It doesn't pay to think about where veal comes from. After all, what did that poor little three-month-old bovine baby ever do to you? But then the veal pasta over at Giuseppe's tastes so heavenly. Those extra-tender nuggets of meat bathed in a light tomato sauce with carrots mixed into al dente spaghetti could turn even the most vehement vegan into a bloodthirsty carnivore. Blame it all on Richard Bock, the Valley restaurateur who has made Giuseppe's into a must for lovers of affordable, high-quality Italian fare. His "day job," so to speak, is as first cellist for the Phoenix Symphony, but his other passion is Italian food, and man, does he kick culinary keister. For less than $20, any peon can eat like Luciano Pavarotti, as Giuseppe's serves primo ravioli, meatballs, gnocchi, baked ziti, lasagna, penne with sausage, prosciutto with melon, and so on. But our preferred platter is the heretofore mentioned veal pasta, which is as good as anything you'll get at Daniel's or Nonni's, and for a very reasonable $11.95. True, Giuseppe's, though quaint, may not have the atmosphere of some other, higher-priced joints. But what you lose in atmosphere, you gain in taste, capisce?

Not only is Rosie McCaffrey's the coolest Irish pub in P-town, it makes a smashing plate of Harp-battered Gadus morhua and thick frittered sticks of pommes de terre. Confused? Well, let us get down off our high horse for a moment to let you know that this august establishment crafts the best fish and chips in the PHX: two fat slabs of cod cooked a golden brown served alongside coleslaw and a pile of steak fries. The kitchen staff is careful to keep the consistency of the batter from getting too thick, thereby allowing the flaky deliciousness of the cod to shine through. Of course, it doesn't hurt to wash down the lot of it with one or two (or even three) perfectly poured pints of Guinness, and maybe a shot or two of Irish whiskey for dessert. Moreover, at Rosie's, one's lucky to be able to dine in the company of a number of legendary Irishmen, whose portraits line the walls -- everyone from Oscar Wilde to James Joyce. Thanks be to Samus McCaffrey for building the place to begin with after selling his old place downtown to barman Frank Murray. And thanks also, Samus, for a lovely platter of fish and chips. Readers' Choice: Pete's Fish and Chips

There are a number of great spots for traditional sushi in the Valley. But owner Yoshio Otomo's Shimogamo has the wow factor others lack. Maybe it's the energy that comes from being the new guy on the block, because, interestingly, this is Otomo's first venture into the restaurant biz. Prior to opening the upscale new eatery with its sleek black-and-gray interior, Otomo worked for a large Japanese import company, and as Japanese businessmen are wont to do, he spent a lot of time in Japanese restaurants. Though he's quick to tell you that he's no good in the kitchen or behind the sushi counter, like most of us, he knows what he likes, and Shimogamo reflects his experienced palate. Shimogamo's "traditional" sushi, or what we think of as being traditional for a sushi bar in America, is excellent, whether it's a spicy tuna roll, yellowtail roll, or octopus nigiri (the finger-size portions with the rice on the bottom). But where Shimogamo really shines is in its old-school Japanese appetizers like conch shell boiled in sake, or whole, pregnant smelt, which look like silvery sardines, their bellies filled with roe. Shimogamo's own innovations are equally impressive, whether it be teriyaki-drenched beef rolls wrapped around tofu, portabella mushrooms, and shishito (a mild Japanese chile pepper), or black cod topped with a persimmon chutney. One visit to Shimogamo, and you'll agree: As far as trad sushi goes, Shimogamo reigns supreme.

These days, Chandler's about as close as the Valley comes to having its own "Chinatown," and we mean that term broadly, in the most Pan-Asian way possible. Not only can Chandler boast of having Lee Lee Oriental Supermarket, Restaurant Cyclo, Swaddee Thai, and Lotus Asian Cafe and Grill, but the diamond in its culinary crown is C-Fu Gourmet, where you can enjoy dim sum that's as good as any you'll get in, say, Monterey Park, California (known as Cali's "Little Taipei"). Dim sum is Cantonese for "heart's delight." True to that name, at C-Fu, as in every other dim sum house, a team of waiters and waitresses circles through the restaurant's many tables with carts and trays filled with myriad traditional offerings such as pork dumplings, sugar cane shrimp, barbecued pork buns, shrimp rice noodle rolls, mango pudding, egg custard tarts, and on and on. One obvious sign that C-Fu offers the real deal: the overflow of Asian customers at this immense establishment, something rarely seen anywhere else in the Valley, save perhaps at Lee Lee. Dim sum is served daily from 10:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., and though C-Fu is also known for its seafood menu, it's the dim sum that hastens our return.

Who has the tastiest, most sublime buns in the Valley? Why, chef Johnny Chu does, of course. How do we know, you ask? Because we've tasted them, silly, at Chu's renowned Fate cafe in downtown. The buns in question are not the type you see in a Nelly video. Rather, they are a variation on cha sui bao, or Chinese steamed pork buns. Chu fills them with spinach instead of swine, for an exquisite vegetarian appetizer that even diehard carnivores can appreciate. The exterior is pale white, and may look uncooked to the untrained eye, but bite into the gooey softness, and you'll get a mouthful of Popeye's delight surrounded by warm dough. Chu has more to be proud of than just his buns, of course. Being a wizard with the wok, and every other cooking implement, to boot, his curries and stir-fried noodles are magnifique. And it's all served in the funky, artsy surroundings of the converted house in which Fate is located. We always look forward to our next visit to Fate, but we confess it's those buns we look forward to most of all.

We love your buns, Johnny! And we'll take a bite out of them any day of the week, baby.

We're slightly ashamed to admit this, but we've got this little cut in the corner of our pie hole that we won't let heal because we're hooked on the barbecue sauce at A & J Chicago-Style Bar-B-Q. That tangy, slightly spicy reddish-brown coulis gently stings our tiny wound, sending us into paroxysms of masochistic glee. The pleasure's all ours, as the lion said to the lamb, since we visit this stark, impeccably immaculate restaurant as often as we can. Abe and Jean Hawthorne are the proprietors, and they've run their business for exactly 20 years now, having brought Chicago-style ribs and 'cue from their original home of Chi-town to their adopted home of P-town. As you walk in the door, the first thing you see is the stainless-steel barbecue pit, glassed in on the sides, where you can witness all manner of meats being readied over a mesquite-fired grill. It provides a captivating sight and smell, a sensory promise that the barbecue itself fulfills once you fork it into your mouth. The pork barbecue is so tender you can literally cut it with a plastic spoon, and the ribs are magnificent, large and succulent. We dare you to eat them without using your shirt as a bib. At this rate, we'll never get that cut to heal. Readers' Choice for Best Barbecue and Best BBQ Ribs: Honey Bear's Bar-B-Q

Bill Johnson's Big Apple harks back to a simpler time in American culinary history, an era where the men were men, the sheep were scared, and the women were in the kitchen -- chained to the stove, cookin' up some apple pie. We're not sure who's chained to the stove at BJ's, but whoever that poor schlub is, he's baking up the best durn deep dish apple pies in the Valley. You've heard of individual pizzas, right? At BJ's, they serve individual apple pies, with a golden brown crust, filled to bursting with chubby slices of apple, and topped with a huge scoop of vanilla ice cream. Of course, we're also partial to BJ's faux cowboy decor, the sawdust on the floor, and the pistol-packing waitresses who invariably call you "Hon." Hell yeah, it's cheesy. But in our age of bland, corporate mega-chains that mass-produce bland, corporate eats in a bland, corporate atmosphere, cheesy is cool, mon. Plus, once you get a load of BJ's old-fashioned deep-dish delight, you may even start to believe all that bunk grandpa used to tell you about the Good Old Days.

We have a dream, a dream that torments us nightly, and causes us to awaken in hunger. In this night vision, we are poised on a rafter in the America West Arena, overlooking a vast expanse of caramel-covered goo, an immense, yellow field of flan that calls out to us in that secret language of all flan lovers, beckoning for us to leap into the sweet, creamy custard below and become one with it. In a fit of suicidal madness, we jump, hitting the soft crème caramel with a plop and slowly sinking into the mlange of eggs, evaporated milk and vanilla. As we eat our way to the floor, we realize that this is no ordinary flan, but the smoothest, most exquisite flan in all of the Valley, which you can only get at Havana Cafe. The recipe is that of B.J. Hernandez, the executive chef and co-owner of both locations along with hubby Gilbert. One taste of B.J.'s confection, and we predict you'll be having similar dreams, whether they be of flan-filled Olympic-size pools or of football fields of the stuff. B.J.'s flan is consistently silky, and neither too heavy nor too light. Of course, just about everything else on her menu is first-rate, but B.J.'s flan is the only item that should be listed as a lethal weapon against diabetic dictators.

No doubt many of you are too young to remember a time prior to reality TV, a world you may only vaguely glimpse in the occasional Leave It to Beaver rerun. You may also not be aware of the fact that in this distant era, not all ice cream came from chains such as Carvel, Baskin-Robbins, or Häagen-Dazs. Some folks actually hand-cranked their own. And there were always plenty of soda shops and ice cream parlors that made theirs on the premises, instead of having it shipped in from parts unknown. One of these parlors is still in existence, Mary Coyle, which has been open since 1951. Here, the Coyle family continues to operate this nostalgic creamery that produces everything from butter pecan to vanilla caramel cinnamon swirl. It's real ice cream with 16 percent butterfat, and proud of it. Scoops and floats are served in classic glassware, the walls boast peppermint-candy pinstripes and Norman Rockwell prints, and the stereo blasts nothing harder than the occasional Neil Diamond medley. Here you can also enjoy one of Mary Coyle's famous "showboats," like the "Cherry Snow," a glorious concoction of burgundy cherry ice cream, with a marshmallow and cherry topping, garnished with coconut; or the "Hot Tin Roof," with vanilla ice cream, a thick hot fudge topping, and whole Spanish peanuts. One of these, and you'll be waddling to the car afterward, dreaming of times past. Readers' Choice: Cold Stone Creamery

So you've been on a bender all week long, you're suffering from a colossal hangover and you'd like a little hair o' the dog -- but you're afraid a shot of firewater will start a chain reaction that will leave you worshiping at the porcelain altar? Well, look no further than Sèamus McCaffrey's Irish Pub and Restaurant, under the proprietorship of publican Frank Murray. See, Sèamus McCaffrey's makes a toe-curling Irish whiskey cake, which we're told is an ancient family recipe from the Emerald Isle. Essentially, it's very similar to a rum cake, but with Jameson's Irish Whiskey instead of Captain Morgan. The result is sweet, delectable, and just full enough of John Barleycorn to steady your hand. Sure, you don't have to be a dipsomaniac to enjoy this mouth-watering dessert, as it makes a delightful post-dinner treat for even the soberest teetotalers. But being heavy imbibers ourselves, we have a special addict -- er, affection for it.