from the corner of our eye. On Wednesday nights at Sonny's Gelato Café in Boca Raton, you too can be serenaded while relaxing outdoors, the wind caressing your hair as you lick a nutella and banana gelato. The Italian family who runs it knows their stuff — they've got creamy, sweet cassata Siciliana, stracciatella, and zuppa Inglese gelato — and it's all made healthy, with skim milk and not much fat. The only problem with Sonny's is that it tends to run out of things, as retirement home aids often schlep their entire crew over for an afternoon treat. It's therefore beneficial to show up early and often. You can't miss the mango-colored building on Federal Highway, just north of 20th Street. We also recommend the appetizers, soups, salads, panini, and classic Italian hot subs, served daily from 11 a.m. to 2:30 p.m.

When it comes to Southern cooking, in certain neighborhoods, there are soul-food restaurants on almost every corner. With such an abundance, it's hard to come up with an appropriate barometer for quality, since most of the menus at these restaurants are identical. It sounds like fun research, but after awhile, all the collard greens start to taste the same, the candied yams have the same texture, and the joy of Southern cooking gets lost in mediocre food shacks. The one venue locally that set itself apart is Betty's Soul Food. It's got the best macaroni and cheese in town, bar none, and its short ribs of beef are good enough to make a customer want to jump up and slap his own mama. The stewed chicken over rice is as succulent a meal as one could ask for, and fish sandwiches are cheap and filling. Instead of fooling around with a bunch of dessert dishes, Betty's keeps it simple — bread pudding, cake, and sweet potato pie. That may seem like a small selection, but there's a lot of love poured into those desserts, and if you have to choose, go for the bread pudding. The staff there is friendly to newcomers but knows how to chide and joke with the regulars enough to create plenty of countertop camaraderie. Located in the historically black Sistrunk neighborhood for the past 30 years, Betty's is a staple that's worth visiting time and time again.

If you haven't visited the little ice hut on the southwest corner of Dixie and Commercial, you must be a moron. We are serious about this. How fucking stupid do you have to be to miss out on the birthday cake gelati — a combination of ice cream and yellow cake-flavored Italian ice, complete with multicolored sprinkles? Richie's has been around for 15 years, ever since owner Richie Childs came down from Philly, went to the beach, and desired a cool treat. He couldn't find one worth a damn, so he opened his own little hut, where you can find him selling ices, gelati, coffee, and snacks Monday through Friday from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. (and from 9 a.m. Saturday). On the seventh day, the God of Italian ices rests, and some kid mans the stand. But it doesn't really matter — the ices, which are made through a secret process with fruit juices, fruit extracts, sugar, and water, taste exactly the same. In case you are so stupid that you've never tasted a homemade vanilla chip ice or a cotton candy ice, keep your eyes peeled for the square, mint-green building with the apricot-orange canopy. Drive your idiot self around the oval and up to the drive-up window, apologize for taking so long, and go nuts.

Don't let the small signs and bland décor fool you inside Fort Lauderdale's Daily Squeeze. What the quaint, one-room deli lacks in ambiance is quickly made up for in quality of food and service. Free samples of freshly blended smoothies await every customer walking through the door, and it's not uncommon to get a free cup of organic butternut squash soup while you're waiting. Friendly owner Bob Mourry isn't trying to schmooze his way into the red; he simply realizes the wealth of competition he has as a downtown eatery. When the deli is minutes from closing and a patron needs avocado, a fresh green aguacate is pulled from the cooler without a second thought and sliced generously onto sandwiches at no extra charge. Most items in stock are organic or fat-free, and items that fall outside of this criterion (like the lobster bisque and king crab chowder) are slowly heated, never burned, and well worth the extra calories. The menu here isn't cluttered with countless meat options like most New York-style delis and instead offers a core selection of eight sandwiches, allowing customers to add whatever toppings they like. That might sound far-fetched, but with such oddball items as presidential feta and capers listed as toppings, finicky eaters can delight in the customer's-never-wrong attitude that the Daily Squeeze emanates every time a person walks through the door.

There aren't many crepes on the menu at Rendez-Vous, because it's not a creperie. If you were to chat up a chef, he'd probably wax poetic about the place's desserts and breads, because Rendez-Vous is, in fact, a bakery. No matter: The place's four crepe offerings will inspire flowery declarations of fealty from the foulest Francophobes. The veggie crepe is delicious and light, with the thin and teasingly chewy buckwheatesque pancake wrapped around tomato, squash, eggplant, red pepper, and zucchini and drizzled with olive oil. While most French food makes you sleepy, this thing makes you want to run a marathon. The ham-and-swiss crepe is similarly remarkable: The cheese blends rapturously with the béchamel until you can't tell the two apart. But it's the chicken Florentine and seafood crepes that ultimately carry the day. These two meals border on the sacramental. They're miracles of creaminess, subtle textures, salt, and sweetness. The lobster mixed with the béchamel in the seafood crepe makes you want to drink a bucket of the stuff, bisque-style. Incredibly, these things are light on the pocketbook: Lunchtime crepes range from $8.50 to $12.50, and at dinner, they run a mere $10.75 to $13.50. They're big, but you may find yourself eating two, just because you can.

Lots of South Florida delis tout themselves as "New York-style," but then they lack the basics: overstuffed sandwiches, a three-hour early-bird special (in this case, 3 to 6 p.m.), and the stocking of the delicacy meat called, quite simply, "cow tongue," which the uninitiated cringe at and the connoisseurs relish. 3G's has the basics covered, and besides a tongue sandwich on rye, the extensive menu offers everything from cheese blintzes to sweet-and-sour-stuffed cabbage. And nothing goes with a brisket like a cup of chilled borscht (beet soup). Next to the refrigerated cabinet with the corned beefs and pastramis is a second holding no shortage of powdered-sugar sprinkled treats. The linzer is in there — moist raspberry jelly between two sweet but not-too-sweet cookies, with a powdery white dusting on top. 3G's has been dishing up egg, tuna, and whitefish salads since 1986. There's also a fresh fish of the day every day of the week. And for those computer-savvy early birds, check out 3G's website for a $1 off coupon — to redeem it, you must be seated by 6 p.m.

In South Florida, few things are taken seriously. Even most hurricane rations are turned into sensible dinners after enough uneventful months slip by. But true Sunshine Staters will go toe-to-toe with any Yankee scoundrel who's trying to pass off store-bought key lime pie as homemade. In fact, they freak the hell out. And after being scorned enough times in the past, key lime gourmands know the warning signs: perfectly triangular solid wedges of (shudder)... gelatinous green stuff. That's just another reason why locals brave the Darwinian seating order at Le Tub: Its key lime pie is the delectably whipped yardstick that all others must measure up to. The globby hunk of goo expands as it sits in its Styrofoam dish, while its condensed milk glue keeps the surface tension cohesive, making every spoonful a creamy victory. The heavy slab of pie is about the size of a wedge of brie and twice as rich, and the staff is never timid about slathering it with Reddi-Wip. Have it served alongside a margarita on the rocks and you'll understand why you waited so long for a table — after all, everyone around you is experiencing the same thing: a short-term love affair with a piece of pie. Savor it.

Anybody who's survived eight decades deserves to be treated like the heirloom he is: still in decent condition, if a little scuffed at the edges. A dinner at the opulent Four Seasons Resort will act on this antique like a good coat of Minwax. By the time Grandpa has meandered through five or seven courses courtesy of Chef Hubert Des Marais, with their accompanying wine pairings, he'll be polished to a lustrous sheen. The restaurant known as "The Restaurant" — with all the hushed reverence the title implies, as one might utter the term "The Queen" — is a place calculated to smooth wrinkles and quell creeping senescence: At dusk, the light falling through those high windows is graciously mellow, and waiters in dark suits seem to divine one's needs by sniffing the lily-scented air. The noise level rarely rises above a faint murmur and rustle. Chef Des Marais sends out plate after plate of exquisite tastings derived from local flora and fauna and from the fruit and herb garden he's cultivated at the hotel for years. They say from night to night, he almost never repeats a dish. As for the old man, a final glass of 40-year-old port will make him feel like he could live another half-century.

Cookies are like magic. A mom was the first one to discover that; she realized that any child could easily be turned into an indentured servant so long as she kept enough of the crumbly, homemade bargaining chips on hand. Now fast-forward into adulthood — that feeling of reward has been hard-wired into you. Work turmoil, pet urination angst, and neurotic fears about bird flu: They can each be alleviated by the ultimate rainy-day remedy — the Perfect Cookie. But where will you find this evasive cure-all? Who holds the secret to the Holy Grail of snacks? The unlikely source of abundant happiness is right here, every weekday in Fort Lauderdale. And (with tax) it sells for a meager $1.01. Charcuterie Too is a charming little mom-and-pop café on the second floor of the Broward County Library's Main Downtown Branch, and inside is a tiny cafeteria line loaded up with mouthwatering daily specials (but for our purposes today, just jump to the end and snag an oatmeal raisin cookie from the basket.) How Charcuterie's staff bakes these cookies so magically, we'll never know. Maybe it's the golden raisins they use in place of banal auburn ones. Or perhaps it's the gooey, brown-sugar adhesive that spins the cookie's delectable web of inner scaffolding. For all we know, the secret ingredient is a combination of freshly plucked fairy wings, dragon eyelashes, and ground-up unicorn horns — and we don't care. Because after consuming one, all of your day's stresses dissipate and you're left feeling like a little kid again. Mom would be so proud of you.

"The harsh, useful things of the world, from pulling teeth to digging potatoes, are best done by men who are... starkly sober... But the lovely and useless things, the charming and exhilarating things, are best done by men with, as the phrase is, a few sheets in the wind." Thus spake the great American philosopher H.L. Mencken in 1924, four years into Prohibition. Seventy years later, we're finally experiencing a cocktail renaissance that would have gladdened Mencken's heart and ravaged his liver. The 2000s appear to be better years for heavy tipplers than even the martini-quaffing '50s. These days, our cocktails are made with fresh-fruit infusions, muddled herbs, and exotic spices. They're as heady and complicated as a witch's love potion, usually to similar effect. The best restaurants hire their own drink wizards, who are charged with putting together not only excellent wine and beer lists but also with inventing dazzling menus of cocktails perfectly calibrated to soften us up for whatever follows. Such is Trina's beverage manager, Nick Mautone, who offers Florida-inflected elixirs like the Ruby Red, composed of pink grapefruit muddled with sugar cane syrup, Patrón tequila and citrónge, then rimmed with red sea salt. Or the retro-Mediterranean Rosey Ramos Fizz, a slurry of Bombay gin, rose water, raspberry syrup, cream, and lemon — the sort of drink you can imagine sipping from a chilled thermos while wandering in a Moroccan souk. That Mautone's martinis amply prepare you to tuck in to Chef Don Pintabona's Sicilian-by-way-of-Africa menu is just one of their varied pleasures.

Opened by former Wilton Manors Mayor Jim Stork, the elder of these two independently owned coffee shops is a place of simple but deep charm: A bright and clean interior, a spacious outdoor seating area insulated from the traffic on Wilton Drive by high hedges, a crowd of familiar Manors folk who assemble and reassemble weekly and even daily to discuss weighty issues and community goss and, oh yeah, some of the freshest coffee you'll find anywhere. Stork's staple coffees include the bright Brazilian Blend, the rich Colombian Supremo (available in decaf) and Peruvian Fair Trade (just as yummy and friendly to farmers), and the ever-shifting Flavor of the Month. One recent week brought Sumatra and Chocolate-Swiss Almond, and occasionally Stork's gets goofy enough to offer concoctions with names like "Snickerdoodle Decaf." They also reliably offer seasonal brews: "Pumpkin Pie" in November, "Eggnog" in December, and so on. They ain't at all shabby on the cold drinks either. The incomparable blend of richness and refreshment in a Stork's Iced Mocha Latte has made many a sweltering summer's day melt into a long, happy shiver.

Restaurants get up to all kinds of shenanigans to entertain their customers, the better to keep us knocking back after-dinner grappas. What'll it be: Brazilian capoeira? Strolling mandolinists? Interactive mystery plays? Lap dances? But a snapping G-string interferes with the proper appreciation of one's snapper Livornese; cover tunes are a better digestif. Particularly when they're performed by a sleek Italian fox — er, vocalist — with a grasp of phrasing to rival Sinatra's. Giovanni turns up the heat on a plate of clams oreganata or a bowl of orecchiette con cimidirape — not that the food at Frankie's Pier 5 needs a single grace note of help. The man's sibilant presence nourishes the heart while the extended Perrone family concentrates on filling the belly. Whether this chiseled godlet is practicing variations on themes of Elton John, Coldplay, or Cole Porter, never has eye-candy tasted so sweet. UPDATE: This location is now closed.

It's small and nestled in a strip mall just off Stirling Road, yet you can't help but feel like the Empire State Building might just be a few blocks away when you're inside Sara's. Maybe that's because, like so much that's good in South Florida, Sara's began in one of the five boroughs in 1966. It's not uncommon to see yarmulke-topped, black-suited and bearded Yiddish-speaking men sitting at an eight-top talking about diamonds and insurance. But back to the actual bagel: crunchy on the outside and chewy inside, this delightful orb is made in Sara's kosher kitchen in Miami and trucked up to Broward County. Only plain and sesame are on the menu, and both are outstanding toasted or just warmed up. No matter if you like butter, jelly, cream cheese, or all of the above, these bagels will have you wondering why you ever wasted your precious few carb calories at some national chain with too many flavors. Not to mention the lox is the best we've eaten since our last flight into LGA.

There's no good reason to get on the road these days if you can avoid it, and guzzling gallons of gas for something as self-indulgent as a restaurant meal is likely to get one tarred and feathered. But special occasions — an anniversary, a proposal, a book deal — demand celebratory concessions. A sunset drive north to 11 Maple Street in Jensen Beach (about an hour from Palm Beach, an hour and a half from Lauderdale) is a nostalgic study in what used to be called "the open road." Traffic thins to a trickle on I-95 (the drive up A1A is longer but even more soothing), and by the time you pull up in front of this utterly charming 1905 wood-frame house, draped in string lights and bougainvillaea, you'll be feeling mighty receptive to the meal you're about to be served. Inspired by California chef Alice Waters, self-taught chef Michael Perrin; his wife, Margie; and his mother, Anita, converted the place 20 years ago, using artfully arranged salvage (wood, brick, old windows), exposing the Dade County pine roof; setting sprays of flowers everywhere, lighting everything with candles. The "New American" strengths of this upscale menu lie in seafood and local, organic produce; prices (around $30 average for the entrées) are as rich as the fare. An impossibly sweet crab cake is set over fried green tomatoes; a fillet of grouper of unsurpassed freshness comes with big green capers and fried fennel; Australian barramundi is baked whole. A couple of bites of peanut butter and chocolate pie for dessert will leave you feeling sweet. Bet you hold hands the whole way home.

The Paul bakery chain — which began in Lille, France, in 1889 and has since morphed into a yeasty empire that spans the globe (think Starbucks with Camembert sandwiches) — decided to test U.S. waters by sailing into Miami (2005) and Palm Beach Gardens (2006), with plans to open at Sawgrass Mills any minute now. Apparently, somebody at corporate counted up the number of half-decent bakeries in this vicinity (pick a number between one and four) and remembered the old saying that nature abhors a vacuum. Paul flies in its bread, partially prebaked in France from the original recipes and made from a rare and expensive winter wheat "grown according to principals of sustainable agriculture." Choose from country, whole wheat, rye, six cereal, white, or the fougasse (made with olive oil). It may not meet the standards of your pickiest Parisian boulanger, but for a loaf you can pick up at the mall, this bread promises to do its part in making the low-carb craze obsolete.

"Handsome is as handsome does," our wise old grandma used to say. Granny would also tell us, were she alive to critique the lemon caper pan sauce on her ruby-red trout, that you can't judge a restaurant by the number of millions used to underwrite its decorating budget. Happily, there's no disconnect between form and function at Opus 5. The menu is as playful and smart as the butter, cream, and cognac colors and the visually rhyming geometrics of the place's décor. Like the musical opus the name references, the design of Burt Rapoport's gastronomic production in Boca is composed of themes and variations, complexity within unity. The square white plates on which your wasabi-crusted petit filet mignons are served take their cue from whimsical columns that look like those same plates precariously stacked, courtesy of Miami designer Adolfo Galvez; a ceiling of wooden squares recessed in circles mirrors precisely the tables below, like an inverted reflecting pool. And the Floribbean-by-way-of-Asia comfort food is just as reassuringly unpredictable: enough to keep you interested and alert (like a mango salsa with seaweed salad and mustard-crusted tuna) without insulting your sensibilities. And there you have a working definition of harmony. UPDATE: This location is now closed.

The Wan family has been serving wok creations to South Florida since 1966. Its takeout service leans upscale — with prices to match — but placing an order is a breeze, and delivery is fast. Lunch specials (starting at $7.95) come with a vegetable spring roll rather than the artery-clogging pork variety that many other places hock. And health-conscious patrons can opt for brown rice at no extra charge. There are even special low-carb and dieter's menu items. Likewise, the appetizers veer away from traditional Chinese fare and lean toward Japanese (edamame and miso soup). But standard favorites like shrimp dumplings and three varieties of chicken wings are still there. And it's all prepared in a flash, so you can drive on over after placing your order and it'll be ready when you walk in the door.

The owners of the new Dubliner have already staked sole claim to the rough-and-ready after-midnight crowd. Running successful nightclubs for more than a decade has taught them exactly what the slow burn of Jägermeister in an otherwise-empty gut feels like at 3 a.m. For a contingent of folks in South Florida who rarely roll off their futons before the sun goes down (the beautiful people know evening's mood lighting erases traces of hard living), owners Rodney Mayo and Scott Freilich have been operating Dada in the south (Delray Beach) and Howley's in the middle (West Palm) for many years. Both places will serve you a char-grilled burger or a chocolate fondue at any hour. Their latest pin on the late-night map: Palm Beach Gardens, where the Dubliner dishes up swankified Irish fare like corned beef and red cabbage, beer-battered fish and chips, or Irish breakfast served day and night: a banger, roast veg, two eggs. This time, the fondue is made of cheddar-laced Guinness and served with Irish soda bread, and a live band plays retro-Earth, Wind, and Fire hits even boomers can swing to.

Southport is probably the most rustic locale in South Florida to sport free wi-fi, but nobody cares: A computer would only serve to distract you from the eye-popping menu served by Jack, Pat, and Buddy — a marvel of freshness, generosity, and kinky economics. Raw-barring folks will want to start with the Raw Seafood Combo, comprised of four clams, four oysters, and four spiced (with pickling spice and beer!) shrimp, all of surpassing freshness. This comes at you for "market price," but those two words don't mean the same at Southport as they do elsewhere (where "market price" is code for "we will now rape your wallet, thanks."). From these cold and reasonably priced beginnings, you can investigate what these folks can do with heat: fried clam strips like you haven't seen since you were last in New England ($5), baked stuffed clams ($5.75), and a thing called "Oysters Southport" (read: Rockefeller) that are, no shit, the best you've ever had ($7.25). Once you've mowed your way through a few dozen pounds of shellfish (and, by the way, you must try the fried scallops), you might want to note the bacon cheeseburger for $3.75. It's not shellfish, but who cares? It goes great with shellfish. And so does Yuengling, on tap along with many other brews for a mere $2.75 a glass.

One thing guaranteed to get the human male all hot and bothered is a juicy piece of USDA prime. Give him that slab of meat in a room decorated like an upscale bordello, complete with coy glamour shots of turn-of-the-century lovelies in various stages of deshabille, and you've got yourself one of the most successful steak-house chains in the country. Live from New York, Strip House has landed in Palm Beach Gardens to satisfy our every lust, and even the sour old feminists among us are glad: Those mashed potatoes cooked in a truffle-oil-laced crust, that pale and unctuous foie gras steamed in herbs, the tiers of crustaceans on their fresh seafood plateau, and most of all, those thick, fat-larded, char-grilled rib eyes — coupled with stellar service, dry martinis, and a wine list vast enough to bring a Bordeaux-flavored grin to the lips of the pickiest oenophile — are reason enough to throw any lingering principles out of the window and dig in.

It should be a crime to draw attention to such a serene spot, but were gonna do it. The Atlantic Coast line just north of Boca Raton has an odd mix of condo villages, luxury beachfront homes, and public parks with seemingly no beachfront commerce in sight. But hidden behind the Holiday Inn in Highland Beach is Latitudes, an unpretentious little restaurant that looks out onto grass-covered sand dunes. There's breezy outdoor seating shaded by huge umbrellas, as well as tables behind a glass-walled dining area. The stretch of beach ahead is usually empty, so diners can tuck into breakfast while contemplating the ocean and sea birds rather than staring at the bathing hordes. There are no lines to get in. No obnoxious young valet or packed parking lot to contend with. Just lots of hot coffee, a relaxed wait staff, and budget prices. The cheese blintzes with blueberries and heaping veggie egg skillets both go for $9.95.

If you can navigate through the clouds of New Agey blather that blanket Cafe Emunah like a swarm of Old Testament locusts — just ignore any invitations to take a spiritual journey and concentrate on your exploration of the specialty rolls — you'll find that this little Internet café, co-owned by a rabbi and a psychologist, offers plenty to get your creative juices flowing. The sushi chef is doing extraordinary things with fish (raw and cooked), oddly and deliciously paired with Mediterranean, Caribbean, and Floridian flavors. Though the range of seafood offered is fairly conventional — salmon, blue fin, hamachi, white tuna, escolar, mahi — it's all melt-on-the-tongue fresh. It's also kosher, organic, and imaginatively dressed — with everything from pineapple and coconut to miso aioli. A "peaceful roll" ($10) combines salmon with crisp carrot, golden raisins, walnuts, and Asian pear and dusts the plate with ground green tea. The Emunah ($12) wraps yellowtail with fried plantain and shredded coconut, drizzles it in sweet chili sauce, and dots the top with chopped cilantro and candied ginger. A "smile roll" mixes tropical pineapple and papaya with three kinds of fish, cilantro oil, and shredded coconut. The cradle-of-civilization-inspired "Moses roll" (the biblical symbology is nonstop) tops tempura salmon with taramasalata, avocado, chives, and crunchy shallots. And when was the last time you saw chickpea paste and eggplant spread at a sushi bar? Cooked seafood dishes are excellent here too. Settle in with your laptop and a pot of organic lemongrass mate and let the "inspire roll" (tuna, Asian pear, cilantro, masago, salmon) call down your muse.

Bucky's doesn't purvey the cheapest eats in the county, but the ratio of pennies out to pounds of pork in is a fine one. Were Bucky's take-out window a slot machine, any gambler who moseyed up would be an instant winner — at least between 4:30 and 10:30 p.m. A Texas beef brisket sandwich, for example, is an overgenerous pile of smoky, thin-sliced beef that makes you wonder how management ever figured they were gonna make a profit. This $10 heap of meat, like all of Bucky's sandwiches, includes a side of something equally messy, caloric, and bottomless — by the time you and your tightwad family have polished off the last of the "loaded up" baked potato and chipotle mayo-slathered hoagie roll, you'll feel like your miserly soul and the universe have come mysteriously into alignment. A plate of Kansas City baby backs ($21) with, say, an assortment of $3 sides — mac and cheese, creamed spinach, smokehouse baked beans, garlic mashed potatoes, and sweet potato fries — is a movable feast clearly meant to be shared with neighbors, strangers, and lovers. Think of it as a sort of potato-powered pay-it-forward.

Last year, the government in Tokyo, fed up with the proliferation of faux sushi spreading its evil tentacles across the globe, announced that it would offer official seals of recognition for restaurants around the world that served "pure Japanese" cuisine. But we South Floridians don't give a blowfish's fart for authenticity. We'd rather chow down on our beloved deep-fried, mayo-drenched, libidinously named familiars. And truth be told, a well-made American-style roll is a precious thing, whether or not it's accompanied by real grated wasabi root or the green stuff that comes out of a tube. Fah's Japamerican sushi has evolved from its skewed fusion crossbreedings into something adorable and unique — like a labradoodle or a puggle, only it doesn't attract fleas or run up vet's bills. Take the Volcano roll, a calorically magnificent hybrid working at peak performance: cream cheese and baked seafood (in mayo, natch) poured over a California roll. Or Sex on the Moon: fried shrimp with eel, asparagus, avocado, and masago, inside out and topped with tuna and tempura flakes. Eat a plate of these babies, and believe it, you won't be defying gravity for quite a while. That the specialty rolls at Fah are beautiful, delicious, satisfying, and relatively inexpensive probably wouldn't convince the Japanese food police to bestow their coveted stamp of approval. But we're sure enough giving them ours.

Being a vegetarian is so, well, 2005, isn't it? Your prissy, eco-friendly diet has lost a bit of its luster in the past year or so — what with the poisoned spinach, tainted onions, and deadly peanut butter. Isn't it time you started rockin' with the rest of us? The party's in full swing at Gol!, an all-you-can-scarf rodizio opened this year by an American couple who learned their stuff in Brazil. There are no finicky illusions at work here.You know what you're eating and where it comes from: big bloody chunks of meat impaled on swords tendered by gauchos, who roam these rooms like victorious bullfighters proffering grilled sirloin, hot sausages, bottom round, lamb loin, and breast of chicken — as long as you keep turning that little chip on your table green side up. This is a hunter's feast in celebration of the carnal. (There's a terrific salad bar too, but that's hardly the point.) For $39.95, you can participate in an ancient ritual that's been going on as long as we great apes have been skulking around: Kill it, throw it on a fire, eat it. Even better with a cold caipirinha cocktail (on the rocks, lots of lime). Come on, isn't this how the food chain is supposed to work?

Once upon a time, there was an itty-bitty sushi bar. At its busiest, it could accommodate maybe 30 people, even with every stool at the bar taken. Regulars who adored the stern and dignified chef swore by the locally caught grouper, triggerfish, pompano, wahoo, and snapper that were magically turned into divine rolls and sashimi platters, sometimes served with true grated wasabi root. They tended not to tell their friends about Sushi Bon, fearing that they'd never get a table once the place got too popular. Local chefs made daily pilgrimages, and so did regular people who loved the real Japanese deal — like the amazing beef miso soup or the special tamago the chef sometimes made if he was in a happy and relaxed mood. Then a fantastic thing happened: The ice cream store right next door moved away. And before we could say "Hai!" the itty-bitty sushi bar was completely made over. It acquired a new room full of palm trees and prints of crashing waves, with lots of tables and polished tile floors. There was a whole new staff of waitresses rushing around and three or four new guys helping behind the bar. You no longer had to bring your own pinot in a paper bag because they now sold beer and wine. Everything had changed. But still, there was the same list of specials markered on the white board, with the same very fresh grouper, teriyaki scallop rolls, imported uni, and our favorite spicy wahoo. The hungry chefs, the Lantana fishermen, the picky sushi lovers, and the Japanese families came back and stretched their legs out under the new tables. And they saw that it was good.

South Florida's fish markets can't compete with Seattle's Pike Place or San Francisco's Fisherman's Wharf, but they can be just as inviting. Inside the Cape Cod-style building known as Pop's, the friendly folks behind the counter aren't showmen, but they are more than willing to help you find the exact type of sea-dweller you need. Looking to broil some fillets? Try some orange roughy or fresh Florida pompano with a bit of butter and lemon. Cooking clam chowder too? In that case, skip those expensive littlenecks and go for these large, meaty guys right here. Taking the easy route? Mom's famous chowder is darned good too — it's right there next to the steamed crab legs, shrimp and artichoke spread, and her homemade smoked fish dip. Whatever your fancy, be it glistening golden crabs, sushi-grade tuna, lobster tails as big as your head, cowboy steaks, alligator tail, or fresh local produce, Pop's will point you to it. They'll even give you a bag of ice to keep things fresh before they send you on your merry way to do a little seafood show of your own.

She must have days, like the rest of us, that are less-than-optimal. Her house hasn't fared well through the past couple of hurricanes, and she sometimes talks about picking up and moving to Atlanta. Still, she can't stop herself from ending every sentence with the word honey — as in, "We haven't seen you guys for a while, honey. Do you want a glass of chardonnay, honey, and let me tell you, honey, it's been crazy around here, and, honey, you look really pretty — I love that shirt." The honeys, and what falls between them, are delivered in a breathless, lightly accented rush through an ironic and tender smile, punctuated with soft drumbeats as she pats your arm or shoulder. And then her compact little figure — full steam ahead — will be off with a whoosh to get your soup or to honey another table into abject submission. Sushi Jazz would be a nice enough sushi bar without her — all those blond woods, the private booths, the raised platform where you can kick off your shoes and sit on the floor, tucked in next to screens of curly bamboo. The rolls and sashimi here have always been good, and it's right across the street from the best movie theater in Delray. But if it weren't for Maggie and her encyclopedic knowledge of your preferences, phobias, and personal histories, you might not be drawn back quite so often. As it is, this feels like just the right place to be.

The foods of Asia are as varied as the languages spoken among Asians themselves, and when it comes to culinary delights, the best local markets are often bona fide ethnic enclaves that cater to specific cultures and nationalities. At Phuong Nam, a Vietnamese-owned market in Plantation, all products specific to Vietnam are here — from pho noodles and lychee drinks imported directly from Hanoi — while food from neighboring Laos and Thailand is on display as well. Entire rows are devoted to the various styles of Mama noodles common in Southeast Asian households (they put Top Ramen to shame) as well as obscure items (like dehydrated fungus). True purveyors of Vietnamese/Laotian cuisine should love the jackfruit and khanom buang (crispy stuffed pancake), and since Vietnam is renowned for its coffee, it's refreshing to find a local venue with a genuine selection of Vietnamese brands like Trung Nguyen and Café Demonte. The staff at the family-owned market is friendly, but English isn't their strong suit, so you'll have to let your eyes and nose be your guide.

We're not alone on this one: The Food Network has anointed the Cornell Café one of the top three museum dining experiences in the country. The open-air terrace restaurant that overlooks the Morikami's expansive lakeside gardens draws museumgoers and local diners alike. After running Chinese restaurants in southern Palm Beach County, owners Christy and Fu Chen settled on a menu of a pan-Asian mix of traditional (sushi, salmon teriyaki) and nontraditional dishes (almond-crusted grouper in a citrus and coconut sauce). Their all-Japanese staff bustles to serve a packed house on weekends with prompt yet not-too-pushy service. And they smartly stock plenty of beat-the-heat fare like chilled sake and cool sushi that goes down perfectly after strolling around the gardens under the hot sun.

The quest for a bona fide New York pickle will take connoisseurs to the Festival Marketplace, but that's not all they'll find in the 30,000-square-foot farmers' market. Bins overflow with fresh artichokes and asparagus. Apples and bananas look freshly picked, their colors brighter even than they appear under the fluorescent lights of Whole Foods. By the time shoppers have finished raiding this treasure-trove of produce, they've worked up a powerful appetite — which makes the nearby international food court a godsend. The Festival Marketplace has one of the few Broward County farmers' markets that's open daily — so when a recipe calls for rare, fresh legumes, this can be a one-stop shopping destination.

American-style tapas seems like an imperialistic usurpation of a Spanish tradition, which involved mostly cold appetizers that accompanied a drink before lunch and dinner. Tapas bars in the States "improved" that tradition and made tapas a meal unto itself. The Falcon House does the standard American thing: You order as you go, the small plates of shrimp mojo and semolina-crusted squid emerging from the kitchen as you order a round of, say, steak Diane and tender scallops. But it's the hip acid techno music and sophisticated blood-orange walls inside and the comfy wrought-iron outside, as well as an excellent wine list, that separates the Falcon from its competition (which is growing as tapas enjoy a second renaissance). Best of all, it's open till 2.a.m., which means you can grab a bite on your way home — or your way to the next destination.

If you can navigate the crush inside these tiny aisles — where cans of Italian tomatoes and olive oil from Sicily and red wine vinegar are balanced acrobat-style, ascending to the ceiling — and if you can get past the cheese counter — with its hundreds of pounds of brie and cheddar and asiago and huntsman and smoked gouda from France, Italy, Switzerland, Vermont, Spain, Denmark, and England — you'll still inevitably have to stop cold at the wall of parmesan. This is Parmegiano Reggiano, about 25 or 30 full-sized wheels of the stuff — arguably the most beautiful and delicious cheese the world has ever produced. The Boys Farmers' Market is like a permanent proposition, standing right there on Military Trail, that thou shalt never go hungry for all that thou most craves. At least if you're craving boxes of panettone, locally made honey, bitter chocolate, 26 kinds of flavored hors d'oeuvre spreads, mozzarella and basil salad, whole sopressatas, grilled vegetables, golden delicious apples, slabs of grouper, piles of shrimp, 12 kinds of sardines, sprats, baby octopi packed in olive oil, bags of bagels, bunches of fresh flowers, olive oil crackers, freshly baked blueberry pies, bulbs of fennel, dried apricots, and loaves of semolina bread. But don't even think about dropping by on a weekend, because you won't get within 300 yards of the place. The Boys is open 8:30 a.m. till 5:30 p.m. Monday through Saturday and 9 to 5 on Sunday. Watch out for the guys hawking daily specials, they're hard sellers — at $3.99 for a wheel of brie, you'll end up carting home half a dozen ("An amazing deal! You can freeze them!")

We Americans, it turns out, aren't really as fat as we thought we were. Apparently, the hysteria over obesity was yet another plot generated by media types to sell books and score interviews on Oprah. Now the news is that we're just pleasingly plump. The best place to celebrate the demise of the blubber brewhaha is over a calorically dense house-made microbrew and a few ha-has at Brewzzi, a locally owned pair of restaurants that has never been accused of skimping on portion sizes. You'd think the guys who own this place had grown up on some distant gravity-free planet, so blissfully ignorant are they of the bad things sour cream and mayo can do to your waistline. With "appetizers" like gorgonzola chips, spinach and artichoke hearts dip, and Brewzzi primo nachos swimming in refried beans, who needs entrées? Well, you do, because few ways of spending an afternoon are as pleasurable as parking your ample butt at the Brewzzi bar under one of the flat screens to work your way with great deliberation through fried fish sandwiches the size of your head and Brewzzi's generous margarita pizzas.

Midmorning on Sundays, you'll find them in clean uniforms (white shirts, red aprons, green hats) brandishing cleavers and shears over hard surfaces — a universe composed of sharp, shining edges and vulnerable flesh. They're the dozen or so men and women of La Reina Carniceria, and they're doing serious work for customers lined four deep at the counters, holding numbered tickets and frowning thoughtfully over racks of ribs. These butchers face reality square and stare it down — no mirrored glass windows slide closed to protect anybody's delicate sensibilities here. If you want your side of beef carved into identical slivers, you're going to find out fast what it looks like to cut up a cow. Or a chicken. Or a pig. They heft dripping cuts above their heads to get a customer's nod of approval. They wrap 20 pounds of muscle in white paper — enough to feed a family of 45. You tuck your haul into a cart and off you go to the refrigerated aisles of more esoteric specialties: pigs' trotters and cow hooves, oxtail and jars of pickled pork skin, tubes of tenderloin and plastic containers in which chicken hearts float in murky broth. There are smoked turkey wings and chinchulines, chorizo and beef tongue. There are nine-pound hens, pork necks, and bulls' testicles. Need some real cock for your coq au vin? Wondering where to score pig liver for a persnickety pate? A rack of beef ribs — on sale for $1.59 a pound — makes an impressive impromptu barbecue (hickory wood charcoal sold here too). Hit the bakery for loaves of hot pan cubano on your way out — it tastes just fine with all of the above.

The idea of what constitutes excellent restaurant service divides neatly along gender lines — a Hooters maid tottering over with a tray of beers and burgers might impress our male colleagues, but this year, we girls are dishing out the laurels to those dishy waiters who've caused us so many sleepless post-prandial nights — the men of Paradiso. It's not that these hunkalicious European studmuffins call us "madam," drawing out lush vowels as if they were licking anisette-flavored lollipops. And it's not that they wear $1,000 suits or that they glide through the luxe rooms at Paradiso like dark leopards bearing little crystal flutes of lemoncello and swoon-inducing Italian pastries. Nor is it that they have consistently made us feel that only ridiculous American custom prevents them from falling to their knees and kissing our toes between courses. That they all look like Roman gods born of a union between Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni is not a factor we would ever consider in our deliberations. But the fact is: These good gentlemen have never spilled so much as a drop of wine, forgotten a detail, or failed to catch our eye when we needed a refill. They have materialized behind us to pull out our chairs, they have patiently advised us on wines, and they have flawlessly recited the specials. And then they have gently placed our wraps on our shoulders before whispering "buona notte," uttering the words with such sincerity that we have never, ever, imagined for a second that in a paradise inhabited by such angels, the night they're sending us out into could be anything less than magnificent.

First of all, don't call it a food court. The 12 food outlets that cover 20,000 square feet in the Galleria Mall are collectively known as the Piazza di Giorgio Café. If it sounds like a mall trying to hide its Orange Julius and Chick-fil-A stands behind a fancy name, you haven't dined on fresh-made sushi and homemade gelato. You can watch your veggies stir-fried or your salads chopped right in front of you, then sneak your tray down the back ramp where there are a couple of rooms usually reserved for private parties. But no one bothers you, and there's even a TV in there. You'll never eat in another noisy food court again without remembering the Piazza di...whatever it's called.

Let's be honest here. Winetastings are not really about tasting wine. They're about getting wasted. In that spirit, New Times would like to take this opportunity to announce a new holiday. It's a sort of Halloween for adults, a little something we like to call Hallowine. We'd like to thank WineStyles, a new and rapidly expanding franchise of wine stores, for making Hallowine possible. Here's the deal. There are 158 WineStyles stores total, and five of them are located in Boca Raton, Coral Springs, Wellington, Fort Lauderdale, and Palm Beach Gardens. The small but elegant stores, which categorize their wines by flavor rather than grape variety or country of origin, all offer tastings geared toward novice wine drinkers on Friday nights (the price varies by location but is usually $10 or $15). So on any given Friday, you can get in a costume, recruit a designated driver, hit as many stores as you dare, and try six wines at each. (For the mathematically impaired, that's up to 30 samples in one night — surely enough for the purposes of our holiday). Screaming "Happy Hallowine!" and holding out an empty glass at each destination is optional. Each WineStyles store has about 100 different bottles of crispy, silky, rich, bubbly, fruity, mellow, bold, and nectar wines, most of which sell for under $25. This truly lowbrow wine experience should be captured on film and submitted to New Times.