Prize

Well, okay, we haven’t actually tasted the aardvark. It’s right there on the menu, though, under “Special Order Pot Pies”: “Aardvark (in season).” The man behind the counter of this eccentric little joint in an East Indian School strip mall, who claims the Mary R. of the name as “me sainted mother,” will only smile coyly when asked when aardvark season is, so we suspect he’s funnin’ us.

The more conventional chicken pot pies at Mary Richardson’s, however, are sublime — succulent meat in fine, savory gravy, housed within a wonderfully hearty crust. The side dishes here are essential, as well — whipped potatoes, a splendid crunchy coleslaw and a first-rate homemade applesauce. Get the #3 meal, which entitles you to a pot pie plus all three of the sides, for $6.15. There are also tasty apple, cherry, peach and blueberry pot pies for dessert, as well as tarts. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, there’s a Burgundy mushroom beef pot pie, and with 24 hours’ notice, you can get such more-plausible-than-aardvark special order pies as vegetarian, turkey, lamb and even seafood.

There are sandwiches, and then there are sandwiches. And then there’s Pasta Brioni’s meatball-and-bread concoction, which, while billed as a sandwich, is actually an entire meal that just happens to be tucked into a roll.

The sandwich is huge, of course. But it’s a gentle giant, showcasing the old-fashioned Italian cooking that’s largely disappeared in the era of cheese-stuffed pizza crusts.

The sauce is mellow, not too spicy, and not so soggy it makes the bread fall apart. The bread is crusty, lightly toasted and just thick enough to support its meatballs without getting in the way. And the meatballs? Orbs of beefy perfection, blending meat and restrained seasoning for a result so simply delicious it’s almost extravagant.

Now let’s have a big, two-handed salute to the ballsiest sandwich in town.

Fidel Castro-style fatigues, bad hangovers from Bacardi rum, Elián Gonzalez — these are a few of our favorite Cuban things. But none can hold a candle to good Cuban black bean soup, a Caribbean classic raised to a memorable art form by Havana Cafe. Originally hailing from Havana themselves, cafe owners B.J. and Gilbert Hernandez must be genetically predisposed to knowing how to whip up an unbeatable, down-island version of sopa de frijoles negros, laced with generous amounts of garlic. Theirs is a thick, all-vegetarian black bean purée in which whole beans bob together with bits of red and green pepper and diced onion. A garnish of fresh cilantro is a decidedly non-authentic, Southwestern touch crowning this meal-size marvel, but who’s complaining — especially since a big bowl of it is a real steal for less than three U.S. bucks.

The actual home of this Philly fave is the City of Brotherly Love. But here in the Valley, the local cheese steak fraternity pledges allegiance to Uncle Sam’s.

The red-white-and-blue sandwich shop never lets us down, no matter the time of day, no matter how busy. And it gets very, very busy as soon as the doors open, until every seat is gone and it’s standing room only at the takeout counter. Fear not: The cooks are speed demons, slapping great mounds of thin-sliced steak on a sizzling grill, and tossing the meat as its juices crackle and spit.

We love the huge portions (the half sandwich size is anybody else’s whole). We love the choices (11 different steaks). We’ve picked our favorite — loaded with fresh mushrooms, green pepper, onions, gooey white American cheese and hot peppers bursting the seams of a squishy Italian sub roll.

Uncle Sam’s? We want you!

Arcadia Farms likes to promote itself as the place for “ladies who lunch.” No argument there — if the ladies in question happen to eat like lumberjacks.

But even an ax-swinger with XY chromosomes is going to have his work cut out for him with the Farms’ hefty turkey sandwich. Delectable, thick slabs of real, Thanksgiving-style roasted turkey breast (raised in Dewey, AZ) are piled high on country-style bread just shy of sourdough. A light slick of mayo gilds the gobbler, topped with roma tomato, sliced cucumber, pea shoots and baby lettuce.

(Hint: Sandwiches come with a choice of potato salad or organic greens. Order the potato salad, a plate load of red, skin-on chunks dotted with dill, bits of fresh bacon, parsley and scallion. Why? It’s not only delicious, it comes on a bed of greens already.)

The DelPrincipe family first introduced its Italian beef recipe back in 1968, at a little store in Chicago. Fortunately for us, some of the family decided to escape the snow and set up shop in the Valley. Today, the Phoenix and Tempe locations are run by different family members, with friendly, often vocal competition between themselves to be better than the other.

Of course, the sandwiches are equally fabulous at both stores. This is top-quality stuff, bringing mounds of tooth tender beef thinly sliced and swimming in its own natural juices. We order ours “wet,” for extra gravy to render the French roll into soggy, richly brothed bliss, and don’t apologize for making an absolute mess of ourselves. That’s what napkins are for.

There are plenty of places around town that make fancy hamburgers. They stuff them with exotic cheeses, lay them on designer buns and present highfalutin condiments like crushed mustard seed, garlic-infused mayonnaise and wasabi ketchup.

That’s all well and good, but we prefer a far simpler approach to America’s favorite sandwich — an uncomplicated serving of quality ground beef, plopped on a fresh bun, then gussied up with a slice of American cheese and perhaps a spritz of yellow mustard. In short, just like the burgers served at the Chuck Box.

The cooks at this long-standing Valley burger biz don’t put much into ceremony; they’re too busy churning out fresh sandwiches to order. They peer at us from behind the blistering hot mesquite charcoal broiler, waiting patiently as we make the agonizing decision between the Big Juan (one-third pound, and named after Chuck Box’s “beef engineer”) and the Great Big Juan (one-half pound). We can add cheese (Swiss, American or Jalapeño Jack) and, if we’re really feeling feisty, we can toss on some guacamole or bacon. There’s also a choice of white or wheat buns, which are lightly toasted on the grill as the meat sizzles merrily away.

The burgers arrive virtually greaseless, presented on disposable plates atop plastic trays, to be dressed as we desire at the Chuck Box’s condiment bar (the fanciest thing offered here is ranch dressing).

To paraphrase the immortal words of one noted burger connoisseur, “We’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a Chuck Box burger today.”

If The Sound of Music had been set in Phoenix instead of Austria, Rodgers and Hammerstein would surely have scuttled the “a drink with jam and bread” lyric in favor of “ti — a drink that’s filled with ice.”

And for our do-re-mi, you won’t find a better glass of the ubiquitous chilled brew than, ironically, at a place best known for its java. The unofficial state drink (the average Phoenician swills untold gallons annually), iced tea à la Coffee Plantation is a brew that is true. Supplied by the Tempe-based Revolution Tea Company, the leafy libation is available in a variety of distinctive flavors — Red Hawaiian, decaf Vanilla Bean and Citrus Spice, to name a few.

Where’s the brisket?

In the Valley, at Miracle Mile Deli.

A Valley tradition since 1949, Miracle Mile understands the importance of slow cooking for optimum flavor — and of lightning-fast service when the crowds arrive.

By the time the doors open for lunch in this ’60s-style deli, the brisket meat has been simmering for hours in its own juices. It’s been sliced just thin enough for texture and piled in huge mounds in warming trays at the cafeteria-style counter, waiting for us as it bubbles to tender perfection in additional juices.

A server grabs the best pieces with his tongs, plops it on our plate and sends it down the line. And mere minutes after we arrive, we’re smacking our lips over the beautiful brisket, tucked into a fresh, sweet onion roll. We sop up the juices with our French fries, alternating bites of mild beef with the tang of a sharp, crisp pickle.

Brisket, served this good, and this fast? It can only be a Miracle.

The Chinese have long considered mushrooms to be aphrodisiacs. After tasting the seductive ‘shrooms at Morton’s, you may well agree.

Morton’s takes an exotic blend of crimini, oyster, shiitake and portobello mushrooms, sautés them in a heady garlic herb butter, and serves them steaming in a ceramic crock. We get high just off the aroma, and melt when the mushrooms meet our mouths.

So toss away that book on how to meet chicks. Remember, guys: Girls just want to have fungi.

Garlic custard?!

Leave it Chef Donna Nordin to come up with something as innovative as this mystical, addictive flan. Impossibly silky, this breathtaking use of the stinking rose is abloom with mellow garlic. Served warm, the custard wobbles and shimmers as you poke it with your fork, then ladle great smears on thick, chewy pieces of the jalapeño cheese bread served alongside. Top it with sweet-‘n’-spicy pepper salsa in vinaigrette, and dust the whole thing off with a sprinkle of herb-roasted hazelnuts. It’s a taste explosion.

Now if Nordin could just create a breath mint-flavored mole sauce . . .

If you’re sneaking off for an intimate dinner with someone you’re seeing on the sly, under no circumstances should you order the antipasto platter at Va Bene Ristorante Italiano. The minute your server ferries the gigantic appetizer platter out of the kitchen, every eye in the house will be on the table where you’re sitting with your no-longer-inconspicuous other.

An unbelievable bargain at less than $9, this enormous starter plate overflows with basil-flecked fresh mozzarella slices, properly salty prosciutto shavings, garlicky grilled eggplant rounds, marinated whole mushrooms, tomato, and grilled onion, eggplant, zucchini and green pepper.

On the other hand, envious diners will probably be so busy ogling your mouth-watering orgy of pre-dinner treats that they won’t give you a second look.

The disturbing image of frogs on crutches won’t go away, even years after seeing Kermit battle an evil fast-food frog-leg czar in the original Muppet movie. The vision is resurrected at Bistro Provence, which serves the legs intact, showing knobby knees and all.

It takes just one bite, however, to get over it. The amphibian flesh is firm, vaguely sweet and positively glowing with garlic marinade.

And Bistro Provence has a delicate hand with battering — these gams are barely drifted through flour to offer a hint of crunch instead of the overwhelming crust found elsewhere. A half-dozen legs twirl like an Esther Williams revival in a pool of buttery, garlic-rich tomato salpicon. No crutches needed here; these legs stand on their own.

A long time ago, buffalo roamed the vast prairies of the West. Until someone killed most of them. Today, most people have to see their buffalo at the zoo.

But you can also find the beefy beast on the menu at the Arizona Kitchen, served in delicious glory. This buffalo is so good, it almost makes you understand why entire herds were once made into lunch meat. This buffalo, of course, is farm-raised — it never knows it was born to run free.

The Kitchen takes a huge, juicy slab, slaps it on the grill and lays it in a pool of glamorous Cabernet vanilla bean chile negro sauce next to lip-smacking sweet-potato pudding.

The Kitchen’s buffalo isn’t just the other nice meat. It’s a delicious little bit of the Old West, served in one of the state’s oldest resorts.

The Middle East is famous for its soothing dips, and ZakeE serves its hummus with creamy finesse.

Owner Sal Alqardahji takes pride in this dish, and it shows in every silky bite of garbanzo beans, lemon juice, garlic, olive oil and tahini (sesame seed paste), served with pita bread scoops.

ZakeE means “very delicious” in Arabic, Alqardahji tells us. We’ve got to agree.

Fry bread is a part of Arizona’s heritage, a symbol of Indian intertribal unity. Unfortunately, however, this obscenely caloric totem is usually found only at state and county fairs.

Or at least that used to be the case before this fry bread fortress pitched tent inside the west Valley’s SwapMart.

Angelina’s makes pouf-perfect fry bread from a recipe handed down through generations of Native Americans, rolling the dough, working it into ovals, puncturing its middle and dropping it into fryers. The bread emerges glistening, puffy and impossibly light. Topping options include vigorously seasoned red or green chile, ground or shredded beef and shredded white meat chicken, as well as simple shakes of powdered sugar and sticky squeezings of honey.

Alas, the swap mart is only open on weekends, but we’re willing to wait: It lends new meaning to TGIF — Thank God It’s Fryday.

Being an Israeli restaurant, this exceedingly cool little place features, logically enough, a variety of European dishes rethought in Middle Eastern terms. It’s very likely the only place in town where you can find schnitzel and falafel on the same menu. You can also find our favorite riff on the picnic lunch staple: Russian-style, fresh and zingy, loaded with carrots, green peas, eggs, mayonnaise and pickles. As good as are Sabuddy’s other sides, which include baba ghanouj, tabbouleh, labne and a Greek-ish eggplant purée, the spud salad is the best.

Like all other salads, it can be ordered in small or large portions ($2.45 and $3.45, respectively), or by the pound ($5.95) as carry-out.

Tuber or not tuber? At Sabuddy, that is not the question.

Honey Bear’s owners Mark Smith and Gary Clark started cooking their mouth-watering barbecue out of their apartment almost two decades ago, based on recipes from their grandmother. Later, they moved to their dimly lighted, no-frills digs on Van Buren. A few years back, success led them to open a new location on Central Avenue.

Today, their Tennessee-style barbecue continues to draw in diners, lured by the smells of smoking meat and simmering sauces.

Their slogan: “You don’t need no teeth to eat our meat.” That’s true. Pulled pork, beef and chicken positively collapse before we can gnaw them down. Pork ribs and whole or half-chickens slip from the bone. Hot links — well, these take a tooth or two to snap their firm casing and get to the spicy sausage within.

Our honey of a meal is a large combo sandwich of pork and chicken. It’s not on the menu, but always happily accommodated. The massive mound of meat comes tucked in a soft bun and wrapped in tin foil. The foil’s important — it seals in the heat, keeping the bun warm. Spicy sauce is served on the side.

It’s a barbecue we could bear to eat every single day.

Readers’ Choice: Honey Bear’s BBQ