Proposal: Require any chain restaurant applying for a Florida operating license to complete a 16-week course mastering the Char-Hut methodology. This little five-store Florida franchise, which opened its first outlet in 1976 to sell char-grilled burgers, onion rings, and hot dogs, is doing so many things right that it's easy to lose track. It serves nutritious food at low prices — a fresh, lean burger that's won approval from the American Heart Association; side orders of whole baked sweet or Idaho potatoes, black beans and rice, cole slaw, and plantains; salads topped with grilled tuna steak or chicken. Further, the franchises are located in suburban communities and reach out to their neighbors with specials — discounts for local teachers and faculty, free food for youngsters wearing uniforms on game days, junior burgers and hot dogs for every A a kid earns on her report card. They have stuff for vegetarians. Discounts for seniors. They're so squeaky-clean that it's almost painful. Their food is delicious. With every patty they flip over a hot grill, they sew up one small tear in fast food's tattered reputation.

Understand that Sushi 1 takeout is my fix for the day, so don't catch me mid-slurp and say "What's that?" as you stare at my bowl of vegetable udon — chunky white noodles with a medley of veggies ($4.20). There's a giant picture menu on the wall behind me — why don't you at least try to go back and forth from my meal to the wall and see if you can find it. All I care about is how the shichimi spice, which I just indulgently poured in my soup, feels going down my throat. Be aware that I'm dining here today because yesterday an audacious coworker grabbed one of my veggie rolls — avocado, scallion, carrot, lettuce ($2.80) — off my desk. And that during this shocking affront, I fantasized that my last dancing eel roll — eel on top, crab stick, and cream cheese ($5.25) — had come back to life to protect my lunch. Here in my zen-like hideaway, there are three sushi line chefs — six hands that roll bliss every day but Sunday. Enjoy it at one of the few tables inside or in the parking lot, or load up on takeout and retreat to the safe confines of your home — or a hidden corner of the office where every roll and noodle can be quietly accounted for.

Cheese steaks are one of those foods that incite furious debate, turning friends into enemies and enemies into nemeses. Folks hailing from Philadelphia claim that only sandwiches adhering to a strict code of ethics even earn the right to be labeled as such. And shouldn't they have the right? Cheese steaks have been bastardized throughout the years, turned into crappy dive-bar food made from frozen strips of unknown origin. Let Mr. Nick's forever settle the debate: Good cheese steaks can be made even if they hail from a Fort Lauderdale street corner, where Mr. Nick's has crafted them for more than 30 years. The bread is just right — slightly elastic, cushy, and yeasty — while the meat has all the hallmarks of great cheese-steakery: quality beef cooked to order on a searing hot griddle. Mr. Nick's also employs a secret strategy — using a garlicky spice mixture that, along with the gooey cheese, melts right into the meat. The result is a juicy, cheesy, beefy jumble that hits all the right notes — even if there is no can of Cheez Whiz in sight.

Dean Max plunges into his projects like a surfer making for epic waters. Now in his 40s, he still looks like the farm kid and Treasure Coast wave hound who hauled vegetable crates for his father's produce business. Max moved into the kitchens at 3030 Ocean in 2000 and did something nobody thought possible: He persuaded his corporate overlords at the Marriott to let him source local and seasonal ingredients and put together a menu that celebrates our sandy soils and aquamarine waters in every line. He was so far ahead of the curve that his contemporaries are still flailing to catch up — he shot through our culinary scene like he was riding a big blue wave. Since then, Max has been an unflagging advocate for all things that creep and swim in the ocean, a dedicated member of South Florida's slow food movement. Appearing on the Food Network and at national festivals, flying off to the Bahamas for a day of fishing, showing up at panel discussions and running culinary camps for kids, he's constantly in motion. And yet, stop by 3030 and you'll likely catch him expounding on the assets of a piece of fluke or wahoo to some open-mouthed customer. It goes without saying that the man is a brilliant cook. What makes him a great chef is that he's engineered a gentle shift in the way we look at the sea that surrounds us.

Chicken wings want to be taken seriously. They want the opportunity to be dressed in 30 varieties of flavor. Hot, medium, or mild is so blasé. There's nothing like putting on a new suit: teriyaki glaze and raspberry sauce when you're feeling mild and sweet, mango BBQ and lemon pepper glaze when you want to step it up a notch, ancho chile lime sauce and Thai ginger and garlic glaze when it's time to get serious about heat, and extra-hot hurricane sauce or volcanic lava glaze when you're ready to feel the burn shoot out of your eyeballs. The wings at Hurricane Grill deserve to dine with big drafts — like Holy Mackerel and Woodchuck Cider. Or sophisticated micro bottles like Left Hand Milk Stout or Dogfish 60 Minute IPA. The chicken wing wants to be honored, and Hurricane Grill does just that.

Think "small plates" are the latest hot topic? A food fad in China can span a millennium: That's roughly how long the Cantonese have been doing the miniature bites and shared morsels that American restaurateurs are all lathered up about lately. Hong Kong trendies call it dim sum, a snack best enjoyed with tea and friends, and based on observations of a typical Sunday afternoon at Grand Lake, the craze is in no danger of fizzling out. Wheeled over on a cart or made to order and delivered chuffing clouds of steam, the delicacies that Cloe and Eric Poon serve daily are sound evidence, in microcosm, that Chinese cuisine is the richest and most diverse on the planet. Test your cultural I.Q. with exotic chive dumplings and chewy turnip cakes, opt for classic comforts like barbecued pork-stuffed dumplings, or contemplate the inscrutable: congee (imagine fish-flavored pudding). The Chinese families who make up the bulk of the clientele here don't stop at dim sum. At night, they move on to Grand Lake's salted fish casseroles with tofu, fresh squid in black bean sauce, and imperial duck. Follow these Asian arbiters of fashion and head for the cutting edge.

What's that sound coming from the Coffee District? It's customers arguing like a couple of guys from a classic Reese's commercial: "Hey! You got your wine bar in my coffee shop!" Despite being touted as a coffee joint, the district is a hybrid hangout that actually offers more kinds of beer than coffee — though there are plenty flavors of that too. In addition to 100-plus microbrews and a boutique wine list, the venue offers a line of signature lattes (mmm... toffee) as well as standard espressos and cappuccinos. It draws a mixed crowd, but generally speaking, early birds flock in the morning, laptop jockeys gather midday to suck off the free wi-fi, and hipsters come late and linger until midnight — especially during monthly beer brewing classes and twice-weekly poker nights. With sleek, hardback chairs, shiny leather couches, and chic décor, the place seems to actively reject a folk-hippie aesthetic... until open-mic night comes along or they throw an acoustic music fest.

Chef Michael Wagner knows there's more to American classics than chicken wings and turkey dinners. There are potatoes, for instance. And Coke. But what he does with corn dogs and hamburger meat goes well beyond anything your mama would recognize from her recipe-card file: Potato skins at Lola's come in hues of purple, topped with crème fraîche, bacon bits, and a luxurious sprinkling of sturgeon caviar; a corn dog employs Wagyu beef, porcini mushrooms, and homemade sweet bell pepper ketchup; Coca-Cola appears in barbecued beef ribs with buttermilk-battered onion rings and creamed corn. Wagner's turkey dinner is calculated to soothe any metaphysical ache you might have dragged through the door with you, substituting creamy polenta for the usual mashed potatoes, beautifully glazed Brussels sprouts, and pomegranate-sundried cherry gravy that floats the idea of cranberry sauce without that tired trope. Where other chefs offer a less-than-comforting pat on the head with their meatloaf and fried chicken, Wagner's New American cooking feels like a sweeping embrace from some beloved, half-crazy Auntie Mame: Life's a banquet, baby!

Some people might consider crepes to be glorified pancakes or quesadillas, but at La Bonne Crepe on Las Olas, flat circles of batter are transformed into light and fluffy packaging for cheese, meat, seafood, scrambled eggs, vegetables, and fruit — all cooked to savory or sweet perfection. The restaurant's signature vegetarian crepe includes broccoli, spinach, mushrooms, asparagus, and ratatouille, all cooked like a stew with garlic, olive oil, and tomato sauce, then wrapped in a warm, crepe blanket. Despite being stuffed with a pile of succulent vegetables and sauce, the crepe magically doesn't get mushy. Same for the crepe hambourgeois with ground sirloin, grilled onion, and Gruyère. If cheese is your thing, La Bonne Crepe has 17 options of crepes with Gruyère. One comes with garlic, butter, escargots, and mushrooms, another with ham and apple compote. A half-dozen options of crepes with chicken, seafood, and scrambled eggs round out the menu. The dessert menu is just as extensive with various fillings of strawberries, bananas, ice cream, sugar, and chocolate. For something with a punch of liqueur, try the crêpes suzettes with orange sauce and Grand Marnier.

When people spend too long in South Florida, they get sandwich spoiled. They have no idea how sandwich rich this region is, how good most of the little delis really are. The crowds that pack into the back of this unassuming corner store are never ungrateful, though. The sandwiches are just too good, too loaded with delicious cheeses and meats, piled too high with veggies and sauces. Get the Sicilian sub Rosa: a thick stack of prosciutto, mortadella, capicola, and provolone, topped with fresh basil, sweet peppers, and Italian seasonings. Or the Neilly, a blend of turkey, warm roast beef, melted Swiss cheese, lettuce, and Thousand Island dressing on a poppy seed bun. For something different, the French Quarter has roast beef topped with Brie, "want mo!" sauce, and fresh rosemary on toasted French bread. Even if you go every day (and plenty of people do), the variety and sheer quality of the fresh, fluffy sandwiches will keep you more than thankful.