Food & Drink

At Starbucks, customers have to learn another language just to order a large cup of coffee ("You mean a venti?"). To escape the cold, annoying state of the corporate coffee­house, run in the opposite direction — toward Expresso. This funky little drive-through joint is not so much a coffee shop as a coffee shack, a tiny wooden house-like building where a handwritten menu takes up most of a wall. When the friendly staff members approach your window (they come out to your car if the line is even three cars long), they speak your language: asking whether you want your café con leche with a double or single shot of espresso; your American coffee with a little or a lot of milk. Apparently, the proprietors of this family-owned business have learned some crowd-pleasing tricks in their 17 years of operation. They scribble a trivia question on a chalkboard each morning. They sell cigarettes both by the pack and individually (50 cents per). They round out the menu with a lovely assortment of bagels, croissant sandwiches, fresh fruit (for just $1.50!), and a mean lentil soup. Now that's downright bellissimo.

They look so creepy that most folks won't touch 'em, but that's just fine — more for us! A langoustine looks like a cross between a spider and a shrimp that deep down wants to be a lobster — could be it's the animal that inspired T.S. Eliot to imagine a "pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas." At Bova Prime, they don't fuss around and try to make it pretty for you: These suckers are presented head to tail, with their tickly feelers fanned out on the plate. The langoustine is not a native of Florida, and you don't see it on many menus here. It's more precious than our lumbering stone crabs and slow-witted spiny lobster; these are the fairy folk of the shellfish world. Sizzled over charcoal and served with a tart green mache salad ($23), the meat in their little tails, each about the size of your middle finger, is as soft and sweet as a breathy endearment whispered on a deserted beach.

Two pretty, perky girls as cute as '50s pinups, Michelle Parparian and Amanda Watkins, have transformed a 1920s Florida cottage into a vintage clothing store with a cupcakery in the tiny rear kitchen — a kitchen known to turn out a thousand cupcakes at a pop for local events. But they're not too busy stocking bridal showers and tea parties to tend to your sweet tooth: Shop for party frocks, beaded purses, and wrist bangles first, then head to the back of the house for rejuvenation in the form of chocolate or vanilla cupcakes ($1.75 each) swirled with the dreamiest pink icing ever whipped up in a vintage mixing bowl. Along with these deliriously cloudlike cupcakes, they produce small, dense, heart-shaped brownies ($1 each) and vanilla sugar cookies with royal icing in dozens of shapes and themes. At present, it's best to call ahead if you want specialty cupcakes like black forest, red velvet, carrot, chocolate mint, strawberry shortcake, lemon drop, or orange creamsicle. But these marvelous mavens plan to open a full-service café in July, so all gratifications will soon be instantaneous.

Tiki-tacky Havana Hideout is what most South Florida dining looked like 30 years ago — a bar under open air and thatch, plus a minuscule, shadowy mouse hole indoors. Before we got gentrified and supersized, before the chains and celeb chefs from California and New York found out we were hoarding paradise, any Floridian could follow the path pounded smooth by many flip-flops to some joint grilling burgers and fish sandwiches. A guy would be mangling Neil Young covers on his beat-up guitar; you'd drink beer by the pitcher, passing scraps to the canine under your table (maybe your mutt, maybe not). Owner Chrissy Benoit is channeling our nostalgia, only updated with drinkable specialty brews on tap and a slightly expanded menu. From a catering truck sidled up to the outdoor deck, she turns out pulled-pork and Cuban sandwiches, fish tacos, nachos, pionono (think tropical shepherd's pie), and chocolate chili pepper ice cream. And just like in the old days, the only seasoning this grub needs is salt air and sunshine.

South Florida isn't a wasteland for quality 'cue, as some purists would have you believe. But we do have the unfortunate affliction of not having one place that sets the bar for the rest. Which is why New Times' Best Barbecue category will, this year, not go to one joint but several, each for different reasons. First up, the 50-year-old icon and 2008 Best Of winner, Georgia Pig in Davie, whose chopped pork, slow cooked on an ancient, open-faced stove, is the stuff of legend. Its infused smokiness and appealing textural variation (crispy cracklin' versus tender chunks) are only enhanced by the Pig's light and subtle vinegar sauce, also the best around. As far as BBQ's most sacred sides are concerned — those being collard greens and mac and cheese — Bar-B-Q Jack's are hard to beat. The collards, a perfect mix of sweet and savory, laced with pork-y chunks; the mac and cheese, moist and gooey, yet broiled for the right amount of crunch. Fort Lauderdale's go-to 'cue shack, Tom Jenkins' Bar-B-Q, does a lot of things well, but its slow-cooked brisket truly rises above the rest. And, in a scene where sickly sweet sauces still dominate, the moist, dry-rubbed ribs at Deep Down South BBQ in Lauderdale Lakes prove that SOS (that's "sauce on the side") is always the best option when 'cue is done right. All are good choices, and if you're willing to make the drive all over town to assemble it, together they would make one fine plate of BBQ.

It was a long, jubilant night with a crazy crowd. Let's face it, you got drunk — again. And as your head begins to clear, you want something different. Not late-night tacos. Not pizza, sandwiches, or waffles. Certainly not the drive-through you had a few times. (You always regretted that later.) No, you want... biscuits! Flaky, tender, warm, golden, soft biscuits. Just like Grandma would've made you if she had ever stopped drinking long enough. They soak up all that booze, ease the burn. Courtyard Café is open 24 hours on the weekends, and the biscuits get better as the night goes on. They're good smothered, covered, buttered, or plain. No matter how you get them, they come out split, fried, and steaming. Get two for yourself or buy the table a dozen. The trick here: staying sober enough to remember how damned good those biscuits were.

It had been awhile since the dental hygienist's wife had harped on and on about anything, but now she wanted a German breakfast. So Saturday morning, he brought her to Cypress Nook in Pompano Beach, a place where his American-loving palette could also be satisfied. They sat in the quaint cottage at one of the 30 or so seats available and looked over the German-American menu. He got the blueberry pancakes, and she ordered the kielbasa with eggs. They said this was the best mealtime they've had together in weeks, probably since the last time they ventured to this very same place. The place where the omelets and bratwurst are sumptuous and only cash is accepted.

To discover a truly dazzling buffet, you have to go to the heavens, and on Sundays, the glass elevator at Pier 66 takes you there. Pier Top is on the 18th-floor, rotating observation deck of the iconic Hyatt Regency Pier 66. Call it "brunch" if you like, but this is really a celebration of all three meals. The restaurant opens at 11 a.m., and if you've still not had breakfast, stop first at the Belgian waffle and pancake station. Order a mimosa or bloody mary or spend your first few minutes drinking in the scenery: On one side, the shipyards of Port Everglades; on the other, a marina filled with yachts; and then there's the coast, where the brilliant-blue sea is framed by the beach. In a dining room that makes a complete rotation every 66 minutes, it's guaranteed your view will stay fresh. The buffet costs $65 per person, so don't squander your appetite too fast — visit the sushi station, nibble on the lobster Benedict, and for a dinner-like finale: fresh-cut, savory slices of tenderloin from the carving station. The restaurant invents new dishes every few weeks, but rave reviews for the foie gras and vodka-cured salmon have earned them a permanent place on the menu.

You could have knocked thousands of Florida Hell's Kitchen fanatics over with a pastry brush when 3030 Ocean chef de cuisine Paula daSilva was picked to be one of 16 contestants on this season's show — the mad reality program in which aspiring young chefs brave the wrath of Scottish sadist Gordon Ramsey. At first, the diminutive DaSilva hardly stood out from the Kitchen's recent pack of drama queens — she kept her head down and her nose to the cutting board while Ramsey aimed obscenities and an occasional plate of food at one inept contestant after another. As the weeks wore on, DaSilva gradually began to assert herself with her quiet competence — our girl didn't wreck a sauce or drop a pan through many nights of mayhem, and she didn't brag, gloat, squabble, or sulk while her competitors were talking nonstop trash. By the time she turned out a faultless little fish dish, concocted on the spot in 90 minutes, for 100 of California's most celebrated executive chefs and restaurateurs (she looked so cute beaming in their applause), we thought for sure that our girl had nailed it. Even though in the end it wasn't DaSilva who scooped up the grand prize of $250,000 and her own restaurant at Borgata, she'd won something just as important: She walked away with our hearts tucked safely into her apron pocket.

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.

"Let them eat cake." Marie Antoinette never actually said it, but the phrase was a convenient summation of her aristocratic distance from the fray; she was a lady as pathetically out of touch as a tycoon redecorating his office in the midst of financial implosion. The servers at By Word of Mouth are down with Marie about the substance if not the style; they gesture with queenly pride at display cases filled with swirls and poufs, with meringues, curds, butter creams, and ganaches — those multilayered wonders long out of fashion but so fervently longed-for. There's the Lady Baltimore stuffed with figs and raisins; the Baby Jane sandwiching strawberries and génoise in a picket fence of ladyfingers; the dreamsicle drooling Grand Marnier mousse between dense yellow layers; the coconut with its glazed oranges and snowy landscapes; the booze-soaked Italian rum cake, leaning dizzily under a load of pastry cream, chocolate chips, and a crowning blanket of fresh fruit. Lemon meringue, raspberry rhapsody, stained glass oblivion, Kahlua crunch, and King Louis cakes are in constant rotation at BWOM. After 28 years in business at the same over-the-tracks location, owner Ellen Cirillo really knows how to wield a frosting knife.

When Giovanni Rocchio cooks, everybody listens: There's the slap of fresh pasta dough, the susurrations of corn being sliced from the cob and of herbs torn by hand, the crackle of sparks from a wood oven, and the harmonies the whisk makes singing in a copper bowl. Rocchio, who cooked at his parents' Plantation restaurant as a teen and then sought his fortune in New York's best kitchens — Piccholine, Fiamma — returned home a couple of years ago and opened Valentino's in a small, plain space on Federal Highway. And there he created an ingenious wine list, hung oversized antique mirrors, and put together a menu that manages to encapsulate everything you love about traditional peasant Italian cooking without ever really touching down on that rustic turf — as if what his kitchen really does, at heart, is cook up feelings. At worst, Rocchio's dishes are failed but interesting experiments. At best — like the sauces incorporating sea urchin roe or lobster coral, salads loaded with wild mushrooms and parsley root, vegetable blossoms stuffed with rare, artisanal cheeses, duck cured in coffee, or an almost absent-minded handful of warm green apples and pancetta on the side of a plate — they're purely expressive, a dinner-hour encounter with a beautiful mind.

Falafel platters and pitas are not usually something you order as a main course at a swanky restaurant. The best falafel dishes are most often found at "faster" food eateries where the food is fresh but simple. Greek Express, located in the midst of the cheesy tourist shops that dominate the west side of the Fort Lauderdale Strip, provides a quick bite for locals looking to get away from Beach Place and actually enjoy the beach and good food. The spiced chickpea balls are fried, and the resulting texture is a perfect blend of crunch on the outside and a tender core. Get your falafel with hummus, on top of a Greek salad, as part of a platter with fries and hummus, or in a pita with lettuce, tomato, onion, and hummus. If you have to wait more than five minutes, the view of the beach will remind you why you live in South Florida.

There was a time in this country when fast food meant something other than overprocessed, frozen, globally distributed chunks of sodium (that should probably not be called "food"). The old concept was a brilliant one: fresh, hot food for the working folks who put in long hours and didn't have time to make dinner, served by clean-cut young Americans in paper hats. It's an old-fashioned idea that has been alive and well at Jack's since 1972. The patties are made from nothing but lean beef, cut and ground twice daily on site. The fries are soft, cut fresh. And the condiments and toppings are abundant — not squeezed from a tiny foil packet. It's not often you say this of a hamburger restaurant, but if every "fast food" joint were more like Jack's, the world would be a better place.

Slow Food Glades to Coast leader Diane Campion has to keep a lot of balls in the air, but she makes juggling Florida eggplants, oranges, and rounds of fresh mozzarella look like a breeze. Apart from a full-time job as a sales rep for Prime Line Distributors, Campion has organized and hosted the jolliest food events of the year: a fresh, green smorgasbord of slow food shindigs including lavish dinners at Café Boulud and 3030 Ocean, locavore cocktail parties at Forte and "green drink" menus for Earth Day, panel discussions on buying local, and demonstrations on creating edible gardens. Campion is a regular presence at national conferences advocating for humane, ecologically sound farming practices. She shows up to participate in strategy sessions for the Coalition of Immokalee Workers, which has lobbied Gov. Crist for recognition of the plight of enslaved Florida farm workers. And she's a walking encyclopedia of worldwide food knowledge — sourcing rare cheeses from Italy, spreading awareness of Florida clam farming, gathering under her wing families who raise beef humanely and farm fish safely, and working with chefs to encourage them to buy from local growers. Campion has changed the way we eat in South Florida. But just as important, she's brought gastronomic joy to the table.

Most waterfront restaurants in Broward County are good for oysters and other bounties of the sea, but French fries? Usually you'll get your standard fries to accompany a grouper sandwich, and you're happy if they are at least somewhat warm and your squeeze container of ketchup isn't empty. Ho-hum. Not at the Cove. That large and sprawling restaurant on the Intracoastal has fries that make you drool like Homer Simpson on a Krispy Kreme. They're all battered up and don't so much melt in your mouth as meld with your taste buds in a way known to make burly, full-grown men become giddy. We don't know the secret. Frankly, we don't want to know the secret. They put a smile on your face — isn't that really all you need to know?

True Italian gelato is not ice cream; it is richer and creamier and has a velvety texture that melts in your mouth. Paciugo knows this, and it shows. The amaretto chocolate chip, for instance, has a rich almond-cookie flavor that washes over the tongue and lingers for a couple of seconds before it's augmented with a hint of dark chocolate. The chocolate/black-cherry swirl has a similarly complex taste, alternating between milk and dark chocolates with cherry overtones. It's more like drinking wine than eating ice cream. Cristina and Ugo Ginatta and their son, Vincenzo, brought their gelato-making method straight from their hometown of Turin, Italy, and spent the past decade perfecting it, starting with a store in Dallas. The family business has grown to include nearly 50 gelaterias nationwide and a repertoire of 200 recipes. With hundreds of rotating flavors, Paciugo will keep your taste buds entertained year-round.

The dance of the seven veils makes a fine diversion, but no belly-wobbling, sphinx-eyed siren can stop a hungry stomach from staging its own entertainment: Sometimes you really want spectacular spanikopita rather than smashed crockery and drop-dead dolmades instead of dancing dames. Ouzo Blue provides the sustenance to maintain your mood with classic Greek dishes straight out of Chef Otis Giakis' mama's recipe files. Smoky spit-roasted lamb is stuffed into an insanely soft pita with yogurt as thick as cheese for a fabulous gyro; oversized dolmades dress a super-rich filling of minced lamb and spiced rice in a swaddling of sour grape leaves; a secret recipe of jumbo shrimp with warm spices arrives, like all Ouzo's entrées, with a side of addictive green beans stewed with tomatoes — just the kind of fuel you need to carry you through the rest of the evening, because you won't be going anywhere. By 10 p.m., the party crowd has drifted in to quaff Ouzo's Greek-themed cocktails, flirt, toss napkins in the air, and shake booty with the belly dancers — order the pistachio-studded baklava for a late-night energy boost and you'll be hoofing it on a table by midnight.

In 1939, Eleanor Roosevelt took a lot of flak for her plan to entertain the visiting king and queen of England with a picnic of hot dogs. The king, it turned out, was so smitten with the "delightful hot dog sandwich" that he begged for another one. Lately, the dog is having its day again — the American frankfurter has become so exquisite that it's hardly recognizable as junk food anymore. The 100 percent kosher beef frank served at Palm Beach Grill is of this refined, purebred species: It comes cradled in the downy folds of an artisinal roll, oozing char-flavored juices beneath blankets of sautéed vegetables and imported cheese. Modern-day kings and queens arrive straight from society balls to scarf down these bejeweled ballpark snacks, and PB Grill has even upped the ante by pairing its "silver service hot dog" ($12) with a side of creamy, mustard-infused, herb-flecked deviled eggs. Word is, local royalty is asking for seconds.

Look, this place has incredible chopped salads, chock-full of meats, cheeses, fresh romaine lettuce, peppers, colorful veggies, and tangy original sauces. You can even get your "salad" in a huge, tightly rolled wrap too big to finish in one sitting. The prices are reasonable, and the service is great. But there's a problem: The fun stops and the doors close at 6 p.m. Even earlier on the weekends. Now, it's no secret that a large percentage of the Boca population is, shall we say, mature. And sometimes, with such maturity, the daily schedule skews forward a bit. Mornings move up, evenings get earlier, and the air conditioning gets warmer. But if you happen to stop by Vinny's All Day Café for dinner (at a normal dinner time, not Boca time), you'll find the place closed. And it's frustrating to stand outside a restaurant with "all day" in the name when it's closed. The food is fantastic, but even in Boca, that isn't all day.

The Roman gods smiled on Delray Beach and dished us up one of their famous mythological hybrids: not a centaur or a satyr but an Italian restaurant set in an old Florida Key West cottage, complete with tin roof and breeze-ruffled, wraparound porch. Let's call this amazing chimera a trattorishack. The scent of night-blooming jasmine through open windows mingles with smoke wafting from Carolina's chimneys, a vapor redolent not of pit barbecue but of coal oven pizza. Genial, bespectacled owner Enrico Esposito brought the recipe for his pie crusts from his mother and grandmother's Neapolitan restaurants, along with their versions of meatballs in fresh marinara sauce ($9.95) and baked clams oreganata ($10.25). Pair Esposito's vinegar-tart chopped salad ($8.50) with a two-glass quartino of Italian Sangiovese or baby Amarone ($11), delicious with oven-baked bread sticks dipped in the EVOO and fine balsamic set out on every table. Pizza Carolina ($16.50) requires nothing more blissful than fresh mozzarella and handfuls of torn herbs; handmade cheese ravioli ($14.95) begs only for a dusting of fresh Parmesan. Like so much soft applause, the rustle of palms outside seals the bargain.

Marumi Sushi doesn't look like much from the outside — just your generic strip-mall eatery with a few Asian-looking frills. But the nondescript décor is no sign of mediocrity. Here, it's an indicator of a single-minded devotion to food. Owner/chefs Tetsu-San and Teru-San serve a nightly menu of Japanese (and some Korean) food unlike any in Broward County. At Marumi, the traditional — natto beans! — blends with the wildly inventive — sea urchin pasta! — and the incomparably fresh — whole fish, caught that morning, served four or five or six or seven ways. The service is friendly — if you go two Fridays in a row, the staff will likely remember your name and drink order on the second. They'll be happy to guide you through the five-page menu, editorializing freely on the merits of various exotica, and they're thrilled to help you decipher the huge specials board that gets plunked in front of every diner's table.

A scrawled sign outside the Blue Boar advises that bare feet and tank tops are forbidden after 8 p.m. ("Dress Code Enforced 7 Days!"). But once you've got your sandals and T-shirt on, this high hog is serious about late-night hunger management. Blue Boar purveys homemade chicken noodle soup, beef quesadillas, char-grilled cheeseburgers, garbage fries, and a full lineup of classic greasy bar bites until 4:30 every morning. From all over the county, waitresses and line cooks point their sore feet and foul moods straight for the Boar; they keep showing up in shifts — midnight, 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m. — to shoot pool and throw darts or fuss over the pinball machines, to slump at the bar and watch ancient Mike Tyson fights on the dozen TV screens — until brain, belly, and aching hooves have at last fully recovered. Even the bleariest dishwasher wouldn't call these onion rings or hot roast beef sandwiches gourmet fare, but in the deepest hours before dawn, there's a whole lot of comfort to be had from a gooey grilled cheese and a shot of Jack.

Five dollars. When was the last time you saw that price on a menu for anything other than a Happy Meal? Just please, wash your face and put on a clean pair of trousers before you head over to Morton's bar for their "power hour" — we don't want them catching on that the hoi polloi is actually showing up to eat. Every plate on the bar menu is five bucks from 4:30 or 5 (depending on the location) to 6:30 p.m. and then again from 9 p.m. until Morton's locks up its gleaming mahogany doors for the night. The bargains are doozies: saucers piled with beef sliders glistening with juice, mini-steak sandwiches to dunk in pots of horseradish cream, warm crab dip with buttered rounds of toast, pan-fried crab cakes. They'll give you oysters for a buck each or giant prawns for $2.50. Drinks to wash down this movable feast are half price. And the weird thing is, the servers treat you like you're, you know, a real Morton's customer, with all the deference due to the fat cats who are paying six times as much to sit in the restaurant 20 feet away. Nothing warms the heart of a cheapskate like the idea that he may be getting away with something. You are.

Over the years, Zona Fresca has won a plethora of New Times Best Of awards, from Best Fish Sandwich (in that case, a fish taco) to Best Place to Eat Everyday. Yet, we've not once given it the Best Mexican Restaurant accolades it deserves. Seriously... for a quick-service joint where you eat off styrofoam plates with plastic utensils, Zona literally owns any local sitdown, goopy-bean-and-cheese-style Mex joint. Everything served is imminently fresh — including daily-made salsas, grilled chicken and steaks, and made-to-order humongous salads. The ingredients are all top-notch. The prices are ridiculously low as well, especially considering that the portions are big enough to make two meals out of almost any item, be it the infant-sized burritos or the sizable taco platters. And since Zona's second location in Plantation opened last year, your Baja-style Mex fix is never far away.

Ben Franklin said: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." If so, God's love foams eternal from the brimming imaginations of longtime South Florida restaurateurs Rodney Mayo and Scott Frielich. At their new Tryst, they've teamed up with next-door neighbors from 32 East and Delux to debut a beer-centric bistro, adding hops to their trademark hip. Brick walls, wide-plank wood floors, and a patio built around an ancient tree make a cozy backdrop for a gargantuan list of drafts and crafts from little American entrepreneurs and European breweries. Chef Butch Johnson posts chalkboard specials perfect for pairing with strange brews like Delirium Tremens or Hobgoblin: simple fresh fish dishes beautifully cooked, salt- and fat-laden morsels of deep-fried rock shrimp, refreshing fruit and vegetable slaws made of Asian pear or daikon radish and flecked with fresh cilantro, boards of cheese and charcuterie, and super-moist pork tenderloin. And you can put away your beer goggles: The notion of an upscale kegger has made a big splash with the college crowd. A convocation of cuties spills out the door on weekends.

Maybe it takes an old hand to spin something entirely new out of two thoroughly timeworn restaurant tropes: the raw bar and the French bistro. Chef Laurent Tasic, having perfected the bistro genre with his country-quaint Fort Lauderdale Sage Café, has set his Hollywood vessel afloat in a chic, ultramarine landscape, incorporating such varied terrain — a backlit bar, leaping flames from an open grill, a glacier-colored shellfish bar, transparent wine cellar, and a tentacular chandelier — that dining here feels a bit like drifting dreamily along a coral reef. Oysters and shellfish flown in daily from Canada, California, or the Chesapeake Bay are cool comfort, but the feeling of weightlessness, the effortless glide, wends its way even through Tasic's menu of updated crepes, steak frites, local snapper served with polenta, and cassoulets — dishes of great delicacy in spite of their deep sauces and caramelized hues. It's not until you emerge blinking and a little wobbly into the humid Hollywood air that you fully appreciate that Tasic has given you, along with his splendid coq au vin, a temporary reprieve from gravity.

Even now that Dolce de Palma has been overrun by local hungries, anybody pulling up to this rubble-strewn parking lot behind railroad tracks in an old warehouse district is going to feel like he's making a personal discovery. Dolce has an intriguing out-of-the-way-ness and a young chef in Anthony DePalma who likes to keep stirring the broth. This little orange building, its open kitchen revealing dinged pots and antiquated cookware, retains its charm even after you've sashayed in, each time squiring a new set of Dolce virgins, week after week. DePalma changes his menu every night (he's open for dinner Wednesday through Saturday), rotating through community favorites and new experiments. So you might find yourself snacking on veal pot pie or grilled venison, smoked trout or mushroom tart, blacktip shark or a whole roasted suckling pig, duck breast with chestnuts and burnt orange sauce, or homemade pasta with veal sweetbread sausages, all made from ingredients sourced when possible from local farms and greenmarkets. Indulge these rare (and inexpensive) treats sitting outside on the makeshift patio; peruse the wine list, where no bottle ranges far above $45; revel in the smart service of Dolce's devoted staff: Here's a shabby-chic urban boîte with a fierce survival instinct.

You've exited the jailhouse, and with just a few steps in the throwaway sandals so kindly provided, you've crossed the street — into the Downtowner Saloon's lot. Because that insufferable block of cement has just vanished from view, dine outside and relish the backdrop of downtown's unadulterated skyline. This coveted seat is far removed from the cold metal seats of yesteryear. You might have spent yesterday peering through thin slit windows, but now you have the horizon to contemplate: boats cruising under two cotton-candy-pink bridges. Order a cocktail or glass of wine. Eat the blackened prime rib sandwich ($13.99) or French dip ($10.99) or eeny-meeny-miny-moe it and go for the fish and chips ($12.99) or the comforting spaghetti and giant meatball ($13.99). It's not your last meal; you can come back tomorrow. There's a special no matter which night of the week you get bailed out of jail. Aim for Saturday release, when the Bloody Mary bar stays open until 2:30 p.m.

The sign on the wall at Mauro's says, "NO KNIVES, NO FORKS, NO CUPS, NO ICE, NO CHEESE, NO PARMESAN, DON'T ASK," and it's translated into Spanish just so everyone gets the message. Other signs warn patrons "Prices are subject to change instantly" and "If you are rude, impatient, miserable, or annoying, there will be a $10 charge." Nothing like a little atmosphere. When you step into the long, narrow pizza parlor, all you'll see is scribbled-on dollar bills stuck to the wall with packing tape, an arsenal of pizza ovens, pizza boxes stacked to infinity, and a cooler full of domestic beer. Oh, you expected a menu? When you see the big-bellied pizza cooks in their white T-shirts and the tiny counter girls in tight jeans — all identifiable by matching scowls — you may opt to keep your mouth shut about that. Do ya think they offer broccoli rabe in this joint, Biff? When you get your piping-hot, giant slice — cheese goes for $2.50, and it's cash only — you will understand why this New York-style pizza, with its sheets of creamy mozzarella, its sweet but tangy sauce, its crust of perfection, has saved the lives of millions who roam from bar to bar on Hollywood Boulevard. Wash that thought down with a soda — sold only by the can. Now scram!

Any restaurant worthy of your hangover must meet strict standards. (1) No dress code. A pair of jeans, landscaped with spilled beer and cigarette burn holes, will work just fine. Sunglasses are de rigueur. And obviously, you're not getting anywhere near a razor. (2) No crowds. Humans are exceptionally ugly, noisy, and smelly when you're nursing the brown bottle flu. (3) Immediate service. Your table is ready, and somebody's standing by with buckets of Coca-Cola. (4) Inexpensive. You blew your paycheck on lap dances last night, remember? (5) Full bar to allay the morning quivers. (6) Dark — or at least neutral — atmosphere. Sunshine and vodka do not mix on a Saturday morning. (7) Bacon. Only one place aces this test, and it's been acing it for nearly a century: Testa's in Palm Beach. They're open as early as you can drag your sorry carcass down there, serving liquor from 7 a.m. every single day to wash down your ham steak and eggs ($7.95), smoked salmon plate ($9.95), bowls of incredible, stomach-coating cream of crab soup spiked with sherry ($6.95), sirloin steak and eggs ($17.95), and plenty of bacon on the side ($2.95). Sit at the bar with your back to the room, nose buried in a complimentary newspaper, and you'll have the undivided attention of the bartenders. After decades of experience with punchy islanders, they perfectly understand both your inexplicable headache and the precise remedy to cure it.

Whatever kind of grandpa you got, New York Prime will fix him right up. Maybe he was a freckled kid during World War II, raised on Trumanburgers and scarred by the memory of meat-rationing stamps — won't he get a kick out of this million-dollar question: "How would you like that double-rib veal chop cooked, sir?" Say he's a guy who took scissors one time and cut every mention of your name out of his last will and testament: Let the nasty old tightwad squirm over the price of your $84, 40-ounce porterhouse; hope he chokes on his Beefeater martini. Retired Master of the Universe with megayacht parked at Boca Resort? Daddy Warbucks will feel right at home surrounded by his fellow Masters. Slaved for the phone company 45 years and never missed a day? Then he damned well deserves a steak dinner: Order him a Maker's Mark on the rocks, a big lobster cocktail, and a prime New York strip, garnished with a side of cheese mashed potatoes, and give the old dude a sneak preview of heaven.

The food here is as diverse as the books and authors on the shelves. On top of the standard soups, salads, and sandwiches (think Shakespeare), you'll find sizable, scrumptious servings of quiche (Flaubert), torta rustica (Cervantes), and pasta primavera (epic, like Gabriel Garcia Marquez). Depending on the day of the month, you might find meatloaf (Hemingway), picadillo (Junot Diaz), Kashmiri chicken served with tikka paste (like Rushdie, but not so controversial), eggplant Parmesan (Woolf), or even steak and potatoes (simple but amazing, like Cormac McCarthy). You'll already be more than satiated, but you won't be able to resist at least a taste of the cookies and cakes (like a Stephen King short story). And the entire lunch — cookies included — will cost you less than 10 bucks, so you won't feel ripped off and silly (Deepak Chopra).

Don't call Joshua Liberman a "bartender." Even "mixologist" is too lame a term for the guy who's been putting together the drinks at Forte — potent mixers made from eccentric liquors, seasonal fruits, and surreal decorative elements. He's the "wizard of wet," "prince of the pie-eyed," "most exalted expert of the inebriated." It just can't get any better than this: Getting your drunk on while stimulating your addled intelligence and simultaneously feeling smug about your slow-foodish environmental correctness. Liberman's list of libations changes constantly, so the glassful of bliss that once made you swear allegiance will be history by the time you're reading this. But over the months, he's concocted sweet and smoky old-fashioneds made with bacon-infused Jack Daniels and maple syrup, elderflower gimlets of Hendrick's gin and floating nasturtium blossoms or, alternately, pea shoots grown on local farms, bittersweet Florida blood orange negronis, and a lemon drop made with limoncello and Japanese yuzu. What's more, this busy bar is bathed in flattering pink light, so even when you're thoroughly schnockered, you'll still look as pretty as the cocktail you're quaffing.

Maybe you have a weakness for guitar players. Or gangsters. Or celebrity chefs. But contemplating architect Chris Smith's design for Zed451 might just get you hooked on dudes who do singular things with vaulted ceilings, glass panels, and reflecting pools — for here is a space so full of magic and mystery that it's calculated to make any girl go "oooooh." The décor of this Boca outpost of Zed's Chicago-based chain — where one fixed price buys you a steady stream of meats, fish, and multiple trips to a central "harvest table" — is varied enough to yield multiple surprises. The rectangular central bar is neither indoors nor out but set in a nebulous limbo, so patrons sipping martinis on either side can contemplate how the other half plays. Opt for en plein air and you'll find yourself on a patio where a continuous, raised waterway recedes in the distance, banquettes snuggled alongside. Inside, every table occupies a corner of intimacy and repose with 360-degree views — warm colors, soft pillows, and cunningly arranged screens. A transparent wine room provides the illusion of a wall without the solidity. It's as if the designers have grasped exactly what makes us tick. As much as we might cherish our privacy or want to burrow away like a clutch of hamsters, we human beings are nosy, curious beasts, voyeurs with a hungry eye. Once we tear ourselves away from the salad bar, we can't stand to miss a trick.

Rich, salty, sweet, hot — and we're not talking about the dumplings. Unless "dumpling" is your pet term for the ladies crowding the bar most nights at China Grill, decked in their shiniest frippery and pointiest heels. They've gravitated here since the day mega-restaurateur Jeffrey Chodorow threw open the doors of his first Fort Lauderdale pan-Asian eatery: skittering from bar to table holding saketinis aloft, clustering and giggling in a blur of silver bubble skirts and day-glo halter-tops, crossing and recrossing their brown, unblemished gams. And although they may have been paid party girls in the early days, set out like bait to attract bigger fish with fatter wallets, they appear now without prompting from sorority house, law office, and modeling job — one reason at least as delicious as any shrimp cake or potsticker for the rest of us to show up too.

South Florida is among the most culturally diverse pieces of land on the North American continent. It's food that brings cultures together here, and it happens regularly at El Rey de Pescado — a place that looks, smells, and sounds like a Third World food market in the very best way. In the middle of the produce tent at Fort Lauderdale's Swap Shop is El Rey and a pictorial menu that demonstrates the amazing things the kitchen can do with Caribbean seafood. A whole, fried snapper or tilapia comes out full of meat, juice, and crackle, served atop rice and garnished with a heap of lime wedges. A pile of limes also accompanies a ludicrously proportioned heap of calamari lightly fried and almost tender enough to fall apart in your mouth. Grab a beer — a Mexican brew, most likely — out of a big ice-filled tub in front and drink it at a plastic table waiting for your food and surrounded by everything that makes Florida, Florida: sunshine, the babble of languages, the smells of the ocean, and a Latin pulse sounding from an unseen boombox.

Movie pitch: Based on a true story. In a tropical American city long known as party central for spring breakers, the population begins to suffer disturbing nightmares. As neighbors compare notes, they're stunned to learn that their midnight visions are identical — they dream they're chasing a gigantic meatball along Oakland Park Boulevard. As days pass, the citizens are overcome with inexplicable cravings: for South Philly-style cheese steaks; for spaghettini with clams, pancetta and chilies; for chicken cutlets with hot and sweet peppers; for spicy chicken wings with upscale macaroni and cheese. As the film progresses, it is revealed that the city has succumbed to a mass trance called "The Martorano Effect," the symptoms of which include wild dancing, excessive consumption of Prosecco, and the inability to speak anything but quotations from Goodfellas. Think Invasion of the Body Snatchers meets Moonstruck. Lorraine Bracco, Joe Gannascoli, and Ludacris have already expressed interest.

One of the great misconceptions about Café Boulud is that you can't afford it. And that's a shame, because eating here makes you proud to be a Floridian. It's not enough to book your birthday every year — the pleasure in Executive Chef Zach Bell's collaboration with Daniel Boulud derives from the menu's month-to-month fluctuations, from the flavors of produce grown on our soil and seafood plucked from our own waters, cooked by a homegrown chef who grew up in Clermont. So go for breakfast or the $25 prix-fixe lunch, for the deals on Saturday and Sunday brunch ($32 for three courses), for the pre-theater menu ($45 for three courses), or for Saturday's late-night bites of house-cured charcuterie and gourmet burgers. And go often. As the seasons pass, you'll feast on short-rib ravioli with a crushed tomato and basil compote sourced from Swank Farms in Loxahatchee; a Peekytoe crab basking in the sunny flavors of hearts of palm and pickled pineapple; sautéed sea scallops with spring ramps, fiddlehead ferns, nettles, and forest mushrooms. Those ramps and nettles might not come from around here, but they're priceless natural resources in the hands of our homeboy.

Amadeo and Gracie Tasca kept their balance aboard the pitching vessel of downtown West Palm Beach while their contemporaries piled into lifeboats and fled. They kept it up for ten years, sending out plate after plate of handmade pasta, of sauces made from tomatoes they handpicked themselves on local farms, of ethereal tiramisu and imported bronzino. They invited tenors and sopranos to sing arias for their customers on Monday nights, and a coterie of artistic souls gravitated to Capri Blu on the force of their generosity. Roads were torn up, the boom-and-bust cycles downtown became depressingly predictable, but the Tascas kept accumulating devoted customers. And finally, when construction on the new City Hall directly across the street showered them in dust and chunks of rebar, they quietly closed and moved across the bridge to Palm Beach. Early this year, a bad economy swallowed the last mouthful of their gumption. We'll miss them.

The third date is the tiebreaker; if you flub this one, you're gonna find yourself back at the laptop flipping through JDate listings. The long-running and beloved Casa D'Angelo can help get you over the hump, if you'll pardon the pun — they've been cementing together fragile relationships with a mixture of ricotta cheese and marinara sauce for more than a decade now, and they know what they're doing. Casa D'Angelo's 40-plus-page wine list of regional Italian varietals will help you subtly showcase your sophistication (it's on their website, so you can prepare in advance); the breezy outdoor patio is quiet enough for intimate conversation; the courtly waiters, who serve with a friendly flourish, contribute to an atmosphere of relaxed luxury. And then there's the food: beautiful handmade pastas floating in rosy cream sauces; chops perfectly grilled and emanating the scent of rosemary; bronzino so fresh that it needs little beyond a sprinkling of capers and a bit of lemon reduction. Take a hint from that bronzino and don't overdo it — in love, as in cooking, a modest hand with the sauce lets your ingredients shine.

The only bad news about Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto's opening a sushi bar inside the beautiful Boca Raton Resort & Club is that you can't actually get in. Correction: You can get in, provided you are (A) a resort member, (B) a paying guest at the hotel, or (C) someone with wealthy and influential friends. Since options A and B are going to set you back a couple of Benjamins, your best bet is to latch onto the coattails of some philanthropic Boca bourgeois and weasel your sushi-craving, proletariat arse in. While there, why not let your friend pick up the tab too? The prices are as hefty as the entry fee, mostly because the fish at Morimoto's tiny bar is of a quality unparalleled in these parts, flown in multiple times a week from sources scattered across the globe. Uni from the California coast glistens with the life-giving power of the ocean; Japanese fish that rarely find their way to an American table like kinmedai and kohada are here en masse; ruby chunks of beautiful maguro tuna and melting cuts of marbled o-toro are cut from the prime stock of Boston and the Mediterranean. All of it is absurdly delicious and definitely worth every penny your wealthy benefactor is willing to throw at it.

Remember the nerdy librarian lady in the old TV commercials for Cinnaburst gum? How she cowered in terror when she saw "flavor crystals" on a stick of gum? "There's... just... so... many of them!" She gasped, unable to handle even the idea of that kind of explosion of taste. That's how you'll feel when you open the menu at the Salad Bowl. It lists a whole panel of gourmet salads — and then another panel of "Salads & More Salads" — with a stunning 23 salads at last count. Options range from old standbys — Greek, cobb, caesar — to the sexy Roman beef salad featuring sliced marinated steak, orange slices, crumbled Gorgonzola cheese, and walnuts. There's a classic niçoise with potatoes, green beans, and boiled eggs and a Hawaiian with moist breaded chicken, shredded carrots, cucumbers, grapes, and juicy pineapple chunks. The list of ingredients goes on and on: mozzarella balls, pesto sauce, pepperoncini, goat cheese, roasted pork, nacho chips. Whoever does the grocery shopping for this place, we salute you.

Throughout human history, countless innovations have changed the way we conduct our lives: Indoor plumbing. Sticky notes. MTV. But innovations in the realm of food, especially in something as common as sandwiches, are a rarer breed. This is why LaSpada's Original Hoagies, a Broward institution that has been flinging lunch meat since 1973, should be praised for a practice that has brought subology in South Florida to a whole new level: the Meat Blanket. Order a sub at LaSpada's and the hoagie wizards therein will first fill a chewy roll with a layer of sliced-fresh meat. Then, in go the toppings — lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles, and their own blend of marinated sweet peppers — in such generous quantity as to be spilling out all over the counter. The question then becomes, how does one eat this beastly sandwich, so overflowing with goodness, and not lose half of it to attrition? That's where LaSpada's brilliance comes in. Sandwich makers here top the sub with another layer of sliced meat and fold it into the sides of the hoagie roll, sealing in all that goodness. It's like they're lovingly tucking an adorable baby sub in for bed. Only then you get to eat the baby. Mmmm, meat blanket, baby. Now, that's true genius.

Now a quarter-century old, Café Seville is no stranger to our Best Of awards. Forgive what must feel like insistence, but you'd search in vain for another eatery that puts eels, rabbit, and merluza together on one menu. Seville's famous, five-foot-high specials board has achieved the status of local celebrity. And nobody offers those dishes in a warm little room with such gracious courtesy. All the while, a classical guitarist is playing. Seville combines the ease of a village café with an old-fashioned South Floridian hospitality, the kind of laid-back niceness that went extinct in Fort Lauderdale around 1980. It's not just a Spanish restaurant — don't let that list of charming regional wines confuse you. Seville opens its door every evening and embraces a neighborhood: People gather to measure their years in deepening relationships, in annual celebrations, and in speeches recited over raised glasses — passing down this favorite café from generation to generation like an heirloom jewel.

You know this is an indulgence of the most gluttonous sort. You know you shouldn't go often. But you're smart about it; you try to go with different people most of the time. You coyly suggest it on birthdays and anniversaries — yours and theirs. Just driving by, smelling the steaks, triggers some sort of primitive desire to chew meat. When you arrive, as you move through the open courtyard and elegant, South Beach-meets-Rio décor, your mouth actually salivates just a bit. You're seated and your waiter explains how it all works. It's time. You start with the phenomenal salad bar, with all kinds of gourmet fresh peppers, cheeses, soups, and veggies. Then comes the meat. Sirloin. Filet mignon. Lamb. Flank steak. Top sirloin. Baby top sirloin. Rib eye. Pork loin in Parmesan. Sausage. And it's all brought to you by delightful gauchos dressed in traditional Brazilian garb. You might debate for a moment with your fellow diners which cut of meat is the tastiest. Then you remember the best part: You don't have to choose.

Not only does Tacos al Carbon serve authentic Mexican soul food good enough to grace the table of any proud abuelita; it's also open 24 hours a day, meaning that sweet release never has to wait. Tacos al Carbon spares no parts, crafting more than a dozen varieties of tacos out of succulent lengua (beef tongue), slow-stewed tripa (beef stomach), and deep-fried rounds of crunchy chicharrón (pork skin). Gringo-friendly varieties like grilled beef, chicken, and sausage don't disappoint either. Each taco comes lovingly graced with a mass of onions and cilantro, plus a filling of shredded lettuce, chopped tomato, and cotija cheese if you're so inclined. Stumbling drunks may want to steer clear of the blindingly hot orange salsa, lest their already-rumbling bellies take further abuse. For the rest of us though, it's pure bliss.

Start with the crispy cauliflower, which is flash-fried and covered in a sweet chili sauce so scrumptious that it will make you swear off sweet-and-sour chicken. Then order the sublime loaf, a mixture of lentils, brown rice, water chestnuts, and couscous that will convince you that all meatloaves ought to have "meat" in quotes. Hope your dining partner orders the enchiladas, a mixture of brown rice, black beans, faux cheddar, and shredded gardein (a surprisingly good fake meat product), all covered in a heavily spiced red sauce; it'll prove that Tex-Mex doesn't need to include Holsteins. Finish with the soy-based key lime cheesecake so perfectly tart and sweet that it just might make you vow to never eat any product that involves milking again. OK, maybe you'll forget all this and order a steak tomorrow. But Sublime — this paradise for vegetarians in a sea of meat eaters, this ideal of a restaurant that donates its profits to animal causes, this behemoth of eating with a conscience that seems plopped down from some other metropolis — will redefine your idea of vegan.

Somehow, the era of the $25 or $30 bottle of wine with dinner feels so distant, it might as well have been our Stone Age ancestors who were extracting corks from the Beaujolais with hand-carved flint tools. Restaurant wine has rocketed out of reach for regular people: Now we're guzzling a hurried glass at home before heading out. But that's never been the case at Hi-Life Café, a neighborhood favorite that takes its name seriously. Chef Carlos Fernandez (a Top Chef contender) and host/partner Chuck Smith have long known that food + wine = happiness. Thus, their breezy, California-centered list offers lots of bargains: pinot noirs from the Russian River Valley priced in the mid-30s, California merlots that start at $24, Australian shirazes at $32 and $34, a Spanish sauvignon blanc at $26, half bottles of yummies like Robert Sinskey pinot blanc and Shafer Cabernet Sauvignon, plus many more very drinkable grapes at friendly prices. The wines, naturally, pair perfectly with the down-home luxuries on Fernandez's all-American menu, from his chicken fried chicken and braised short ribs to roast duckling glistening under a blanket of merlot sauce.

If there's one food that pairs best with beer, it's a good burger. This must be why Big Bear, an independently owned and operated brewpub in Broward's western annex, puts as much thought into its stellar burgers as it does into its award-winning suds. Each of the half-inch-thick patties is made from ground-daily chuck and griddle-cooked for the perfect amount of juiciness. They're then laid to rest on an airy, sesame-seed-coated kaiser roll and topped in a few distinctive ways. Our favorite is the bistro burger, a pungent offering that's slathered with balsamic caramelized red onions, roasted garlic mayonnaise, Applewood smoked bacon, and a slab of runny Brie cheese. The black-and-blue burger is great too — it's dusted with a Cajun rub and paired with gobs of salty blue cheese and red-pepper mayo, then set against a sweet slice of Canadian bacon. These burgers may be high-class, but they're all low-cost, each clocking in under $12. Which means you'll have plenty of cash left to pair them with a stellar brew, say a pint of Trappist-style Kodiak Belgian Dubbel, which, at 7.5 percent alcohol by volume, is as big a friend as any burger needs.