Food & Drink

You long for a trip to the Bahamas, not just for the freely flowing rum drinks or the relaxed vibe, but for the attention paid to the preparation of conch fritters. Here on the mainland, folks don’t take pride in conch. Most restaurants are content with dropping frozen, bulk-bought orbs in oil and calling it a day, and you wind up with glorified hushpuppies. But you can drive to Lake Worth and gather a bushel of fried that surpasses anything crafted in the Keys. The catch? You have to be an early bird to get the sea snail. Theresa Cooper blends her batter and sends it to the Lake Worth Greenmarket in her granddaughters’ custody every Saturday between October and May. That’s where, from 7:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m., you can get a paper boat loaded with the good stuff fried to order along with pumps of secret sauce (a sweet, tangy condiment mixture) for seven bucks. If you live farther south, you can catch a broader menu at the West Palm Beach Greenmarket (October through April) where Cooper and family, under the name of her catering company, Sisters in the Pot, Inc., whip up everything from conch omelets to shrimp fried rice and, of course, the famous fritters. Each crunchy, drippy bite will send you further from your daily grind until you’ve mentally transported yourself to the Bahamas. Now all you need is that cocktail.

Come the revolution, our first official act will be to decree a moratorium on ridiculously expensive side dishes. Enough with the ten-dollar truffled cheese fries, the potato skins scattered with a king’s ransom in caviar, the double-digit flash-fried escarole, the chanterelles hand-dug from some bois in Bordeaux and flown over to the States. One longs for the day when a side dish was a bit of mashed to go with your chop — it came free with a meal, most often right on the plate with your meat and veg, and if you were lucky it was chock-full of fat and salt. Evidently somebody at Cool’a Fish Bar was suffering a like nostalgia when they came up with the idea of the complimentary cheese potato gratin as a side order with any entrée (the excellent entrées average around $20; other side choices are coconut rice or French fries). A sort of cross between mac ‘n’ cheese and potatoes Anna, this hot gratin, served in its own tiny casserole, combines shredded potatoes, Colby and Monterey Jack cheese, and a dash of pepper; it makes a lovely, golden crust over its creamy innards. You’ll want to ask your waitress for extraction tools — spoons, toothpicks, butter knives, tweezers — to scrape up every crunchy, buttery bit of it.

If you’ve ever wondered how the other half lives — the kind of folks who vacation in beachside luxury resorts and the marketing ladies who lure them there — there’s no better place to decode the riddle than the silk-, mirror-, and crystal-bedecked lobby of the Ritz-Carlton in Manalapan. Here everything is bigger than life, from the Daimler-sized chandeliers hanging overhead to the Chinese lamps that wouldn’t look out of place in the Giant of Nod’s sitting room. For a mere $33 per person from 2:30 to 4:30 p.m. on Fridays through Sundays, you’ll ogle young parents with more money and children than they quite know what to do with (tykes in expensive frocks zoom through these lobbies like Eloise at the Plaza); you’ll thrill to the bright red soles on the PR maven’s $900 Christian Louboutin pumps; you’ll wonder exactly what went wrong with the plastic surgery on that one, and how this one managed to pour herself into that pair of Gucci jeans; you’ll marvel over the chutzpah of the guy yakking into his diamond-encrusted Tiffany cell phone even as his toddler tips headfirst into a plate of Devonshire cream. And all the while you’ll be sipping your tea, flavored with chocolate or orange essence, and nibbling on your salmon and crème fraiche sandwiches or smearing raspberry jelly on your scone — all the better to fortify yourself for your own very different existence, which is looking sweeter by the minute. A 24-hour advance reservation is required.

Just how good is Zona Fresca’s daily-made habanero salsa? Good enough that, despite the possibility of bodily harm — evidenced by the plumes of scorching heat trailing from your mouth down to the pit of your belly — you’ll want to consume way more of it than you or any other human rightly should. The salsa — constructed of grill-charred tomatoes, onions, and peppers, complemented by a generous portion of cilantro and those frighteningly piquant habaneros — tastes of summer, a mélange of sweet, savory, and spicy with just the right balance of acidity. It has an uncanny knack for making you return to the always-free salsa bar for cup after cup of the stuff, to slather on your monster burritos or scoop up with salty tortilla chips. It also slowly burns as you eat it, building a five-alarm fire in your insides that continues to smolder throughout the day. Yes, you could wimp out and eat Zona’s fabulous mild salsa instead, which tastes just as vibrant but foregoes the heat. But it’s precisely that head-clearing warmth that launches you into a state of salsa-induced euphoria — a trip which might induce some pain, but from which you will most assuredly gain.

Top Ten Reasons to Eat at Sunrise Pita:

10. The free pickle bar: cucumbers, cauliflower, cabbage, and olives, oy vey!

9. The roasted eggplant salad, garlic tahini, and dreamy hummus.

8. Three words: Meat on spits.

7. Glatt and ORB certified kosher. L’chaim!

6. A massive meal under $10? How thrifty!

5. Best. Grape leaves. Ever.

4. Oh my, that’s friendly service. And so fast!

3. Try the baklava, bubbeleh. It’s to die for.

2. The falafels are crunchy little balls of heaven, I tell ya.

1. Because you’re addicted. We’d say seek help, but would you want to?

Sorry: lauding the slices of pizza at Rustica is painfully obvious, but what choice do we have? Pizza Rustica churns out slices that could make even New Yorkers consider relocating, slices so big they’re meals, slices so full of flavor that even after getting painfully stuffed you’ll find yourself grabbing another to go because you have to try that amazing-looking pie with the capers. Pizza Rustica’s crusts are hefty but not too thick, and their copious toppings are fresh and inventive. We’re quite partial to the Pizza La Bella (a white pizza with Alfredo sauce, fresh mozz, smoked ham, and kalamata olives) and Pizza Portuguese (tomato sauce, mozz, ham, red onions, hearts of palm, sweet peas, and olive oil), but we’re just as likely to keep it simple. The Pizza con Spinaci e Blue Cheese is a spinach and blue cheese pizza full of angular flavors grounded by that fabulous crust, and the Quattro Formaggi makes you wonder why other pizza joints don’t use gorgonzola. They should.

Don’t tell Jared, but Fernanda’s is the home of true sandwich artistry. Sure, it’s a bit more expensive than Subway, and preparation takes an extra minute or two. But that’s because the meat and cheese isn’t sliced until you order it, which is the first mark of a marquee sub shop. And there’s about a half-pound of it, piled high on bread still hot from the oven. Choose from among 18 special sandwiches, each with surprising ingredient combinations. While you’re waiting for your order, cruise the market aisles for a rare wine or an exotic spice.

Consider for a moment the potato chip. This forgettable culinary staple dresses the side of many a lunch plate, but more often than not it’s hastily exchanged for coleslaw or the more health-conscious fruit salad. But at the Grapevine Gourmet, the potato chip has been elevated to an art form. Order any of the artfully prepared sandwiches at this West Broward lunch spot and they’ll be accompanied by a cascade of potato perfection you’d be a fool to turn away. The secret is in the waffle-cut — it’s what makes the Grapevine’s frites so uniformly crisp, yet at the same time as light and airy as a starch-enhanced cloud. The cut also works to wick away excess oil, so you end up tasting potato, not fry-o-lator. Just one helping of these bad boys and you’ll be hitting up the take-away counter on your way out the door, buying ’em up by the bagful (at only $5 per pound) for further adventures in chipland.

If you want a true Reuben — the eponymous sandwich invented by either Arnold Reuben or Reuben Kulakofsky, depending on which origin story you credit — first you need to find yourself a diner. City Diner, opened this year by irrepressible Palm Beach restaurateur Jo Larkie, offers a devil’s choice: the traditional grilled corned beef on rye (in this case two thick slabs of rye-pumpernickel swirl) layered with melted Swiss, sauerkraut, and Russian dressing; or a “California Reuben” composed of sliced roast turkey breast, melted Swiss, and homemade cole slaw. Either sandwich will make you wish you had an extra stomach in order to follow good with better, but if one were forced to choose from the receiving end of, say, a Walther P99, one might quaveringly allow that the corned beef ($8.50) just has the edge. Its fat and juice content, evidenced by what dribbles down the chin and puddles on the plate, its color and texture (a satisfyingly visceral and silky magenta), generous volume, ratio of cheese to meat and meat to cabbage, the pleasing char on the lip of that butter-saturated toast, and its long finish, which lingers on the palate like a good cabernet, taken together from the vantage point of a rotating chrome stool, add up to one permanent bad habit.

Our favorite steak frites have everything the classic dish should have — except the steak. This darling, inexpensive bistro and bakery does serve a perfectly presentable, even delicious, plate of beef with fries. But for a truly gourmand frites experience, go for the mussels. The first time we ordered the mussels with frites at Rendez-Vous, our waitress nearly keeled over with pleasure she was so happy for us, and when she finally toted over the steaming bowl on what looked like a sort of rustic cutting board, roughly the size of our entire table, we knew that even with her encouragement we weren’t going to be able to finish those dozens of shellfish bathing in their own winey broth, much less the mile-high fortress of gleaming shoestring fries. Luckily, she had a plan, and when we finally dabbed our greasy chins and pushed away from the table, she detailed for us at length exactly what we should do when we wanted to reheat and finish them at home the next day. Then she shooed us out the door with a complimentary paper bag full of pastries and a cheerful bonne nuit.

Though the risk of employing the most unfortunate double entendre ever printed in this paper is high, we’ll say it anyway: The cabeza de res at La Fondita Mexi-American Restaurant has to be the finest head we’ve ever gotten. And believe us, we love our head. Here, fatty bits of the slow-steamed meat are pinched off the cheeks of a cow head, spread onto two plush corn tortillas, and painted liberally with diced onions and frilly cilantro. That stuff is bliss, we’re telling you, but if head isn’t your thing, Fondita has a range of other meats — some adventurous, some more staid — to fit your fancy: pungent chorizo, shredded chicken, carne asada, and al pastor — pork carved shawarma-style off a thick spindle. Along with your tacos you’ll get a basket of freshly fried corn chips and three bowls of salsa to dip, slather, and splatter on everything (a chipotle rich rojo, a peppery tomatillo, and a thin and smooth tomato variety). Show up on a Saturday, park your behind on one of the cute stone patio tables out front, and sip on a Modelo Especial while you eat, and you’ll feel as close to noshing at a Tolucan taco stand as you can get here in South Florida.

What does a wine shop need beside great selection? How about cheese, gourmet foods, a knowledgeable staff, a non-pretentious setting, and occasionally a nice selection of liquor? That’s Hollywood Vine. Trying to purchase the perfect bottle and have no one to share it with? Grab the hottie who just walked through the door, uncork the bottle you just bought, move over to their comfy seating area, and strike up a conversation. Like to try the grape before you buy? They have free tastings every Tuesday from 6 to 9 p.m. Can’t find the bottle you want in their 600 selections? Proprietors Steven and Luciano are more than happy to find it for you — and they deliver.

Anthony’s has a simple philosophy: Keep the menu to just a handful of items, each done extremely well. At any of their 10 South Florida locations they make only pizzas, one type of Italian salad, two types of focaccia sandwiches, a side of sausage and broccoli rabe, and amazing chicken wings. The wings come in 10- or 20-piece orders, each wing the size of a couple of fat knuckles. They’re coated with garlic and rosemary, placed in a thick baking dish, and put in Anthony’s 800-degree coal oven to blister, blacken, and crisp while retaining their natural succulence. Then they’re topped with enough grilled sweet onions to scare away any first date, and served with a large piece of Anthony’s housemade focaccia for sopping everything up. They aren’t decked in sticky buffalo sauce or served with goopy blue cheese, yet they’re exactly what great wings should be: Crispy, messy, indulgent bar food that’ll have you licking your fingers with glee.

You’d never know this small, red-and-white lunch counter facing Andrews Avenue was called Sury’s unless you asked. The sign out front says only “Original Cuban Sandwich and Havana Lunch,” and the back parking lot is mysteriously lined with colorful pop art. It’s a strange joint, to be sure, but they do serve up one mean Cuban. Sury’s takes its sandwich seriously, using thick pressed ham and big chunks of slow-roasted pork shoulder layered into a crusty Cuban roll with Swiss cheese, mustard, mayonnaise, and pickles. It’s tossed onto a plancha to press until it’s brown and firm, then served with a rustic salsa of tomatoes, onion, and jalapeños. Slathered with the salsa, the sandwich becomes blissful: The meaty pork, caramelized at the edges and moist with pork fat; the balanced kick of salty-sweet from the ham; the collective juices of meat, cheese, and salsa pooling in the bottom of your paper-lined basket, just begging to be sopped up. The only bummer? Sury’s is open breakfast and lunch only (7:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.), so fans of the medianoche will have to come early.

We thought we’d never find another shrimp dish to so thoroughly amuse our bouches after Florence Fabricant’s classic entry in our dog-eared copy of The Silver Palate Cookbook — until we stumbled into Bonefish Grill and ordered their “Saucy Gulf Shrimp.” Here’s an appeteaser to jostle any cynic from apathy, a balance of sharp and savory to spur the flagging appetite and rouse failed expectations; priced at $7.90 and generous enough to share, it’s satisfying but not satiating. Bonefish, a homegrown Florida chain we can confidently brag about, now serves this concoction as far north as Jersey, but the magic in the brew’s consistent: juicy Gulf shrimp sautéed in butter with slivers of sun-dried tomato and kalamata olives, tossed around in a lime, tomato, garlic, cream, and white wine sauce — with more butter. That’s topped with a little feta and a handful of parsley. Bonefish ought to offer a guarantee: Mop up every drop or your money back.

It’s doubtful the great French Fry Debate will get settled in this century, much less in a single issue of New Times. But let’s throw down the gauntlet here. The finest fries on which you will ever sear your tongue are doctored fries. They’re adulterated and tweaked, they’re cosmetically enhanced — the spudly equivalent of Joan Rivers only not so scary, and unlike Joan, you can make them disappear. Hurricane Grill and Wings, the brainchild of Florida franchise wingman Chris Russo, offers three variations on the one and only vegetable nobody ever spit into a napkin or sneaked to Fido. The first, based on Russo’s original wing sauce, douses crispy taters with gritty parmesan cheese and garlic butter; another is fashioned from sweet potatoes glazed with maple and habanero syrup and sprinkled with powdered sugar. In a third, “obscenely loaded” fries, the potatoes constitute a kind of tabula rasa for the inscription of melted cheese, bacon bits, jalapeño rings, tomato salsa, and ranch dressing. Naturally the basic fry must be, and is here, of first quality, free of transfats, crisp of shell and pillowy within, served still chuffing steam from the recesses of its greasy paper cone. Pick your poison and prepare to be blissed.

Sonny’s is what you might call an institution — by the time its birthday rolls around on May 29, it will have been sitting in the same quaint spot just north of Taft Street for 50 years. It’s a family joint, with papa Sonny having passed down his legacy to his sonny, John Nigro, who’s continued the fine tradition of honest, blue-collar food prepared exactingly. And although Sonny’s is best known for its Philadelphia-style steak hogies (not “hoagies”), cut from rib eye beef and wedged into a housemade roll, they also serve one mean hamburger. They call it a hogie burger: An oblong, griddle-cooked patty of freshly ground beef that fits nicely on one of Sonny’s famous hogie rolls. And it’s nearly perfect. The burger is immensely beefy and charred on an age-old griddle. When you bite into it, the thing drips with a slurry of rendered fat, most of which gets soaked up by the luscious, cornmeal-studded roll. A 6-ounce burger will set you back only $3.75, and it’s a meal on its own. Slather it with sweet, pickled peppers provided at every table, or add cheese for just $.50. Either way, it’s a beef sandwich worth returning for, be it tomorrow or 50 years from now.

Rosie’s is just a nice place to be. Their lanai is big and cool and blessed with a funky Hawaii-lite aesthetic that somehow demands a mimosa (which they serve in “French,” “Italian,” and “Grand” varieties, the last involving Grand Marnier). And at brunch-time — unlike, say, any other moment of the week — Rosie’s is quiet enough that you can actually hear your tablemates. Not that you’ll want to. Rosie’s brunch menu is filled with things that are a lot more appealing than a hung-over attempt at conversation. Like “Miss Truny’s Deep-Dish Southern Style Not-So-French Toast,” baked with a pecan-praline glaze, or “The Nelly Frittata,” an egg-white frittata with sausage, chicken, bacon, spanish onions, and red and green peppers. This is actually more delicious than it sounds, even when your stomach is doing loop-de-loops in flight from last night’s excesses. Heavy fare like this has a wonderful stabilizing effect. But there’s light stuff, too — fried green tomatoes with avocado, a delicious Greek omelet called “The Un-Teeny Santorini,” and a Belgian waffle topped with bananas, pineapple, mango, blueberries, and whipped cream that goes down like a confection and may even be healthy.

So you have a vegetarian girlfriend. It’s cool, man, it happens to the best of us. Thing is, she’s awesome — sweet, thoughtful, and totally willing to accompany you on your weekly trips to Casa Del Carne, doing it all for the glory of love (cue Peter Cetera of Chicago). That means a lot, you know, so it’s time you showed her you care by adopting her lifestyle for an evening. Take her to Woodlands Vegetarian Indian Restaurant. You won’t find a single dish with meat on the menu, and most are completely vegan, too. You won’t be fulfilling any cravings for rib eye steak, but you will feel an unsettling urge to ravage their fabulous chana bhatura, a pumpkin-shaped balloon of fried dough and accompanying sweet-curried chickpeas. You won’t miss lamb or chicken curry either, not when there’s baigan bharta, avail, and mutter paneer to sop up with your naan. And you’ll swear there was meat stock in the sambar, because Woodland’s version of the ubiquitous South Indian soup is so savory. But there’s not. See, this is a place where you can feel vindicated in relinquishing your carnivorous ways. You’re going to fall in love, but that’s OK. Just do us meat-eaters a favor: When your girlfriend wants to go out again, don’t tell her it’s Woodlands you’re secretly pining for. We’ve got appearances to keep up, after all.

You’re in the tropics. If you’ve gotta get up and face the dawn, at least you can do it without freezing your ass off. You can watch the sun rise over the Atlantic while sipping a café latte and thanking whatever god plunked you down far from the snowbanks of your hometown and the suckers who never made it out. Unlike hacking four inches of ice off your windshield with a screwdriver, breakfast at Luna Rosa is pain-free. Load your little sidewalk table with Pacific Island pancakes (macadamia nuts, shredded coconut, pineapple syrup), raspberry mascarpone-stuffed French toast (fresh berries, whipped cream), or that retro classic that servicemen used to call an “S.O.S.” — creamed chipped beef on toast. If the only thing that will crank those eyes open is a four-ounce grilled filet mignon with scrambled eggs plus a side of Philadelphia scrapple or a Jersey pork roll, you can go for it. The eggs are all natural, hormone- and steroid-free; add a side of apple sauce and a shot of Mona Vie and you could call your breakfast healthy, even without the walk on the beach afterward.

Gramps knows from class. Hell, he toughed it through the Depression, so don’t tell him what is and isn’t hip. Just ask and he’ll tell you: shrimp cocktail surrounded by a parsley ring, a well-dressed gentleman playing the piano, and steak. No, wait: a really big steak. Those things are timeless, which is precisely why you need to dote on your… more established relatives, by taking them to Tropical Acres. Inside Acres, men still wear dinner jackets, seafood is often deep-fried, live music is never electrified, and the cocktail bar is Turner Classic Movie-grade. That’s because Acres has been in Dania since 1949 (before it started calling itself Dania Beach), and staying classy is what’s kept this place operating for nearly 60 years. Let those newfangled joints open with their fusion this and raw that; Tropical Acres will outlast them all. And it’ll do it in a way that makes Gramps proud, with recession-proof prices and refinement.

We’re going to assume that you’re not dining alone by choice. Go to the Cottage. Like a well-planned party, it’s designed to make people mingle. Three seating arrangements on its patio provide sophisticated ways to get to know the stranger beside you. At the bar, if you order a couple of small plates — say, a Sultan Wrap, or a tuna tartare bruschetta — you’ll likely find yourself beside the president of the local chamber of commerce, or a loud anarchist, or maybe a couple of girls who just ditched their boyfriends. Discuss the ’80s film playing on the wall above the bar. Next, escort your new coterie to one of the high patio tables, where you’re so close to your neighbors it would be rude not to introduce yourselves. Later, take your after-dinner drink to one of the lounge chairs under the palm trees. You’ll look mysterious in the moonlight. People will want to meet you.

Baker Steve Bern was making “artisanal” breads long before foodie windbags got hold of the term and turned it into a cliché. With his background in economics and engineering, and some strong risk-taking genes, Bern was a natural at creating the optimal conditions to keep a sourdough starter, and a business, alive. For almost 15 years, Renaissance breads were hard to come by in Broward and Palm Beach (the original store and bakery was in North Miami), until Hurricane Wilma did some serious damage to the Miami facility. Since then, Bern has opened an outpost in Greenacres, west of Lake Worth, where he bakes his crusty olive loaf, focaccia, chocolate cherry, classic baguettes, and a line of chewy, yeasty full-grain breads, some stuffed with nuts and fruit, to sell to local restaurants. You can find Bern and his minions at greenmarkets on Saturday mornings: Just look for the booth with the longest line.

On June 19, 2008, Barry Star will celebrate his 30th year in business as owner of Hot Dog Heaven, the iconic Fort Lauderdale sandwich stand on Sunrise Boulevard. A Chicago native, Star speaks passionately about his food of choice. He’ll tell you about the hot dog’s humble days as a Depression-era snack or why neon relish producers switched over to vegetable dye instead of the chemical stuff (Chicago’s waterways were turning an unnatural, albeit delicious color). It’s Star’s obsession with franks that has kept his store turning them out for all these years, even while his competitors have slowly disappeared.

NT: How do you do it, Barry?

I have a simple philosophy of not being too imaginative and creative. I’m a dinosaur. We don’t have a microwave oven or even a holding table. It’s like a flashback to when you were young and rode your bike to a place and they cooked it right in front of you. The guys in Chicago are now trying to compete with fast food and the quality is worsening. I’d rather raise the price and give you what you came in for than lower it and make an inferior dog. I want to keep making them how I had them when I was a kid; that will never change.

What’s your best-selling dog?

Definitely the Chicago dog. I just had some kids come in here this weekend and buy some twice in one day. They said they were from out of town and they just needed to have another one before they left. That’s why I do it.

What do you eat when you’re not eating franks?

Junk food! My father was a route dispenser, and he used to fill the vending machines in Chicago. So I would hang out with him and go to the Cubs games and distribute Snickers bars and stuff. But I eat good, my blood pressure’s good, and I work out. I guess I have good genes, too.

Who would win in a fight: The giant, Chicago-stomping hot dog seen in posters, or Godzilla?

Oh, Godzilla would win; he’d eat the hot dog. It’s just his size.

Call Rhythm Café in West Palm Beach schlocky, and you’ll get no argument from the proprietors. The place (3800 S. Dixie Hwy., West Palm Beach) is brimming with pop art, thrift store leftovers, books, Florida memorabilia, a disco ball, and, well, junk. But don’t diss the food. Co-owner Dennis Williams, along with chef Ken Rzab and sous chef Kurt Kamm give the food a long, creative ride.

You have the cutest, coziest little restaurant.

Thanks. We’re a very small place. We only have 12 tables and 15 bar seats —we opened in a space that used to be an old drugstore so we kept the lunch counter and made that into the bar. We only have three wait staff.

How long have you been around?

Twenty years. My partner and I each graduated from the Culinary Institute of America — they call it the Harvard of cooking schools — and worked for the original owner; then he sold it to us 15 years ago. We make everything ourselves — from the bread to all the entrees. Sauces, dressings, desserts. Even ice cream. The menu changes frequently. We have five favorite entrees that are always on there — like pan-seared duck, Key lime chicken, crab cakes. Then we’ll do things like duck risotto or pork schnitzel. We call it “creative homestyle food” — it’s creative, but the elements are things people recognize.

How do you get your inspiration?

A customer might make a suggestion. Wait staff might put in their two cents. We might be at the computer and say, “Hmm, we’re getting salmon tomorrow, and someone will shout, ‘Hey, let’s try this kind of sauce.’ “

So, with the kitschy décor, you must have some favorite B movies.

I love Strictly Ballroom. It’s an Australian film — so campy and funny. I’ve been taking ballroom dance lessons for a year and a half. Then there’s The Sound of Music —not really a B-movie, but it’s one of those things I don’t really tell people I watch!

The Oompa-Loompas from Willy Wonka had the ideal job. They installed lickable wallpaper and tended to chocolate waterfalls, and occasionally acted as bouncers to pushy, whiny children. We’ll never know if they also had a great dental plan. You’ve always thought that if you found a chocolate factory as decadent as Willy’s, you would never leave. This might be how Jimmie’s Chocolates has managed to stay in business since 1947. Loyal customers trust that all of their future fudge infatuations are made on location in Jimmie’s Dania factory, with the historic shop tucked neatly behind it. That’s where you’ll find baker’s shelves pleasantly packed with nugget, caramel, and marzipan. This edible fantasy world has managed to keep hold of its rustic roots while also expanding into the cute, quirky cafe in front and a second chocolate shop in Pompano Beach. Jimmie’s stays competitive by combining its vintage flair with modern trends. At events like their chocolate and wine tasting parties, cocoa lovers from all generations come together to salivate. The Oompa life was a sham; why spend your days laboring in a chocolate factory when you can visit Jimmie’s and nibble through its bounty? Now all they need is lickable wallpaper.

Even that dank package store down the block has a weekly wine tasting. Which makes it official: The winetasting market is officially saturated. For wine enthusiasts, this is great news: you can now go anywhere on any night and swish good stuff around. The catch is choosing the best party, and here Wine Tasting Nights at the Museum of Art wins hands-down. There’s always a thrill of elitism that comes with entering buildings during off hours, especially museums. On select Fridays at the Museum of Art, Fort Lauderdale, you can get that rush while sampling great wines, checking out new art exhibits, and enjoying the extras the promoters schedule that night. Past tastings have featured live music, foreign films, and delicious snacks, all for a $20 cover ($15 in advance).

Pomodoro probably has a range of delicious appetizers, pasta, and other entrees, but the moment you walk through the front door, the aroma of cooking dough will cast its spell and your eyes will dart to the portion of the menu marked “Pizza.” The dough is tossed by a man of Mediterranean descent who eschews chit-chat to concentrate on his task, and the crust he creates strikes that perfect balance between soft and crispy. The sauce is lightly applied, with a subtle mix of spices and herbs. But the revelation is the freshness of the toppings: Vegetables with just-picked splendor; meats and cheeses whose rich flavors announce their having arrived from the deli, not the freezer. You wouldn’t usually call a 12-inch pie a “personal pizza,” but this isn’t your usual pie, and here’s betting you won’t be toting leftovers.

You’re accustomed to seeing greenmarkets in bustling downtown districts or in parking lots off busy roads. But a greenmarket with an ocean view? You can only get that on Hollywood Beach. Every Sunday from 9 a.m. to 5:31 p.m., parking anywhere near the market is a test of patience — families come bounding out of narrow alleyways in massive SUVs, octogenarians in spaceship-sized Buicks sit and wait in the middle of the street for nobody in particular, and ecstatically successful market patrons skip gaily through it all, their eyes barely peeking out from behind their crates of produce. Josh’s stand has become such a must-do affair that most of Hollywood (and a considerable amount of other rogue veg-heads) turns out to see what surprises Josh has in store that week. Josh is a high-energy, multi-tasking wonder, and he’s loaded up with essential vitamins F.U. and N. He springs from crate to crate, announcing which produce is the freshest and most delicious. He kisses regulars on the cheeks as he doles out samples of local, organically grown heirloom tomatoes, dinosaur plums, and other juicy, colorful orbs. If you’re more inclined to drinking your fruits and veggies, hit up the juice bar. Every thirst-quenching drop is served out of compostable PLA “plastic” cups (made from corn instead of the usual petroleum). And if you ask for them, your produce bags can be PLA as well. In addition to keeping things fresh and tasty, this market manages to keep its prices down-to-earth. And really, there’s no better way to start your week than that.

You can’t find EveryBurger everywhere. If you could just stop at any corner store and pick up a pack of the delicious little Japanese cookies that masquerade as itty-bitty burgers, you’d at least spend less on gas. But our convenience stores will never be that cool. To find the best imported Asian treats, you have to go to Sasaya Japanese Market. In addition to inexpensive to-go sushi (the priciest roll is $7.50), Sasaya offers one-stop shopping for wasabi peas, lucky cat wallets, and kitchen supplies; plus extra-fancy, extra-spicy ramen noodles, and assorted sakes and curry pastes.

Brazilian steakhouses have fantastic salad bars. Seriously. Between the hearts of palm, array of cheeses, and various salads, pretty much any vegetarian can walk away from a meal more than satisfied. But if those skewers of beef that keep passing by seem at all appealing, this is the place to order up some meat and go out with a bang. Leave the world of rabbit food behind. After the server carves off a slab of juicy top sirloin, you can dive into the pork ribs, followed by some lamb, chicken, and sausage. Go whole hog! While a rodizio in Brazil might lead you into totally uncharted territory — think grilled chicken hearts — this stateside feast will help you ease back into life as a carnivore.

Anyone who tells you that the days of cheap fare in Fort Lauderdale are as much a thing of the past as affordable beach rentals hasn’t tried Taco Tuesdays at the Treasure Trove. One lousy greenback buys you a mouth-watering, savory, soft-shelled taco in your choice of beef or chicken (we usually eat three or four before rolling ourselves home.) The shredded chicken and ground beef are both seasoned impeccably, then topped with lettuce, tomato, shredded cheese, and a side of sour cream. But no taco is complete without a little personalized bastardization. That’s where the giant spice rack of hot sauces comes into play. The varieties fluctuate weekly, but you’ll always find a flavor to fit your fancy. From damn-that’s-so-hot-I-need-another-margarita to sweet and fruity, they stare at you like little saucy soldiers just waiting to be thrown into battle. If you’re feeling flush, have a drink. Margaritas and Coronas are only $3.25. Just save a few bucks for tipping. After all, you’re going to want to come back next week.

Let the gastronomic jetset bicker about which Chinatown restaurant serves the grossest whole flash-fried crabs, stinky tofu, 1,000-year-old eggs, or shark fin soup. When it comes to carry-out, you want your egg roll ($1.95). You want your fried rice ($4.50 small, $8.50 large). You want your string beans in garlic sauce ($10.95), your moo shu pork ($13.75), your beef chow fun ($13.95). Ten thousand New York Jews can’t be wrong (even as they kvetch about the prices — $13.25 for Kung Pao chicken?): China Dumpling, now nearly a decade old, is ground zero for transplanted Brooklynites when it comes to Chinese food on Christmas Day and Easter Sunday. And it’s first choice for local gentiles after they’ve had their fill of lambs and hams. For greasy, filling, steamy, soy-saturated fare; for that thoroughly Americanized and now classic mélange of canned bamboo shoots, baby corn cobs, cashews, sweet & sour everything, and fountains of duck sauce; for the subgum, the chop suey, and the General Tso; and for the eponymous dumplings (the dim sum basket is $13.95) — all of it best eaten planted on the couch with a Turner Classic broadcast of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane — China Dumpling nails it, right down to the fortune cookies. And forget it, they don’t deliver. Dinner daily 3 to 10 p.m.

Waspy Europeans with their genteel hangover remedies — vodka and tomato, champagne and orange juice, lemon and bitters — might as well just grab an ice pack and crawl back into bed: Nobody knows what to do with the morning-after like the Peruvians. The folks who invented the Pisco Sour know that an even sourer dawn is best banished by a little hair of the fish with lime juice; we’re talking the stuff left over when all the ceviche’s eaten and you’re left with just the milky, pucker-inducing dregs. Add enough dark beer or spirits to this quaff and you’ll find your spirits raised considerably. At Rosa Nautica, a hole-in-the-wall Peruvian cafe nobody knows about but you and me, they name these concoctions after the milk and blood of tigers, bears, and other carnivorous creatures, but drink one of these babies and believe it, you’ll tame the beast.

It’s not just about the bagels. You want a place that evokes the old-time Lower East Side, with wise, gabby people exchanging gossip or leafing through the New York papers as they eat their bagels, typically with a schmear of cream cheese and a slice of nova. This brings us to East Side Bagel & Deli, a modest little restaurant in a commercial strip near the Galt Ocean Mile. The display case is always full of bagels, and they’re just the right consistency (chewy, not bready or — heaven forbid — rock-like). There’s lots of talk and a friendly staff to serve a full breakfast or lunch, or just your favorite round ones (sesame seed, poppy seed, egg, plain, you get the idea). New owner Kevin Spence says that, when it comes to bagels, he’s got a tough, seasoned crowd, many of them from New York. “They know what they’re eating,” Spence says. And they come back for more. In fairness, most of East Side Deli’s bagels are prepared at Bagelmania, where they know a thing or two about baking bagels. No, says Denise Jimenez, the Bagelmania boss’ wife, it’s not the water (the usual excuse for why you can’t get a good bagel outside of New York). “You mix the dough, then you let it sit in the refrigerator for 24 hours,” she says. “That’s the secret. If you don’t let it sit, it doesn’t come out right.”

Uggg. 3:30 p.m. Spreadsheets. E-mails. Fading. Internet? YouTube. Dick-in-a-Box. Giggle. Boss! Minimize. Work. Clients. Sales. Drowsy. Coffeemaker? Tar. Soda machine? Coinless. Crinkled. Finicky. Kick? Sprain. Doh! Eureka! El Rincón! Cafesita? No. Con leche. Yes! Sugar! Milk! Espresso! Ambrosia! Warmth! Power! Ambition! Boss? Raise! Promotion? Assuredly! You? Wiser! El Rincón? Adulation!

It’s Oprah-endorsed. For many, no more information is needed. But there are folks that work while Oprah airs, which is why, even though they’ve been churning out the best cakes in the area for over a decade, We Take the Cake has been a secret kept from most South Floridians. This Fort Lauderdale-based boutique bakery specializes in nothing but baking cakes, all made from scratch using fresh ingredients. They wanted their cornerstone to be a bundt cake that had the tropical flavor of Key lime and succeeded when it was chosen as one of Oprah’s favorite things in 2004. While it cools, the cake’s showered with key lime juice and finished with a cheese glaze. It’s the perfect departure from the classic key lime pie, and they’ll ship it to you wherever you live in the states. The bundt cakes retail for $28 and come packaged in a beautiful gold cake tin. Presents for snow-trapped family members, anyone?

They come in stacks, with each crepe separated by a sheet of cellophane. Take eight, ten, or a dozen home, pop them onto a griddle, and supply your own mixings. The Croissan’Time crepes have just a hint of that divine French pastry flavor, and they’re light, tender, and unobtrusive, like a good piano player cradling a song. We like ’em with chocolate syrup. We like ’em with butter and maple syrup. We like ’em with fresh fruit and whipped cream. A dozen go for $12, or buy one for $1.20.

There are few rules in gastronomy as immutable as this: Everything tastes better wrapped in bacon. It’s a fact that has not eluded the fine folks who flip, fry, dunk, and top the huge array of tubular beef under the yellow awning of Big City Dogs. Their signature frank, the ripper, is a testament to the beauty of excess: An all-beef dog dressed with a drape of fatty bacon and tossed in the fryer to cook till crisp. To finish it, Big City loads the puppy onto an airy bun and spoons on an orange blanket of nacho cheese sauce. The dog is actually an intersection of New Jersey’s classic deep-fried ripper and a bacon-covered Los Angeles dog that’s griddle-fried. The result is a crunchy, juicy, creamy mess — a meal with the prime objective of befriending your inner fatty. If that’s not enough to entice you, Big City also makes about a dozen other regional dogs, including authentically topped Chicago dogs and spicy Polish franks split down the middle; Philly and Chicago-style steak sammiches, and some very capable, fresh-ground burgers.

Walking into a Vietnamese restaurant can be intimidating. You’re probably there for a bowl of pho, the delectable rice noodle soup that is the country’s national dish, but what type of pho should you get? So many restaurants prepare pho so many different ways… even if you’ve had it before several times, staring at a new menu can still leave you flustered. The folks at Pho 78 seem to understand this and make picking the right bowl as easy as possible, with categories for beginners, advanced, the adventurous, and so on, to help you discern whether, say, eye-round steak, tripe, flank, and tendon are a better combination than well-done brisket and meatballs. Whether you opt for something complex or simple, all the pho here is excellent. The cuts of meat are so savory and soft that each bite feels like a mini-reward. The broth itself isn’t oily, so the soup manages to leave you sated without feeling heavy. Pho 78 manages to stand out even in a neighborhood known for its stellar ethnic food, and they also offer numerous dishes beyond noodle soup.

In the bestselling children’s book Madeline, our dear protagonist lived in a Paris boarding house covered in vines. In her world — full of adventures and classmates and nuns — nothing was ever really so bad, although she might encounter a case of appendicitis here, a roving band of gypsies there, and perhaps have a standoff with a misbehaving tiger at the zoo. We like to think — nay, we are certain — that if Madeline lived in West Palm Beach circa 2008, Sloan’s Ice Cream is the place she would eat. It’s mint-green on the outside, pink on the in, and packed with feather boas, toys, and an operational choo-choo train. The pink brick walls and polka-dotted booths are whimsical; the bathroom, legendary. (Featuring see-through doors which fog up when you enter, the loo’s been the subject of a Travel Channel show.) Since opening about a decade ago, Sloan’s has spawned three satellite locations. Decadent flavors on tap have included Apple Pie and Circus (cotton candy flavor with gummy bears), and the last time we popped in, our sundae was served in a flower pot with crumbled-up Oreo “soil.” Honestly, though, Sloan’s could make its ice cream out of cod liver oil and we’re sure it would taste delicious. Nothing could ever be bad here.

The only relationship Pa’ deGennaro’s deli has to the Italian restaurant of the same name next door is proximity. The “deli” — if you’re thinking tongue sandwiches, forget it — is run by a Swiss guy named Ulrich Koepf, who apparently got the idea somewhere that when Americans think “take out,” they think “pumpkin seed crusted salmon with five spiced sweet potato mash and mango citrus sauce.” Actually, Koepf has been around SoFla for quite a while running upscale restaurants like Bistro Mezzaluna and Café Picasso; now he’s brought his culinary talents to bear on food made specifically to be carried home in a paper bag and reheated, so that you and your paramour can have a romantic, candlelit dinner à deux without the butter in your hair (unless you want to get up to that sort of thing deliberately). On a Friday night, for example, you can haul home lamb shank braised in Rioja sauce, the catch of the day, a whole rotisserie chicken “herbs de Provence,” or a seafood bisque with chives; on Saturday an osso bucco; and the following Monday, chicken Scarpiello with an array of scrumptious side dishes. The place also sells the wine with which to pair these feasts, of course. Sure beats the hell out of chop suey.

Few things are as controversial as the chocolate milkshake, and few beverages have such outspoken partisans. Approximately half of all devotees believe the shake should be made with vanilla ice cream and some kind of chocolate sauce, which makes for a creamy drink with chocolatey overtones. This is incorrect. The fact is, more chocolate is better chocolate, and the double chocolate milkshake at Kilwin’s is perhaps the greatest proof of this truism the world has ever seen. Kilwin’s super-rich chocolate ice cream plus whatever syrup they’re using equals a milkshake so powerful it’s almost invasive: the salivary glands start freaking out when the stuff is only halfway up the straw, there’s a feeling of heat at the back of your head, and every nerve in your body begins twitching as though in expectation of some explosive sexual climax. And then the flavor hits. And the world melts away, leaving you adrift in a sea of cocoa goodness.

If you plan to take action on the advice given in any of these Best Of selections, let it be this: Run this instant to Rosey Baby Crawfish & Cajun House. Sit at one of the half-dozen bar tables. Order a bucket of crawfish boil; they come in one-, two-, and five-pound sizes. Which size you get will depend largely on how many friends you have with you and how much beer you’re willing to drink. More beer? More crawfish. More crawfish? You get the point. What you’ll get is the most authentic, ass-kickingly spicy boil of bugs this side of Baton Rouge. The Babe has hundreds of pounds of the little critters shipped from Louisiana weekly. Each day, the chefs fill a big ol’ pot with corn, potatoes, and a bombardment of secret spices before tossing in the live crawfish to simmer slowly in their own sauce. By the time they hit your bucket, the craws are bright red and teaming with a rich, heady broth that bursts forth when you rip open their shells. The trick is to suck up that liquid before pinching the sweet, prawn-like meat from their tails. To some, this sounds like a lot of work for just a little meat, but at the Babe the process becomes rhythmic: Twist, suck, pinch, eat, swig, repeat. There’s nothing like being two pounds into a fiver, sweating from the spice and slightly loopy. Ah, good times. But remember when we said run? Yeah, do that. Rosey Baby only does the mudbugs when they’re in season, from December to early July.

Betty’s isn’t your typical soul food joint. The quaint west Hollywood restaurant serves breakfast and lunch to folks looking for a taste of home — for breakfast, mounds of eggs done any way, with grits, pancakes, salmon croquettes, and fish platters; for lunch, fried shrimp, barbeque chicken wings, braised oxtail, and smothered pork chops. But their signature dish doesn’t come directly from the backwoods South; instead, it takes a meandering turn through Jamaica. It’s Betty’s ultra-spicy jerk chicken — a destination-worthy plate of poultry if ever there was one. The southern soul comes from barbecuing on a barrel smoker out back. Then the island creeps in as the bird is chopped into knuckle-sized, bone-in chunks and slathered with Betty’s super-secret jerk sauce, a furious paste of garlic, habenero, and loads of coarse black pepper. The succulent chicken clings to the bones with an infant’s grip, its once-tactile collagen load now serving double duty, enabling the piquant jerk sauce to take hold of your palate for hours. Spice this fervent can be dangerous. Fortunately, Betty’s stellar rice and peas, collard greens, and braised cabbage (with big ol’ chunks of ham hock) lower your internal temperature to a slow boil.

Paula Palakawong and Ravin Nakjaroen have designed a brilliantly soothing space to showcase their menu of new Thai cuisine at the Four Rivers, one of the dreamiest rooms you’ll ever set foot in. Forget an afternoon at the spa, a meal at the Four Rivers will do more to lower your heart rate and blood pressure and induce beta waves than a month of massages. Raised pools are a lucent canvas for floating candles and water plants; a wall of lotus flowers showcases each single stem in its own pristine, uplit vase; on another wall, Buddhist poetry worked in bas relief makes a kind of intuitive sense as design, even if the strange curling script is illegible. You sink into buttery leather on the banquettes, note the whorl of the wood grain in the polished tables and the solid geometric shapes of the tableware, and begin to appreciate detail again. A veil of darkness has been laid over everything, occasionally punctuated by shocks of luminosity, like a low-volume conversation between light and dark, presence and absence, here and there.

“So how did you meet? During a liposuction appointment? How sweet. And you say you were married? Oh, I’m sorry: you’re still married — but you two share a deep connection that needs to be explored. Right, I understand. Do we what? Swing? Oh, no — I mean, we aren’t ones to judge or anything like that, but we also don’t blow other couples. Thank you for the offer.” Double dates can be awkward, but there are a few ways to troubleshoot tricky situations. Pick a restaurant with an exquisite menu: At Sushi Blues and Blue Monk Lounge, you know that whether you go for the sweet potato French fries, the special roll of the day, or any of the delicious noodle dishes, you’re going to wind up with something worth raving about, and so will everyone else at your table. You also want to select a place with ambiance: This is where the Blue Monk half comes in; on Friday and Saturday nights, session cats populate Blue’s inside stage under the direction of jazz musician Kenny Millions. If conversation gets thin, just redirect your gaze to the stage. Or better, get up and dance. There’s also excellent people-watching through the oversized front windows; you’ll see the best of downtown Hollywood right from your table. To break the tension, you’ll want booze: Sushi Blues not only has a full liquor bar, its staff knows how to use it so well that you won’t even notice that the other couple has been talking about their cats for the last 30 minutes.

Rainforest Café has been at Sawgrass Mills for more than a decade, but for tykes and the young at heart, the restaurant’s gimmicks still seem fresh. Lightning flashes. Thunder cracks. A thin mist wafts. Monkeys chatter. Drums beat out an African rhythm. It’s all simulated, of course, but there’s enough going on to keep even the squirmiest children amused long enough to eat a meal. The Disney-esque animals are naturally a big hit with the little ones: Thanks to animatronics, a python wiggles, a larger-than-life butterfly flaps its wings, and an elephant charges through the brush. The menu is amusing, too: For kids there are items like “Jurassic Chicken Tidbits,” which are dinosaur-shaped nuggets, while for weary moms and dads there are signature cocktails like the Tropical Toucan and the Margarilla and an enormous selection of dishes from appetizers to desserts. For those searching for extra sensory stimulation, on Wednesday evenings kids can get balloon animals, get their faces painted, and hang with a guy in a green tree-frog costume.

A view of the water from a restaurant terrace usually guarantees lackluster food. Not so at Cero at the St. Regis, where the breezes wafting from the Atlantic across the street seem to have inspired chef Toby Joseph and pastry chef Jordi Panisello to create dishes so fresh, airy, and temperate you almost feel you’re inhaling rather than swallowing. Begin with something raw: ginger marinated escolar, a plate of bluefin and hamachi sashimi with jalapeño gelée and wasabi rice foam, a half dozen kumamoto oysters with red onion confit, or, if you’re feeling super swell, a selection from a caviar menu featuring Russian, Iranian, Italian, and American eggs by the ounce (break open the piggy bank: recommended champagnes to accompany the caviar run from $240 to $780 a bottle). Yessir, this is a special-occasion place, so pull on that bespoke suit and your best cravat. Your tab will be stiff but so will your martini, and by the time you’ve worked your way through mirin-poached Maine lobster, line-caught swordfish, foie gras-crusted halibut, or beef short ribs paired with diver scallops (Joseph is fanatical about choosing his scallops), and a couple of Panisello’s tour de force desserts, you’ll be feeling like you and your doll are worth any extravagance.

It’s probably no coincidence that two of our choices for best restaurants this year, Cero and Solu, are brought to us by the same outfit: Starwood Hotels and Resorts. Starwood evidently doesn’t fool around when it comes to hiring terrific chefs and giving them the resources to make culinary magic — not to mention a fantastical setting to dish it up in. The Resort at Singer Island is magic; what looks like one more dull tower on the outside reveals an interior of swirling color and swooping forms, of striated woods and vanilla cream banquettes, of rooms so luscious you hardly need to eat anything to feel utterly done in. But you will eat, because chef Carlos Jorge has put together a menu of Asian and Caribbean-inspired haute cuisine as sparkling as the polished windows overlooking the sea, as brilliant as the uplighting that makes everybody look so gorgeous. A salad of slivered kobe beef with watercress, daikon, peanuts, and cucumber is a sophisticated joke on Thai yum nua; Jorge plays similar tongue-in-chic games with crab Rangoon, potstickers, and spring rolls. Entrées gather a basket of island ingredients such as jicama, coconut, boniato, ancho chilies, sweet potatoes, and tamarind to dress up steaks, chops, and fillets of snapper and branzino. Sunday brunch, with its endless ocean views, is a more affordable knockout: try the Solu crab benedict.

Hollywood has long deserved a bistro like Lola’s. Many have tried, and like suitors vying for the king’s favorite daughter’s hand, local restaurateurs have had trials aplenty. But the neighborhood has attracted places either way grand or way limited — lisping princes bearing delicacies too rich for the average Hollywooder’s palate or too bland to engage our interest. And then along comes chef Michael Wagner, a guy with the right pedigree (a CIA degree, apprenticeships with Florida’s top chefs) and a quirky but serious sensibility. The décor chez Wagner is elegant, modern, just noisy enough to feel lively; his comfort food and classics — short ribs, lamb chops, potato skins — have been revved up with rocket fuel like Coca-Cola and red pepper marmalade, sturgeon caviar and pomegranate cherry gravy. He got it right: Lola’s is the kind of haunt you can drop into on a whim for a cheeseburger and a beer, or a place to casually suggest to out-of-town snobs. It moves effortlessly high and low. That’s our definition of class.

This category is more important than ever, what with the economy falling apart faster than Hillary Clinton’s presidential bid. The cost of living is rising, pay is decreasing, and gas stations are starting to offer adjustable-rate financing. Yes, money’s tight, but you still gotta eat. Lucky for you, the lunch prices at Acapulco Lindo are bucking the trend. From 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. weekdays, the quaint Mexican eatery in the heart of Wilton Manors serves big plates on the cheap. Inside, you’ll find all manner of deal-seekers, from professional types tucking into gooey smothered burritos to blue collar boys scooping up savory picadillo. The dozen-plus-item lunch menu is expansive — beef tacos overflowing with spiced meat, palomino steaks smothered in sliced onions, tostadas piled to the ceiling — but on the rare occasion you’re feeling fancier, Acapulco also runs daily specials like a lunch-sized (read: grande) portion of fajitas or crisp, cheesy flautas. Any of the huge meals start at $4.95, and include a soft drink and a cup of homemade sopa de pollo. Add to that a smiling wait staff dishing out bottomless baskets of chips and salsa (and some damn fine stuff, that), and this is one cheap lunch that feels extravagant. Now, coming up with the gas money to get there? That’s another story.

Saporissimo has been around for several years now, but somehow, even with an ever-lengthening list of passionate devotees, it hasn’t lost its sense of being secret. No matter how many times you dine with the Monegattis, a husband and wife from Tuscany (she cooks, he charms your pants off), you always feel like you’ve discovered something. Maybe it’s the well-worn look of the place, with its single, small room hung with an assortment of homey art, press clippings, and lace curtains, so unlike the chrome, glass, and relentlessly spotlit aesthetic of the chic eateries surrounding it. Maybe it’s the stubbornly individual menu with wild boar, truffles, rabbit, and elk chops, or the preparations incorporating bitter chocolate or mascarpone, squid ink, or foie gras. Or the way Signore Monegatti presents glistening trays of fish and shellfish, and stuffed ravioli so fresh it still bears the imprint of his wife’s fingers. It could be the heavenly burrata, still wrapped in damp leaves, or the cart of complimentary after-dinner drinks the staff wheels out with a flourish. The fact is, you can’t dine here without feeling you’ve experienced something rare and magical, and you’re the only two people in the world who know it.

A decent plate of seafood in South Florida is getting to be as rare as an overfished bluefin: seems all our local undersea wealth gets shipped north. Eastern urban elites may rave over some chef-of-the-moment’s prep of “shrimp six ways,” but we Floridians know there’s nothing our luscious homegrown Gulf shellfish needs beyond a squirt of lemon and nine or ten tablespoons of butter. Same goes for our snapper and grouper: No need to dress up these starlets in anything but their own glistening skins, pan-fried crisp. Ke’e Grill understands that any sauce or preparation is only as good as the animal you start with, and what they start with is good indeed — from Floridian sea life like the Palm Beach snapper in a light, fragrant preparation of tomatoes and artichokes, to imported filet of Dover sole with a spoonful of citrus beurre blanc, and south African lobster tails naked except for a cup of drawn butter. Owners Jim and Debbie Taube have been cooking and serving seafood long enough to have long since forsworn any froufrou in their menu — the glitz is reserved for the service and décor in this beautiful room overlooking a tropical garden and the haute couture of their clientele.

When you go to an expensive restaurant, you expect the wait staff to be friendly — after all, you’re paying for it. And yet they rarely are. So why is it that at JP’s Bagel Place, a joint where you can still scarf down a hearty plate of food for next to nothing, the staff is so unbelievably attentive? We have no earthly idea, but they are and we love it. This mini-diner is always abuzz with regulars, nearly all of whom the 20-something waitresses know by name. There are rarely open seats, no matter when you arrive, but after you do find a little nook to call your own, the real fun starts. Just watching the short order flurry behind the counter will floor you: the girls swarm like basketball players, effortlessly dodging one another with spins and skips. Newbies to JP’s will hold temporary titles like “honey” or “baby” — which can be a bit unnerving to hear out of the mouths of waitresses who look fresh out of high school. Still, it’s refreshing in South Florida to find an inexpensive hideaway with great food and spectacularly efficient, friendly service.

When we rope a high-roller, we make them take us to Rachel’s, where we end up with more filet and filly than we know what to do with. In fact, we have buddies we cultivate for nothing so much as their willingness to let us tag along and share their strip (New York), their tail (lobster), their hot potatoes, their creamed spinach, and the gaggle of lovelies that materialize whenever VIPs come through the door. The fun at Rachel’s is as bottomless as the dancers, and the ATM situated conveniently at the entrance; the night as endless as a loop of “Me So Horny” — Rachel’s serves dinner with a side of booty and late breakfast until 1:30 a.m., and it serves drinks until 4 on weekends. The ladies are tireless in their attentions. By the time your pal’s bankroll gives out — “Sir, we’re sure the ATM is not broken” — you won’t remember a thing.”

The group of foxy young dudes who opened Cut 432 in Delray Beach have taken the fusty old concept of a steak house and tossed out everything but the rib eye. Instead of cavernous rooms filled with sanguinary red plush, they’ve outfitted their long, sleek, Pullman car of a restaurant in silver and ice; it’s like dining inside a very dry martini. The fat cats go elsewhere; here the clientele is dazzling and vivid to match the crystal chandeliers overhead. Cool, cool, cool, Cut 432 whispers; a single room so narrow waiters have to squeeze between bar and tables with trays of sizzling chops balanced on one upstretched arm. The place has been packed every night since it opened a couple of months ago; a coterie of regulars has already settled in to sample boutique wines and fork up thick, charred New York strips and cowboy steaks. Side orders like “blue cheese tater tots” flecked with green onion and scented with truffle oil are as delish as cold blue crab starters, authentic Caesar salads sporting sheets of Reggiano, and oversized oysters Rockefeller.

Has sushi jumped the shark? These days your average American sushi bar seats 300 and serves baseball mitt-sized rolls filled with tropical, tex-mex, and Mediterranean ingredients. Italian restaurants hawk tuna tataki along with ravioli and garlic bread. Suddenly the ultra-minimalist Sozo Sushi looks very cutting-edge. The tiny bar in Wilton Manors seats just a handful of customers and serves only raw fish and a few appetizers; the proprietors, a transplanted family from Manhattan, are so focused it’s scary. Their less-is-more philosophy pays off in extremely light, blissful mouthfuls of steamed crab shumai, glistening shrimp with chili cocktail sauce, ceviche of the day, and rolls that might combine, say, king crab, shrimp, tobiko, and wasabi vinaigrette, or eel with cucumber and avocado, but never steak, banana, or manchego cheese. Rolls and sashimi, from snapper and wahoo to toro and sea scallops, are made to be eaten in a single bite, perfect motes in a supersized world.

The pleasures of tea-drinking come from the taste, health benefits, and environment. Fortunately, Café Emunah, a Kabalistic café and tea bar, has you covered on all three. The teas are garden-direct and organic and contain all the antioxidants you’ll need to get through the next five flu seasons. The café itself is an uplifting corner of calm billed as an “oasis for the mind, body, and soul.” Its soft light, classy glass tables, friendly staff, and comfortable lounge area (with wi-fi access) make the place a perfect spot for relaxation or pleasant conversation. Sit back and lower your blood pressure with a cup of ancient emerald lily tea, rich with the flavors of melon, wild flower, and toasted nut. If tea-drinking works up your appetite, you should know that Emunah is also a kosher restaurant that offers sushi, salad, and seafood to sate your cravings.

Husband and wife Richie and Noi Kasinpila have imported the brisk, invigorating flavors of their native Chiang Mai to the Lauderdale Lakes strip that’s become ground-zero for lovers of the Orient; the Bangkok Palace is a few doors down from the Chinese Silver Pond, an Asian barbecue, a Vietnamese café, and a couple of groceries selling bean buns and fish flakes. Bangkok Palace has settled beautifully into this milieu, answering the prayers of we who can’t live without a bi-weekly infusion of authentic green papaya, catfish, or crunchy fried egg salad larded with basil, cilantro, and grape tomatoes. The menu is based on gentle Noi’s family recipes: hearty seafood clay pot, chicken laab gaii, kew nam chicken noodle soup, and egg-battered frog’s legs, each dish tweaked precisely to turn up the volume on a different composition of herbs and spices. And the Kasinpilas’ hospitality is as warm as the reds and oranges on their painted walls.

“Upscale” doesn’t have to mean expensive or snooty. At El Chamol, chef Lamberto Valdez’s contemporary Mexican restaurant in suburban Lake Worth, it means impeccable service and beautiful table settings — waiters who pull out your heavy wooden chair and unfold your napkin; painted Mexican dinner plates and pale-blue-and-green goblets. It means ravishing dishes arranged with an eye for color and composition and a chef who periodically emerges from the kitchen to greet customers or see to a table’s special order. And the place is still as laidback as an afternoon in a shaded hammock. The Mexican-born, French-trained Valdez goes far beyond guacamole and chips to experiment with goat cheese and puff pastry, with cactus paddles topped with corn and shrimp, with lobster stuffed into a quesadilla, and with huitlacoche (fungus-filled corn) as a condiment. Even the guacamole is served with flair, handmade to order and scooped from a stone molcajete with corn chips the colors of the Mexican flag. Look for the coarsely chopped and lime-infused tomato salsa, their specialty margaritas, beans simmered all day and served in a cast iron pot, and tortillas that taste like the Mexico of your dreams..

Elegant and attentive, a cell phone hooked to her silk sash, Christina Wan patrols her dining room, adjusting the positioning of a plate or glass, stopping to joke with a customer who’s been ordering her eggplant with oyster sauce and pork for a decade, and writing down a stream of take-out orders from locals craving her Hawaiian shrimp with candied walnuts, rack of lamb with lemongrass and sautéed greens, or whole Cantonese duck. Wan’s feels like a throwback to the old New York Chinatown of the ’50s, when lo meins and foo yungs seemed impossibly exotic, when a plate of chow fun noodles tossed with chicken tasted like a ticket to a life of sandalwood and anise and silkworms housed in glass palaces. The world is so much smaller now that our sport shoes and toothbrushes come from China, but Wan’s kung po and mu shu still carry in their carefully composed sauces the essence of a time when every border crossing and every mouthful of tangerine peel beef was an adventure.

Lucky the locale where the Vietnamese population has reached critical mass: New York has it, L.A. has it, and finally South Florida has it. A big community of Saigon expats means more Vietnamese restaurants and the customers to fill them, ensuring long life for both a restaurant and its happy patrons. A bowl of pho per day makes you healthy and wise. The pho at Sakyo comes with benefits — it’s served by a charming family, shy and sincere, in a pretty, understated room, where the chatter in the booths around you is as likely to be in Vietnamese as English. Sakyo’s pho is a mysterious, smoky broth layered with thin slices of rare tenderloin and delicate, attenuated noodles, added to which a handful of fresh herbs, bean sprouts, and jalapenos, a squeeze of lime, and a few spoonfuls of peppery sauce produces a soup far more than the sum of its parts. Join this wicked brew with Vietnamese crepes, shrimp and pork filled spring rolls, or the house special barbecued ribs.

What smells like patchouli, French roast, the last pages of novels, clove cigarettes, and vintage Parcheesi boards? Les Beans: a place haunted by the smartypants set, girls who love lattes, spiritual thrillseekers, and the interestingly gendered. Proprietor Patti Lucia, a former high-school teacher of the sort to inspire dangerous crushes, hopped off her motorcycle long enough last year to open Les Beans and she’s already turned it into the palpitating heart of the neighborhood. Regulars return for the exceedingly comfortable couches and outdoor café tables, carefully sourced fair trade and organic coffees (Patti’s wicked brew is turning Lake Worth into the city that never sleeps), and highly imaginative entertainment. Stop by Tuesday through Sunday for theatrical productions (like community performances of The Vagina Monologues), open mic nights MC’d by Miss Cleo, shtick and banjo music courtesy of Valerie Wisecracker, screenings of Howard Zinn documentaries, board game tournaments, art exhibits, and dance parties. Or just chill over a fierce game of Scrabble (and no, asshat, “zooted” is not a word).

You have officially entered the belly of the beast: IKEA. It’s terrifying, overwhelming, and incredibly efficient all at once. To come out of this battle victorious, you’ve got to think ahead. Once you actually begin your quest through the serpentine footpath of housewares, there is no turning back; there are no shortcuts. By hour three, the hallucinations begin: you’re being chased by colorful futons and unrealistically well-organized work stations. You begin buying everything you see, whether you need it or not. IKEA has beaten you again. But this can all be avoided with a little all-American know-how: Fatten yourself before you start shopping. At the IKEA restaurant you can slurp up a hearty serving of the most comforting food ever created — the Swedish meatball. For $4.99, you get 15 of the little dudes smothered in gravy and served with mashed potatoes and lingonberries. This provides the vital nutrients needed to enter this megastore with confidence and to exit with only the curtains and cheese grater that you were looking for. Food that helps you beat the IKEA system: What could be more comforting than that?

You know how those cravings go: Must. Have. Cafe con leche. And a Cuban sandwich. NOW. That’s why the 24-hour window at Havana Restaurant has saved many lives, from the night crawlers leaving Clematis Street to the early-birds needing a pick-me-up on the way to work before dawn. We usually get our fix with a banana batido (yum!) and a beef empanada (double yum!), but those more sophisticated (or more Cuban) than we prefer to sit down in Havana’s two-story restaurant — a family biz run by Cuban exile Roberto Reyes — for a full-on oxtail dinner or palomilla steak, followed by a dish of flan or tres leches, best washed down with a pitcher of homemade sangria.

The unassuming Takeyama, hidden behind a plain door in a Plantation strip mall like one of those exclusive New York clubs that deliberately fly under the radar, has retained its sense of mystery and drama for almost 30 years. This is the semi-private purview of a regular group of sushi fanatics willing to put themselves in chef Kenny’s hands and pay the price. You’ll find them arrayed on stools at the sushi bar, moaning gently as Kenny passes them plate after plate. With its sallow lighting, ancient carpet, and worn woods, the place has the underground feel of a seedy spot for fetishists. Indeed, this isn’t sushi for lightweights: You’ve got to take a few risks with your palate, to be willing to consume things that squish, ooze, and crackle in ways not at all familiar, to allow tastes and textures you’ve never experienced settle into your mind and find a niche. Try the syrupy-dry, high-octane sake imported from Kenny’s hometown, or the braised black cod just arrived by plane that day with all the pomp of a celebrity. Oily mackerel, fluke, three varieties of toro, kingfish, halibut, sea eel, stone crab — you’re never sure exactly what you’ll find on the slightly dingy specials board at the entrance, depending on the season and Kenny’s resources. Keep going back and you’ll develop a dangerous hankering for giant orange clam, live sea scallop, sweet jellylike shrimp, raw quail egg, strange pudding-like uni, and other bizarre delicacies the chef and his enthusiastic waitress will inevitably foist on you.

The Japanese aren’t the only ones who know how to eat raw fish. They taught the habit to the Peruvians, only instead of dainty little rolls, our southern neighbors serve their lime-marinated ceviche on a platter the size of your head, with side dishes the Japanese would snort at: corn and potatoes. At Las Totoritas those vegetables come in lots of variations, from cobbed to boiled to something like semolina in the case of corn. Totoritas’ ceviche mixto — a pile of shrimp, tilapia, and squid rings enlivened with chopped aji peppers and onions — is best eaten family-style (i.e., with about 10 of your closest friends and relatives). On weekends the pipe player/guitarist will be tuning up in an alcove while you pop kernels of the crunchy pan-fried chulpa corn between your teeth and ponder whether you’d prefer loma saltado with tacu-tacu or shrimp chaufas. Sound exotic and confusing? Yes, for the first two or three visits. Once you get the hang of it, you’ll find yourself embraced by the family that runs the place (before you know it they’ll be pressing alfajores on you as you slip out the door) and you’ll have developed a taste for marinated fish that won’t quit.

This wood-slat house, built in 1924, is such a throwback to old Florida that if it weren’t for the sleek, artsy crowd sucking down cocktails and munching eclectic fare on its immense front porch, you might swear Dada was actually your Aunt Velma’s country cottage, with tables occupying what should be a yard with chickens scratching in the dirt beneath a high canopy of ancient trees. Thank you, Dada, for having the foresight to preserve and smartly update a slice of South Florida’s dwindling southern charm. Such a delightful place deserves an enlightened menu, and Dada has it: creative vegetarian dishes like mango gazpacho and black bean-chick pea wontons next to fanciful twists on bistro staples like salmon, served here with a habanero maple glaze. Plus the prices are — gasp! — accessible.

A visiting friend of ours, professing that he “hated hippie food,” ate his way through half the menu at Soma before he realized that what he was consuming was 1.) organic, 2.) vegan, and 3.) raw. We’d like to say he was a permanent convert to whole foods, but back home in New York he was instantly swallowed up again by a fleet of hot-dog carts. Still, he was our acid test, and we too occasionally find ourselves pondering the possibility — as we spoon up our bowl of quinoa soup or bite into a lettuce leaf wrap, a walnut-pate-stuffed tomato, or a homemade dairy-free cookie — that food that’s good for you can also taste incredibly good. The Soma Center is one part yoga studio, one part meals-on-wheels, two parts wireless café, with a dash of dinner-club and afterhours party thrown in, and it’s run by the nicest people on the planet. They’ll deliver a daily raw food lunch to your door if you live in the neighborhood, but it’s much more fun to stop in for a cup of fair trade coffee and a bowl of granola while the world dance class is going on in the front room, or to sit in the sun on the patio watching butterflies flitter through the potted pineapples. Soma puts on gourmet/vegan/raw/slow food dinner parties with wine tastings on an irregular basis, plus other events of an alternative nature, so call for their latest schedule.

Stephen Asprinio’s Forté is a work of art. It’s as though the 26-year-old proprietor, a contender on the first season of Top Chef, had designed his décor and menu to generate argument — and indeed, since it opened this spring, many have loved it and many have hated it. Even we who love it find our feelings shifting from week to week — pleasure, irritation, shock, despair, ecstasy — but the place never bores. There’s a balance of tensions and what sometimes feels like deliberate anarchy, the occasional stroke of genius, and the inevitable flamboyant failure. But unlike restaurants that chart a safe course, Forté never shrinks from risk. The menu changes whimsically and sometimes frustratingly — you’ll never meet the same amuse bouche; your favorite cocktail has been discontinued (the basil martini, although it was replaced with something even more delicious and elegant); the specific pairing of fruit compote with cheese (or mostarda with salumi) you raved over one night is ancient history. The menu has Italian genes, but in execution it’s almost unbearably personal and not a little surreal, as if the butter poached lobster, the miniature pork chops with wild mushrooms and blackberry sauce, or those codfish “lollipops” had taken shape from a fevered dream.

When the great restaurants in any city are increasingly operated by celebrity chefs in partnership with luxury resorts or millionaire backers, you’ve gotta love these two young locals (Steve Shockey and Gregory Rhatagan), a couple of guys brave or insane enough to do it on their own. Christine’s, which opened just a couple of months ago, is a lovingly executed example of opposing forces: it’s fine dining in an elegantly minimalist space, but still seductive, comfortable, and utterly unpretentious. Your waiter intelligently answers any question you throw at him, he knows how to remove a plate or refill a glass almost invisibly, but he’s relaxed and charming. The live jazz on the mezzanine is the ideal accompaniment to Chef Shockey’s contemporary world menu, which, while small and focused, has a kind of slinky urban sophistication in the details: a bit of corn essence here, a huckleberry compote there, a drizzle of tomato truffle emulsion. He produces dishes both familiar and strange — crab cakes, yes, but with bacon and tasso gravy; kampachi, yes, but served as sashimi with wilted spinach, sautéed shiitakes, and kimchee sauce. The place already has a loyal local fan club. We’ve never met anybody who didn’t fall in love there at first night.

UPDATE: This location is now closed.

Small is beautiful when it comes to your hangout — who wants the masses plunking their butts on your corner seat and scarfing up all the lobster bisque before you even walk through the door on a Friday night? A neighborhood restaurant has to meet strict criteria: It has to serve food you’re willing to eat six times a week — nothing too outré (no lambs’ brains), nothing too lame (hold the penne marinara!). The place can’t be corporate. It requires a unique flavor that clicks with who you are, or at least who you want to be. Entre Nous fits the bill. Run by an ex-bartender who never took a cooking class (Jason Laudenslager, your new BFF), who actually lives in Lake Park, Entre Nous turns out a juicier pork chop, a crispier potato skin, and a livelier Caesar salad than you really want the world to know about. With its menu of lamb chops, steaks, and crab cakes served in a candlelit room just cozy and dark enough to make things interesting, this is a secret we should keep.

Kuluck does something well that most ethnic restaurants in Broward or Palm Beach don’t: it’s cool. The upscale Persian supper club, located in a strip mall in Tamarac, actually oozes style. With soft lighting, colorful walls with velvet drapes, white tablecloths, and a 20-foot dance floor, the joint is all sleek edges and sass. It’s a wild departure from the typical regional-history-while-you-eat décor that clogs other ethnic restaurants, but who wants to eat in a museum? The secret behind Kuluck’s styling is that the owners wanted to create a place where they would not only serve great Iranian food in a classy atmosphere, but also a place where their band Dima could play. They do that on Saturday nights while folks nosh on tender, marinated kebabs of Cornish hen and koobideh (juicy, onion-flavored ground beef). The menu is simple, but what’s there is flavorful and cooked perfectly. (Chicken that’s not dried to the bone? No way! Yes, way!) The kashke bademjam — a textured dip of roasted eggplant, garlic, onion, and whey — is particularly dreamy. The result is a restaurant that’s both sexy and sophisticated.

Want to know how to spot good barbeque? It’s not just the smell — though if the air outside is perfumed by the sugary scent of wood smoke, you’re in good shape. Nor is it the queue out front — people still line up to get McDonalds. The secret is in the grill man. Take a look at the guy: Does he have an innate connection to the meat? Can he just stare at a pork shoulder, smokin’ away above the coals, and commune with its innermost fleshiness? Does he look as much a part of the place as the ancient oven that he mans, his face wrinkled and hardened from years of staring into the pit? That’s the guy I want cooking my ‘que. At the 55-year-old landmark Georgia Pig, that man is owner Wayne Anderson, and he turns out the most deeply smoked, immaculately rich BBQ you’ll find in South Florida. The chopped pork — oh my God, the chopped pork — is infused with hickory and tumbled into layers of crunchy skin bristling with bacon-ized pork fat and succulent bits of tender, reddened flesh. The Pig’s sauce, a water-thin spritz of vinegar and spices, serves only to enhance the flavor of the meat, not mask it with sickly syrups or bombastic tomatoes. You’ll also find killer brisket, unctuous ribs (check out the smoke ring), authentic Brunswick stew, and decadent banana pudding. Be sure to thank the grill man on your way out.

If Tinkerbell hovered above Gay Lauderdale and sprinkled you with pixie dust in the wee hours of the morning, you’d probably be transported to Peter Pan Diner. It’s a Neverland like no other, with leather men, drag queens, butch biker babes, and — if you’re lucky — folks dressed like honest-to-God pirates. The huge portions of classic diner fare are merely a side dish to the amazing people-watching that this 24/7 greasy spoon offers. Late-night dining, for some, is all about lowering intoxication levels so that your liver hates you less after the sun comes up. But if Peter Pan is just a pit stop on a long evening of debauchery, lushes will be happy to see that alcohol is served until 1:30 a.m.

What’s better than tasty grub cooked by expert chefs? Tasty grub cooked by expert chefs in front of you. The same philosophy that makes sitting around the campfire watching the flames lick the end of a pokin’ stick so appealing is the one at work at New Seoul Korean Restaurant. At the cute Lake Avenue bistro, you can watch in wonder as chefs cook your galbi (sweetly marinated, bone-in short ribs) on a smokeless grill in the middle of your table. Other gui (that’s grilled meat to you Westerners): spicy thin pork slathered in fermented chili paste, shreds of juicy chicken breast, and paperized brisket that melts on the tongue. What happens next is also like a distant cousin to the s’mores concept: Take a piece of snappy lettuce, dot it with a smear of miso paste, some grilled onions and mushrooms, roasted garlic cloves, and a slodge of that tasty meat. New Seoul also sports a deep menu full of instant classics like pan-fried goon mandu (pork dumplings), fresh pajun (vege and seafood pancakes), boiling cauldrons of jjigae (soups made with miso or meat stocks and filled with fresh ingredients), and cast-iron pots of bibimbap (a sort of table-made fried rice).

“Life is uncertain. Order dessert first,” goes the old saw. Restaurants are uncertain, too, so you’d best order your dessert from Canyon. Anything as delicious as Canyon’s bread pudding, for instance, should be in a morality-free zone: It’s OK to eat all of it. Without sharing. At some indecent hour. Thankfully the pudding is large and varied enough to constitute a well-balanced meal on its own. Served in a bowl the size of a kiddie pool, it cavorts up and down every tier of the food pyramid: dairy in the cream, protein in the eggs, bread in the bread, vegetable in the chocolate, fruit in the berries, and booze in the booze. Canyon chef Chris Wilber and his staff have been turning out happy variations on this bread pudding for years. Along with toasted pecan pie, homemade ice cream, and vanilla bean cheesecake, it’s just one of the reasons customers sometimes wait an hour or two at Canyon for a table. Go after the rush is over, around 9:30 p.m., and you can get right to it.

Longevity isn’t always a test of quality, but in a locale where so many restaurants have tried and failed to cash in on the mysterious allure of CityPlace, Il Bellagio has hunkered down, guarding its fountain view in the central plaza and sucking up customers who stroll over to watch jazz singers, acrobats, and boy bands on the main stage. What those customers find, as they drift inevitably toward the breezy outdoor tables, the other 250 or so happy diners, and the phalanxes of servers calling for wine, water, and bread, is that not only can you get an excellent plate of homemade pasta for around 15 bucks (agnolotti, tortellini stuffed with veal, spaghetti Bolognese), but a full dinner can be had for under $40 — say, a bowl of fantastic lentil soup, a fine, tart salad of mixed greens with pear and honey dressing, and a bone-in double pork chop cooked perfectly pink in the center. Owner Tom Billante has pulled off an economy of scale (plus a level of culinary talent) that any Milanese mama cooking Sunday supper for an extended family would appreciate.

A memorable New Yorker cartoon: Couple sitting at a restaurant table. Woman says to her companion, “If I go for the bread, stab my hand.” There’s no denying the stuff at India Palace — it comes straight out of the tandoor, steaming and fragrant with ginger, cumin, and coriander, or as puffs of warm air bounded by gossamer crusts, and goes into a “mixed basket” ($5.99) — puri, roti, chapati, naan, all glistening with ghee. Or as aloo paratha, a pillow stuffed with potatoes, as if one heavenly starch alone would be too stingy. Hello, and welcome to Carb-land! Given enough of such bread, you’d be hard-pressed not to mop up every smear of creamy lamb korma or palak paneer, served in beautiful copper chafing dishes. It’s enough to make you forget that spinach is good for you — but then, anything doused in cream, loaded with cashews and almonds, and finished with clarified butter would have to be, wouldn’t it? At this family-run restaurant, a pleasant, long room filled with Indian families divvying up the dosas, you’ll find yourself eating across a menu that ranges from coast to coast of the Indian subcontinent: flaky samosas, idlis and vadas, potato croquettes, skillets of tandoori shrimp with vegetables emitting clouds of sizzle, fish moli, and much more at very bearable prices.

The owners of Taverna Kyma have had plenty of practice serving skordalia, hummus, and moussaka. With a half dozen other Greek restaurants in South Florida, places synonymous with an Aegean brand of paaaaartaaay, they’ve cornered the market. As much fun as the other joints are, with all that smashing crockery and table dancing, Kyma has turned out to be our favorite. Let’s say the vibe is a little less vibrant, the Med-club music on the sound system a little cooler, the clientele a bit more likely to be falling in love than falling into the Intracoastal. Kyma seems to have smoothed out the kinks with better service and food than its trashier sisters. And with fewer distractions, you can better focus on their four versions of saganaki (flamed with brandy, seared with tomato, served with shrimp, feta with oregano); the umpteen seafood appetizers (crabs, scallops, shrimp, mussels, octopus, sardines, smelts, squid); the whole spit-roasted lamb or pig (order in advance!); the kebabs and vegetable meze. Add a few Kyma Koukla Cosmopolitans and you’ll want to hop on a table, too — but take it on home.

Difficult as they can occasionally be to deal with, the French have contributed much to the world’s storehouse of pleasure. They’ve given us champagne, Shalimar, Chanel handbags, chanterelles, and a cuisine quotidienne — that’s everyday food at everyday prices — amazing enough to inspire truck drivers and sailors to poetry. And they’ve bequeathed us the bistro to eat it in, places like Pistache, in downtown West Palm Beach, where us regular folk go to worship thin, beautifully seasoned steaks with pommes frites, hearty soupe à l’oignon, folksy cheese plates and chicken pies, sautéed fish with lemony green salad, and the honest carafe of red wine drawn from the cask behind the bar. Of course there are giant mirrors, red leather banquets, and marble floors straight out of some Left Bank brasserie, but it’s the perfectly executed tarte tatin that makes you gasp merci, merci.

Somebody oughta franchise this concept. Oh, they have! The Wong-Chow family, who’ve been running upscale Asian restaurants in the Lauderdale vicinity for many years, decided to try their hand at the kind of food chosen from a laminated menu posted on the wall and served in a cardboard box, only this ain’t no cheeburger. Noodle Box sells made-to-order quickie noodle dishes from a mix ‘n’ match selection of sauces, proteins, and pastas — choose fat, round udon; fragile, hopelessly tangled cellophane; blocks of wavy ramen; or luscious egg noodles, and pair them with any of a dozen sauces, from fiery Korean chili to Malaysian satay. Add your meat (pork, beef, chicken, tofu) and for eight or nine bucks you’ve got the first of many thousands of variations to make your lunch hour a lot more interesting. Don’t miss their flavored bubble tea, served with extra-wide straws so you can suck up the chewy, tapioca bobas.

Italian restaurants specializing in Roman, Sicilian, Corsican, and Milanese fare are a dime a dozen, but we have yet to run across another trattoria whose passionate love affair with the Friuli-Venezia-Giulia region of Italy is so intense. Perhaps that’s because owners Beth and Josef Shibanetz, an American woman and her Austrian chef husband, came to that area as strangers and fell in love with its fusion of East and West. In Friuli-Venezia-Giulia, world cultures collide: French, Hungarians, Slavs, Celts, Austrians, and Italians — Catholics, Jews, and Muslims — have settled peaceably in the northeastern tip of Italy, and the evidence of cross-cultural conversation is part of the allure of this odd cuisine. Dishes such as ravioli filled with wild mushrooms and truffles in a light veal sauce or halibut cooked with mushrooms, spinach, and Riesling embody contradictory culinary impulses with delicious results. Dining at Josef’s is like learning a delightful secret about one you love. The Shibanetzes also have chosen wines from the area, and the space is charming and intimate.

The word “diner” typically suggests chrome and neon. You won’t find either at the Coral Rose Café, but you’ll salivate when you discover its homemade breads and other tasty treats. Who needs neon when you have the best brunch grub in town? Whether you devour the behemoth servings of coconut pancakes, build your own eggs benedict (we like spinach, tomato, and feta), or sample any other decadent item off the eclectic menu, you’ll digest better knowing that it was all made from scratch. Feeling parched? Knock your bounty back with fresh squeezed juices. While there’s no shortage of sumptuous menu combinations, there can be a shortage of seating on weekend mornings, when regulars arrive in droves.

Greg McMenaman has come up with a concept to spur any flagging appetites at Blacktip Reef: a pet shark that trolls its wall-sized tank immediately adjacent to tables where you’re chowing down your Delray fish taco or Bermuda conch chowder. There’s something about that vision of pure, insatiable hunger that makes you want to keep ordering conch fritters and raw oysters, and keeps you longing for pan-seared grouper with a little mango risotto on the side. Blacktip Reef is as much neighborhood bar as it is gourmet fish house — the crowd ordering baskets of steamers at the bar, or showing up for “shark hour” drink specials, is drawn from a cross-section of Delray. Here’s where the minnow swims happily with the barracuda, the lobster with the hammerhead: lawyers, deep sea fishing guides, secretaries, the temporarily unemployed, bricklayers, PR ladies, and yachtsmen glide fin to fin in Blacktip’s Caribbean-hued light, only baring their teeth for another bite of blackened wahoo.

Chaz: Let’s take my baby out for a spin this weekend.

Jackson: No man, it’s my turn.

Blake: Aw shucks, fellas, how am I ever gonna pick up babes if I’m cruising the Intracoastal in my buddies’ boats? Let’s take mine!

Life is indeed rough in the “Venice of America,” especially when you and all your friends own yachts. But fear not, well-heeled one. Shooters has space to dock your 25-footer. Their dockmaster even takes reservations and offers valet service. The best part? Everyone at the café gets to see you walk off your very own boat. Chicks will be swarming!