Best Of Phoenix® 2004 Winners
Food & Drink
There's nothing fancy about the inside of Barb's Bakery -- except the baked goods. We love to ooh and aah over the fake wedding cake samples, and we buy the iced sugar cookies (the house specialty is flowers, but they'll make any shape you want, if you bring them a cookie cutter, and we've never come up with a color scheme they won't accommodate) by the dozen. The cupcakes are perfect specimens, as are the tarts, and if you don't want fancy, Barb's will accommodate you with the basics, like chocolate chip cookies.
About the only thing Barb's doesn't do is low-carb. And thank goodness for that!
Readers' Choice: Brownie Connection
The coffee at Lux is superb, but that's not what keeps the place packed. Instead, it's the super-cool vibe you find in the patrons and the decor. Both are downtown chic, looking straight out of New York or San Francisco, rather than central Phoenix. But no, here they are, the intelligentsia of Phoenix -- city council people canoodling with artists, architects hanging with academics -- thinking big thoughts and making big plans on the hip, low white vinyl chairs. There are some out there who have started boycotting Lux, saying the snooty staff is a buzz kill. It's true, we've felt the chill from behind the counter. But we figure it's just cuz the folks at Lux are so much cooler than we are. And we're willing to live with that, in exchange for a really good latte.
Readers' Choice: Starbucks
Sportsman's is the largest volume, single location, independent wine retailer in the state's history, which doesn't begin to tell the story. The 20 staff people have a combined 250 years' experience with the sauce, and that includes two certified wine specialists and three certified sommeliers. This might explain why Bon Appètit magazine selected Sportsman's as one of the top 50 wine shops in America. Michael Fine added Arizona's first wine bar to the retail operation in 1993, which became a runaway hit with everyone from Tesseract moms to singles looking to avoid the obviousness of the meet market. This winter Michael will open up a second shop on the west side at Arrowhead Ranch.
We can't pronounce most of the names on the shelves of this little central Phoenix market, but we know it's the place we go when we want the most delicious lemon soup we've ever had. Or the freshest pita, or tastiest kebabs and tandoori chicken salad. The Middle Eastern Bakery, which has been around for years and, lucky for us, has endured recent face-lifts, has a wide selection of spices and hard-to-find items like Turkish coffee. We keep coming back for the rice pudding -- and vowing that one of these days, we'll pick up one of the cookbooks for sale and put all those items on the shelves to good use. Until then, we'll take home some hummus.
As that sage philosopher Butt-head once remarked to his pal Beavis, "Variety is the spice of life, dillweed!" We couldn't agree more. Maybe that's why we think Lee Lee Oriental Supermarket is one of the coolest places on Earth. The 52,000-square-foot bazaar includes delicacies from all over the planet, and you could literally spend a lifetime just checking out all the funky items offered. There are beers from Thailand, China, Singapore and Japan; a selection of ice creams you'll never find in Fry's, such as Chinese-style, lychee-nut flavored, and taro (purple yam) ice cream from the Philippines; a butcher's section featuring oxtail and pork uterus; a fish department that offers live catfish and golden carp, as well as fresh skate wings and baby octopus; and a produce aisle with tamarind from Thailand, tiny Indian eggplants, and Korean melons, to name but a few. Beavis and Butt-head, however, would probably enjoy the hot deer jerky and the prepared squid balls best. "Heh-heh, he said balls . . ."
Here's a little-known fact: Japan has the coolest convenience stores in the world. Shelves brimming with colorful goods in irresistible packaging -- whimsical bags of candy in flavors like peach, yogurt and soda pop, a mind-boggling array of canned iced teas and energy drinks, fancy bottles of sake, pastel bottles of shampoo, and all the ingredients you'd need to make comfort foods like yakisoba (noodles) or tonkatsu (pork cutlet) -- they make shopping for necessities into a full-blown adventure.
Although we'll probably never stop wishing that Phoenix 7-Elevens were more like their Japanese counterparts, we're quite satisfied with Fujiya's Tokyo oasis in Tempe. It's not just the place to get our fix of ultra-minty, caffeinated Black Black chewing gum, squishy white bread in rectangular loaves, or mochi-covered ice cream. Around noontime, it's also a pit stop for freshly made -- and affordable -- sushi and boxed lunches. To scary mini-market nachos and withered hot dogs, we say, "Never again!"
If you've ever visited Japan or lived in a city with its own Japanese enclave, then you may be familiar with the delights of a Japanese bakery, wherein one can experience the uniquely Japanese take on certain Western baked goods as well as more traditional Japanese pan, or bread stuffed with any number of items. Arai Pastry is a perfect example of one of these, and is a terrific addition to the strip mall at the southeast corner of Priest and University in Tempe that also includes the Fujiya Market, the Japanese grocery store where you can rent a Japanese-language TV show on video while you're stocking up on sake. Arai mostly does takeout or pre-orders, but it does have a couple of tables where you can sit and drink espresso or iced coffee with your green-tea mousse or Japanese-style flan (more like a pudding than the Mexican cr'me caramel). Also for sale are loaves of Japanese bread (sliced extra-thick), crepes, clairs, cookies, cheesecakes, wedding and birthday cakes, an pan (a bun filled with sweet red beans), niki pan (filled with cooked pork), and UFOs, a pastry made of melon bread and filled with custard.
We called, we drove, we'd barely stopped the car when a cute guy with a big bag emerged from the back door of Bandera, and plunked an entire chicken in our laps. We love Bandera for the peanut coleslaw and the grilled artichokes, but mostly, we love the flying chicken park-and-pick-up system. Screw the Colonel. Pass the cornbread.
We can't help but hate Sofia Coppola. Not only is she one of the hottest young film directors around, she gets to date all the cool guys. And her dad is Francis Ford Coppola, which was neat to begin with, but then he started a winery, and that was nice, but now the coup de grâce: He's named a wine after her. And not just any wine, a sparkling wine (technically you can't call it Champagne, since it doesn't come from France, but still). The best part, for us (and let's be honest, isn't it always?), is the packaging. This wine comes in a bottle with pretty pink cellophane, but our favorite way to drink Sofia is in a can -- a raspberry pink can that comes complete with a bendable straw.
Ah, but we digress. We can't be Sofia Coppola (although we wonder what Spike Jonze is doing at the moment), but at least we can find her in a can, even in Phoenix.
Cost Plus may be a chain, but it's a chain worth celebrating. The store features cases of canned Sofia -- along with an admirable selection of "real" wine for those of us too shy to venture into a "real" wine shop. The cavernous place also features the best collection of baskets in town, gifts and great snack items.
Now you'll have to excuse us. We have a date with a copy of Lost in Translation and a case of Sofia.
Unbridled turophilia, otherwise known as the love of cheese, knows almost no bounds. There seems to be an endless line of cheeses, endless variations upon variations, thereby proving the truth of what writer and critic Clifton Fadiman said when he called cheese "milk's leap toward immortality." Milk is milk, and can't change much while still remaining so. Cheese, by comparison, is almost an open-ended concept, and yet we come in contact with so few types in our everyday grocery runs. Leave it to a public servant to give us a choice of an array of cheeses, everything from Spanish goat cheese and blue French fromage to English Cheddar and Humboldt Fog from California. The servant in question is state Senator Ken Cheuvront, whose wine and cheese bar gets our vote for the best cheese selection. With scores of gourmet Artisanal cheeses on offer and an equally impressive list of vino, Senator Cheuvront's nosherie is a significant contribution to the local restaurant scene. Long may you cut the cheese, Senator! And may you forever be known as Phoenix's King of Curds.
Guadalupe not only has the distinction of being Phoenix's smallest suburb, but it's also the East Valley's favorite barrio. Residents from Chandler and Tempe come to the town for its shops and restaurants -- or maybe just to see how the other half lives. In any case, one of the more popular destinations is this rustic produce depot, with its bountiful piles of fresh fruits and vegetables with choices ranging from the more vanilla standards of a one-stop harvest shop -- such as Granny Smith apples or golden peaches -- to more obscure selections, like yucca root. Suburbanite gringos arrive in their SUVs, clad in D-Backs wear, bragging on their cell phones about the great deals they're getting on the different kinds of chiles for sale -- from habaneros to serranos -- some of which are roasted outside in a rotating grill. Others inspect the crisp leaves of bunches of cilantro and organic herbs, looking for any sign of wilt or wither.
Frankly, at night this 'hood's not so safe. But in broad daylight, on any given weekend, it's only a threat to your local supermarket.
Pizza is not what it used to be. At least, not since pizza delivery chains introduced the conveyor oven, which may churn out more pizzas per hour than traditional pizza ovens, but reduces the quality of the pizza because of all the openings in the oven that prevent a good, even heat. We recommend you make it at home -- and we don't mean by opening the freezer. Get yourself a pizza stone, which will ensure even heating. And then get yourself over to Riccobono's Italian Bakery and pick up a batch of pizza dough. The Riccobonos, a Sicilian family from Brooklyn, prepare the dough every morning at their Chandler bakery, using a recipe that is a cross between New York-style pizza and pizza from the old country. Pick up a pound, about all you'll need to make a large pizza. You'll be so happy, you'll forget the number to Domino's. And you won't even mind doing the dishes.
Our hands are stained with the amazing flavor dust (well, that's what we call it, anyway) that the geniuses of this wonderful snack spot sprinkle all over their delicious popcorn. We can't stay away from Pass the Popcorn, where we buy a daily bag of zesty seasoned kernels and sometimes eat the whole thing for dinner. When we're not glomming on the amazing caramel corn, we're buying tins of cheese popcorn (they come in several sizes and holiday themes) and giving them as gifts. Even the plain popcorn is unlike anything we've had anywhere else -- crisp and buttery and oh-so-slightly salted. (Try it with one of Pass the Popcorn's yummy Madagascar Vanilla Icees. No, really!) Can't make up your mind? Start with our personal favorite, the Cheezy Caramel Corn, which combines all the best flavors perfected by these local popcorn purveyors.
There are thousands of low-carb products on the market, which is a good thing, because most of them taste horrible. If you're looking for a little something to go with that plate of bacon and eggs -- maybe a low-carb tortilla or some chocolate for dessert -- it's all trial and error, 'til you find something edible. That's why we're so happy to have the Low Carb Mall. We have to chuckle at the name. It's a little ambitious, but then again, this shop is the Metrocenter of Atkins-friendly foods. You'll find rows of Atkins products, along with just about everything else on the market -- low-carb brownies, pasta, spaghetti sauce, margarita mix, peanut brittle, Gummi Bears, even something called "popped cheese" -- as well as vitamin supplements, books and anything else you might need to do the protein thing.
Bon appètit! Just don't mind the after-taste.
A few years back, some New Ager ruined the simplicity of fruit and ice by calling it a smoothie and adding enough supplements to choke a steroid addict.
But at AJ's Scoops, the art of the smoothie is returned to its essentials. You tell the nice folks behind the counter what fruits you like, and they'll purèe fine specimens of those fruits into a delicious drink topped, if you so choose (and you should), with gourmet whipped cream. Don't mention protein or echinacea or fiber boosts. It's all femme Greek to them. Just the fruits, ma'am.
Then sit down in one of the plush leather chairs and stare out the large corner-store windows at the bustlings of Second Street and Washington -- one of the most cityscape-ish scenes in the Valley -- and celebrate the fact that you're supporting a small independent business.
If AJ's smoothies aren't health-supplemented enough for you, think of it this way: The place has the ambiance of an intimate little pub. You'd be smoking cigarettes and drinking Irish whiskey in a real pub. Instead, you're having fruit.
Isn't that enough health for one day?
These flowers won't wilt, but we can't guarantee they'll be around long. Cookies in Bloom will deliver your loved one a lovely bouquet of iced cookies for any occasion. We like to challenge the folks at this little shop to get really creative, and they never disappoint -- they can decorate a cookie with anything!
Cookie monsters, this bud's for you.
Many a wayward Gothamite has found himself or herself in the Valley thinking, "What the hell have I done?!" Sometimes you find them hyperventilating, in a state of shock that they can't find the Village Voice and the Daily News on every corner of P-town. There's even a special ward at the Mayo Clinic devoted to ex-New Yorkers who've never recovered. They lie around all day watching Seinfeld reruns with glazed eyes, muttering, "All I wanted was a matzo!" Poor sods. Someone should've told them about Chompie's. With locations in Tempe, Phoenix and Scottsdale, Chompie's is so close to the real deal, you'll think you hopped the F train to Kew Gardens. That's because these kosher-style delis are run by the family Borenstein, who themselves moved to the Valley from Queens back in the late '70s to establish an outpost of Gotham in the desert. Sure, they've got classic American and Italian fare, but we go for the bagels and bialys with a schmear, the kasha varnishkes and kreplach, the matzo ball soup and the brisket au jus, the stuffed cabbage and plates of pickles that come with each order. And if we're feeling especially sinful, we'll order a side of the chopped liver, the best in the Valley, which comes in ice-cream-like scoops and is so smooth and rich we think Ben & Jerry's should consider adding a pint of Chompie's chopped liver sorbet to its repertoire. So next time, if you see an expat New Yorker going into convulsions, send him to Chompie's. He'll survive.
Readers' Choice: Chompie's Deli
There are several competing stories as to where the first margarita was mixed and by whom, and Lord knows, we're not going to do a tango with that tar baby. Still, most folks can agree that the traditionally tequila-and-lime-based concoction has been around for more than half a century. So you can pretty much bet the hacienda on the fact that the initial margarita, despite its disputed origins, was not served frozen but rather on the rocks. There are plenty of purists who turn up their nostrils at these alcoholic Icees for just this reason. But we don't give a roadrunner's patootie about tradition. What we want from a margarita is salt, blended ice, a bowl-shaped glass big enough to eat Froot Loops out of, and enough tequila to subdue a snarling bobcat. That's why we pick Scottsdale's Salty Se--orita as the purveyor of the Valley's best margaritas. Not only do SS's margaritas meet all our basic criteria, they're like the Arnold Schwarzeneggers of Mexican cocktails, mocking those served elsewhere in the Valley as "girlie margaritas." The SS has 100 different brands of tequila to get you effed up on, and, as an added plus, on any given night of the week, the place is wall to wall with hot dudes and dudettes loudly pounding those jumbo, high-proof Slurpees like there's no tomorrow. Hey, what better way to hook up while downing your favorite, icy-cold beverage? Love or Cuervo, we don't care, as long as they're willing.
Readers' Choice: Z'Tejas Grill
You've probably heard many a Phoenician rave about Mariscos Ensenada's seafood pastas, like the bay scallops with cream chipotle sauce, or the prawns with spaghetti, olive oil, tomatoes and wine. Or maybe you've heard someone go on and on about Mariscos Ensenada's octopus, shrimp or sea snail tostadas. And some folks just can't shut up about the ceviche verde de camarn (shrimp marinated in a spicy green sauce) or the pescado relleno de jalba con crema (fish fillet stuffed with crab). But what rocks our boat at this no-frills mariscos is much simpler: the chips and salsa. We're not sure what's in that brown, peppery elixir, but it's just piquant enough to whet our palate for another frozen margarita without burning off the first layer of tongue. The chips themselves are fresh and not too salty, and just one dunk into that Mexican ambrosia is enough to give you a jolt. Really, now, how often does a salsa stick in your memory and make you want to slurp it like a high-octane smoothie? Okay, perhaps we're slightly obsessed, but that salsa freakin' rocks.
Lunchtime at La Tolteca is as busy as Van Buren gets -- during the day.
La Tolteca is a bright and cheery superstore, a bakery, restaurant, butcher shop and supermarket where you can buy tamarind candies, dried Jamaica flowers, beer, fresh cucumber juice and beef tongue. But the way La Tolteca is designed, it's the panaderia, or bakery section, that customers must file by first -- gleaming glass cases with pan dulce, multicolored cookies and fresh fruit, guava-filled empanadas, churros, plastic cups filled with tricolored flan, and La Tolteca's supreme delicacy, its tres leches cakes, creamy white sponge cake drenched in sweetened milk, fruit filling slathered between the thick layers, and topped with whipped cream. The tres leches cakes are available in individual slices, or in massive sheets the size of a boogie board.
Now, that gives new meaning to the phrase "sugar rush."
If you're craving a foodie fiesta, look no further than either of the Phoenix Ranch Markets. With myriad Mexican meals available from any of the varied food stations -- offering up everything from freshly made-right-in-front-of-you shrimp tacos to the hangover-curing menudo (on weekends) -- your taste buds will forgive you for all those trips to the Del Taco drive-through. In fact, visiting these enormous supermercados is a very sensual experience. Whether your eyes are accosted by the vibrant decor, or your ears are introduced to the lively salsa music blaring over the PA system, every sense gets a workout. While the proboscis will definitely get some action with all the aromas, see if it can also pick out the smell of love in the air, as the expansive carniceria isn't the only meat market on the premises. Duded-up caballeros flirt up a storm with gorgeous chicas near the canned goods, and a young couple nuzzles near the crowded cafeteria-style El Cocina. The place is pretty popular on the weekends among the Hispanic crowd and even takes on a discoteca-like feel (especially given the color scheme and soundtrack), and one mother is seen dancing down an aisle with her toddler. But that kind of responsibility comes much later in life, and any potentially amorous pair that hooks up here may want to head to the panaderia to pick out a wedding cake first.
In a place like Phoenix, where Spanish is the only language in some sections, there is no shortage of Mexican dives. But we suggest you try Birrieria El Gordo on 27th Avenue, about a block north of Indian School. The decor is sparse, and if your Spanish is rusty, you may have to get by with goofy white-boy sign language, but the tacos are delicioso, with tortillas made from scratch on site every day, and some of the best patrn, cabeza and barbacoa-style meat we've ever pushed past our lips. Don't forget to hit the sauce cart with its little limes, finely chopped cabbage and a half-dozen types of salsa. And they also make a great bowl of menudo on the weekends, if you happen to be hung over from too much tequila the night before.
The youngster's B-Day is drawing nigh and he's been clamoring for a fancy-pants piata, but no rainbow-colored donkey or bull will suffice this time around (especially after that Juicy Fruit commercial had him sleeping in your bed for weeks). He's already prepped a short list of the usual suspects -- Batman, Clifford, Yu-Gi-Oh!.
So you head to Sanchez & Sons Printing, where the kindly shopkeeper gives you the option of a custom-made creation or choosing from their vast selection of cartoon heroes. You consider an impressive Nemo-esque clownfish or a badass-looking Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, before settling on a SpongeBob effigy.
The good news: SpongeBob won't be around for long -- at least, not in his current form. The bad news: You'll be picking pieces of him off the lawn for months.
Ooo-wee! It is getting hot in here. Every weekend, the parking lot of this ritzy downtown Phoenix nightclub is packed with Hummers, lowriders and luxury sedans. There's a $10 cover most nights, a dress code (upscale casual -- no baggy pants, no athletic wear), and a security check at the door. The two dance floors stay shakin' until the wee hours of the morning, with Latin pop on the main dance floor and some serious salsa action in the back -- Saturdays, all the way 'til 4 a.m.
The Arizona State Fair comes and goes each October. How do the churro- and carnie-ride-obsessed deal with the next 50 or so weeks? A perfectly acceptable substitute is found at the Great Southwestern Swap Meet, a.k.a. El Gran Mercado. For the most part, the giant market is like the fair's commercial building gone Chicano, and the place certainly lives up to its name, with almost 1,400 vendors. You'll find joyerias and dulcerias next to booths selling used appliances. Several unisex salons style the locks of many of the folks who turn out every weekend to sell off their worldly possessions or dance to Tejano bands in the cavernous dance hall; some prefer singing karaoke en espaol in the courtyard next to one of El Gran Mercado's many eateries, or hanging out in the arcades with the pool-shooting teens.
It's a lively alternative to shifty hawkers of the midway or the has-beens performing in Veterans' Memorial Coliseum.
Ask a dozen folks where their favorite Mexican food is in town, and you'll get a dozen answers. Sometimes it's the place nearest to where you live or work. Or maybe it's the spot that makes chimichangas or flautas just the way you like them. It could even be the restaurant that has put a trendy, nuevo twist on old standards. Given this endless multiplicity of opinions, and the impassioned debates amongst foodies inspired as a result, we think picking the Best Mexican Restaurant in Phoenix should be as unifying as watching the Olympics, enjoying fireworks on the Fourth of July, or learning to loathe the sight of Paris Hilton on TV. That's why Los Dos Molinos gets our vote for the Best Mexican in the PHX. Take an out-of-towner to Tom Mix's old house down on South Central, fill him full of schooner-size margaritas while you await a table out on the patio, and then buy him a plate of enchiladas guaranteed to have his eyes watering like it's the last episode of Friends, and that hombre will be impressed. Even the seemingly endless drive to get there, and the très tacky interior, will feel like part of a noteworthy, purely P-town experience. Favorite Mexican eateries are as common as paloverdes, but Los Dos Molinos is something more -- a landmark, a shrine, a gaudy cathedral to culinary greatness. Long may she reign. Readers' Choice: Macayo's
Barrio Cafe may be the ultimate proof of the existence of karma. This slammin' little eatery on 16th Street has been hailed by all and sundry, from the New York Times and Food and Wine magazine to nearly every rag in P-town, save maybe for Erotica Phoenix. All Barrio needs now is for Yahweh to part the heavens and reenact his Sistine Chapel shtick with a nekkid chef Silvana Salcido Esparza playing Adam with tattoos and breasts. But, hey, we ain't here to playa-hate. Esparza and business partner Wendy Gruber have earned all the plaudits, huzzahs, kudos, laurels, and six-packs of Corona they can carry. Barrio's thing is authentic Mexican cuisine prepared with a gourmet flair, in sauces that are so good you'll want to smear them all over someone you love á la 9 1/2 Weeks. We're especially enamored of Barrio's black-as-night mole, and its "delicate" green tomatillo sauce, for which we're willing to offer up our first-born, if need be (whenever we get around to procreating). The interior is vibrant and fun, with decorative local art on the walls, and there's often live music on tap. And if you happen to see a bearded dude in a white robe and sandals, nose-deep in a queso fundido, that's Jehovah, yo. Told you this place is popular.
As the name implies, La Hacienda has the atmosphere of a traditional Mexican estate; the decor reminds us of Like Water for Chocolate. Roving musicians provide the background to a menu that reinvents classic Mexican cuisine. The appetizer menu includes a sampler plate, "antojitos mexicanos," which includes squash blossom quesadillas and crabmeat enchiladas, but do not miss La Hacienda's version of Puebla's chile en nogada -- ancho chile stuffed with roasted chicken and dried fruits, covered in pomegranate sauce. Notable entrees include quail stuffed with duck and rack of lamb encrusted with pumpkin seeds accented by blackened tomato chile jam.
Some traditions are even better reinvented.
A visit to Carolina's is nearly a religious experience, one that's catholic, with a little "c," meaning it's almost universal in its appeal. Park yourself in front of the main entrance to the dingy, warehouse-like structure with its school-cafeteria tables and chairs, and you'll see what we mean. Every sort of person, regardless of class or ethnicity, walks through those doors: a businessman in wrap-around sunglasses, and a construction worker on a lunch break; a pregnant woman by herself, and a student on his way home from school; the fat man with food on his shirt, and the primly dressed grandma back from a church social; a mother with an entire brood surrounding her, and an indigent fellow who's scraped enough together for a bite to eat. They all place their orders at the main counter surrounded by a garish red-and-white menu, take their numbers, and sit politely waiting to be called. It's an amazing cross section of humanity, mostly brought here by the same thing: Mama Carolina's tortillas. Maybe the fat guy wants a machaca with egg, or the pregnant lady, a green chile burrito. The student, a chicken enchilada, and the homeless man, a cheese tortilla. But they're almost all wrapped in or are accompanied by those magnificent flour tortillas, as light as air, slightly chewy, and somewhat smoky. They have corn tortillas, too, but it's those flour ones that we revere above all else. No wonder Carolina's sells thousands a day.
Some Mexican restaurants try to be so authentic in their decor, they neglect the food. Other Mexican restaurants prefer to let their food speak for itself. At Tepic Restaurant, which opened earlier this year at Phoenix's original Denny's restaurant on Van Buren Street, the authenticity is most notable in the restaurant's tacos. Juan Romero, who spent two decades working in the Valley's restaurant industry, named the joint after his hometown in the Mexican province of Nayarit, which lies on the western coast of Mexico, south of Sinaloa. Customers either sit at one of the booths or at the old-fashioned soda fountain counter that still separates the kitchen from the dining area. If it weren't for the salsa bar at the corner of the counter, you would think you'd wandered into an old American diner.
That is, until you try the tacos, which are served on a warm homemade tortilla and come in five variations: carne asada (grilled steak), pastor (roasted pork), lengua (beef tongue), buche (beef neck) and cabeza (beef head). A bite into Romero's tacos is not just a run for the border, but an excursion deep into his homeland.
The enchilada is a hard dish to nail. We've found our favorite at a restaurant owned by the multi-generational Reynoso clan, who hail from the Globe-Miami area and create their dishes using family recipes.
From the first bite, you experience the distinctively spicy yet smoky flavor of fire-roasted green chiles. The Reynosos don't skimp on the meat -- in this case, lean and flavorful beef, devoid of any grease or gristle.
If we didn't know better, we would have licked the plate clean and asked for a look-see at the family cookbook. Such is the burden of good manners and proper restaurant etiquette. You might handle the situation otherwise.
Hot dogs are as American as baseball and apple pie, but for many Mexicans, your typical stateside hot dog adorned with ketchup, mustard and relish is about as bland as a wet dachshund. Thankfully, we live in a border state where the Sonoran-style hot dog can be purchased at hot dog stands throughout the Valley. Wrapped in bacon and smothered with pinto beans, mayonnaise, jalape--o sauce, guacamole, grilled onions, pinto beans, chopped tomatoes and mushrooms (as well as mustard and ketchup if you wish), the Sonoran-style hot dog would make Dagwood Bumstead proud.
But at Nogales Hot Dogs, located at three stands throughout Phoenix, it won't give him heartburn. The secret, says owner Hernan Rivera, is that instead of dropping the bacon-wrapped hot dogs in a vat of hot grease, he wraps the dog in bacon and bakes the concoction until it is nice and crispy.
Oink!
When it comes to Mexican seafood cocktails, whether it's shrimp and octopus or shrimp and oysters, Serrano's beats the square pants off SpongeBob. This large, homey mariscos spot near 32nd Street and Shea may not be in the hippest neighborhood in the PHX, but you'll have a hard time finding its equal elsewhere in the Valley, unless it's the no-frills place that the Serrano family runs near 16th Street and Osborn. The seafood tostadas are big and heaping with the ocean critters of your choice, and the oysters are fat, flavorful, and fresh from the Gulf -- unlike the anemic bivalves one is often stuck with here in P-town. Another specialty is a whole mojarra (tilapia) served Veracruz-style in a tomato-and-onion sauce, with head and tail intact. Believe us when we tell you that when you're finished licking that fish, it'll look bonier than Mary-Kate Olsen's butt. Wash it all down with a michelada, a Clamato-based cocktail cut with Corona, and you'll be crooning like a mariachi in Mexico City, Jack.
Chef Stacy Phipps is the man when it comes to soul food in this town. Sure, there are a number of purveyors of Southern home cookin' in the PHX, but Phipps is the King of Collards, the Grand Pooh-Bah of Gizzards, the Prince of Pulled Pork, and the Supreme Sultan of Smothered Fried Chicken. Now, you could spend hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars on a culinary tour of the former Confederacy, but why waste the time and ducats when Stacy's on East Jefferson serves up a mess of vittles that'd put Andy Griffith's Aunt Bea to shame? Erstwhile Southerners can attest to the fact that Stacy's fried okra, frogs' legs, chicken fried steak and cornbread are the bomb, as is Stacy's sweet tea, which is so sweet it might double for Mrs. Butterworth's syrup on your pancakes. When it comes to deep-fried poultry, even Colonel Sanders would have to kowtow were he alive to sample Stacy's bird. And how can we forget Stacy's barbecue, catfish and peach cobbler? Why, if those folks at the Food Network had any brains, Stacy'd have his own TV show. But maybe that's not such a good idea. Then who'd fry us up a basket of chicken gizzards when we're hungry? Readers' Choice: Mrs. White's Golden Rule Cafe
If that ultimate stoner character Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High ever springs to life from your television set while you're peeping the DVD for the umpteenth time and asks you for directions to "some awesome sushi, mon," draw that young man a map to the Valley's Best New Restaurant, Blue Wasabi Sushi and Martini Bar, way up at DC Ranch. Not only does Blue Wasabi have blue wasabi (the miracle of food coloring, folks), and splendid signature martinis, like the lip-puckering, blueberry-flavored Berry White, or the Chocolate Twist, which tastes like a vodka-cr'me de cacao milk shake, there's also the sushi -- better than anything you'll get outside of Japan. Among Blue Wasabi's rolls of renown: the Surf and Turf, lobster and cucumber topped with seared beef tenderloin; the Killer Bee, a California roll topped with eel and mango; and our fave, the Spicoli, spicy octopus and barbecue Fritos topped with avocado. That Spicoli's so tasty, why, even Mr. Hand would enjoy noshing it. And what will Spicoli say? Probably, "bitchin' sushi, dude." Readers' Choice: Zoë's Kitchen
Dinner at Baby Kay's Cajun Kitchen makes us wanna bitch-slap Emeril Lagasse, it's so good. Of course, we never were crazy about that lame-ass honky and his brainwashed studio audience, which cheers every time the New Orleans-based chef yells "Bam!" and adds salt to a pot roast. Why, the guy's actually from MASSACHUSETTS, people! And he must shave between his eyebrows to keep them from growing together. Anyway, when we want real Cajun cuisine, we don't watch the frickin' Food Network; we mosey on down to Baby Kay's Cajun Kitchen, where we can eat the real deal: shrimp rmoulade, Louisiana crab cakes, red beans and rice, jambalaya with andouille sausage, and our fave, the spicy-as-all-get-out boudin, a fried Cajun sausage stuffed with pork and rice that's served with Baby Kay's apricot-pepper jelly. Baby Kay's got po'boys, too, as well as bowls of gumbo, catfish with crawfish sauce, and some of the best garlic bread we've ever tasted. But that boudin is what we dream about at night. Well, that and Emeril choking on his own touffe.
You can hardly throw a rock without hitting an Eye-tie eatery in the Valley. But very few have what it takes to earn our loyalty. This is especially true of upscale Italian places where you might have to part with your Roth IRA to pay for some watered-down minestrone, a bowl of calamari, and a plate of pasta with a meat sauce that Ragú could beat. That's not the case at one of the few upscale Italian restaurants that enjoys our regular patronage, Daniel's. Of course, you might have to hock your Rolex to eat here, even if you get to keep your IRA. But believe us, Daniel's is worth every penny. The menu is exquisite, with such saliva-inducing offerings as wild mushroom ravioli in a butter-herb sauce with fresh blueberries, and oven-braised Long Island duck, served with a rice/black-truffle croquette that'll curl your toes with ecstasy. Why, if we had enough dolo, we'd eat here every night. Maybe we'll cash out that IRA after all, eh? Readers' Choice: Tomaso's
Do not fear the tomato. The tomato is your friend. That's what we'd like to tell most Italian joints in Greater P-town. See, for their chefs, spaghetti and meatballs has become one of those quaint dishes of yesteryear, like baked Alaska and beef Wellington, that they've completely forgotten how to make. Judge them by what they serve up, when they bother to serve it up: chewy pasta, a meager amount of marinara, and meatballs like rocks. In fact, this situation is so bad in town that we have to hightail it to Fountain Hills for the best neighborhood Italian food in Maricopa County. At least Redendo's Pizzeria and Pasta makes it worth the drive. This spot serves Brooklyn-quality pizza and pasta in an environment that makes you feel like you dropped through the proverbial rabbit hole into 1940s America, with reproductions of anti-Hitler propaganda, World Series posters, and black-and-white photos of WWII fighter planes. But the best thing about Redendo's is the spaghetti and meatballs, with plenty of great-tasting marinara and pasta, and fat, tender meatballs that are unmatched in the Valley. For those whose neighborhood includes Redendo's, lucky you. Readers' Choice: Oregano's Pizza Bistro
Yes, there are other German pubs in the Valley, but none matches the cuckoo-clock-like quaintness of Haus Murphy's interior, with its German banners, portraits of King Ludwig II, embroidered tablecloths, lederhosen hung from the rafters, and that bewitching, mirror-backed bar from the set of the 1985 James Garner-Sally Field film Murphy's Romance. Barmaids in dirndls bring you 32-ounce schooners of dark, German dunkel, and some old dude who looks like an extra from The Sound of Music plays oompah classics on his accordion. The cuisine is equal to the environs, with every sort of schnitzel under the sun, including Wiener schnitzel, jager schnitzel, Balkan schnitzel, and so on. And the sausages? Wunderbar, liebling. Knackwurst, bratwurst and krakauer wurst, to name a few. In the back are two huge biergartens, and yes, there are a number of German brews on tap. Altogether, it's a tall order for any other German eatery to beat, but until one does, or until HM falls off its game, it owns this spot, pops. Readers' Choice: German Corner
Was it the pan-seared foie gras that won our hearts? The pâtè du chef infused with Madeira, cognac and essence of white truffle? Or those divine lamb chops with the pistachio-sage crust? Sure, Sophie's has ambiance aplenty, set as it is in a cozy little cottage, with hardwood floors, roughhewn wooden beams holding up the ceiling, and tasteful abstract prints hung on the cream-colored walls. And, of course, the service is nonpareil. But it's owner Serge Boukatch's classic French bistro cuisine that makes us swoon: duck breast sauted with Kirschwasser, salmon roasted in Cointreau and topped with grapefruit, escargot prepared traditionally in a bath of garlic butter, and so on. Jazz piano provides the soundtrack to our love affair with Boukatch's menu. And afterward, despite the thousands of calories inhaled, we'll sing, like Edith Piaf did in her day, Non, je ne regrette rien . . . Readers' Choice: Vincent on Camelback
Slow foodies go gaga over this Martha Stewart-esque eatery with its reliance on mostly organic produce and meat, its soft, fruity bread baked every day on the premises, and a menu that changes with the seasons. They swoon over the fried, panko-breaded olives stuffed with feta, or the warm peach and prosciutto salad tossed with baby arugula. And they're practically willing to give up their wallets for a bowl of house-made pasta or a pork chop from a pig lovingly raised in organic mud and spoon-fed heirloom veggies until it croaks from overindulgence. Okay, we admit, that part about the porker is a bit of an exaggeration, but Ruby Beet is the real deal when it comes to new American cuisine and slow food, which is why it wins kudos from us. All praise is due chef proprietor Karen Dawson, who's turned the elegant, picturesque Silva House in Heritage Square into ground zero for some innovative culinary fireworks. Now if we could only convince Ruby Beet to take in boarders, our retirement plans would be set.
Don't forget your bankroll when you waltz into Drinkwater's City Hall. This plush, ritzy chophouse/nightclub caters to Scottsdale's nouveau riche and those just passing through, like professional athletes and celebs for whom dropping $39 on a steak is nothing. Thing is, like the man said, you get what you pay for, and consequently the rich really do eat better than the rest of us. At Drinkwater's, the beef is thicker and tastier, the shrimp in the shrimp cocktail could choke a stallion, ditto on the size of the desserts, and the service will make you feel like the Shah of Iran in his heyday. All this in a red, black and gray dining room with stylish sheets of swirled glass paneling hanging from the ceiling, and a sound system so crystal-clear you'll swear the music's live, even when it's not. It's almost enough to make us consider voting Republican, as long as we get to dine like the fat cats at City Hall on a regular basis. Readers' Choice: Ruth's Chris Steak House
Color scheme is not the Gourmet House of Hong Kong's strong suit: The exterior is the color of aqua-blue taffy; the interior, a sickly Pepto-Bismol pink with a dismal, though clean, gray tile flooring. The furnishings? Round tables and plain, armless chairs, with the occasional generic Chinese-style painting of a pool of fish. The ceiling is best left unremarked upon, save to say that looking at it will do nothing for your appetite. And yet, if you are familiar with Chinatowns in NYC and elsewhere, you'll know that the best Cantonese food in the world comes from just such eateries with hundreds of items on their menus -- pagodas of gastronomic greatness that operate in Cantonese and English, with the day's specials inevitably posted on the walls. Gourmet House of Hong Kong is one of these, albeit near 16th Street and McDowell here in P-town, rather than near Gotham's Mott and Canal. You can get everything from shark-fin soup and Peking duck with pancakes to five-flavor frogs' legs and soup with chunks of thousand-year-old egg. The bill of fare's nearly as lengthy as the Great Wall! PHX may lack a true Chinatown, but as long as chef/proprietor Michael Leung's GHHK is open for business, we've got the next best thing. Readers' Choice: P.F. Chang's China Bistro
This may be terrible to say, but now that Dr. Atkins is fertilizer, we can finally eat like human beings again, and that means the regular consumption of starch, especially as prepared by Cherryblossom Noodle Cafe. Of course, Cherryblossom does serve some items the late diet maven might have allowed, such as whole baby calamari in anchovy tomato sauce, crunchy Cajun shrimp with the heads intact, and sushi or sashimi as appetizers. But ol' Atkins' version of hell is heaven for the rest of us: spicy curry beef linguini; fresh squid and spicy cod roe atop spaghetti; Korean sirloin slices stir-fried with egg-white noodles with enough chile paste to fuel a Hummer for a month; and various types of yaki udon (thick fried noodles) and yakisoba (thinner, fried noodles). When you wipe your lips, wish Atkins well in the afterlife, 'cause it's a sure bet he'll be jealous as heck of your visit to Cherryblossom. Readers' Choice: RA Sushi Bar Restaurant
With Pho Bang being a perennial winner in this category, you might get the impression that there are no other Vietnamese joints in the Valley. Wrong again, beef-ball breath! There are actually Viet eats aplenty to be found throughout greater PHX, but Pho Bang overwhelms the competition with a massive menu and the most consistent and authentic Southeast Asian foodstuffs on offer. Let's be honest, though. Folks ain't going there for the interior decoration, which could easily double for a Vietnamese bingo hall: plain tables and chairs, beer ad posters, and the occasional, extra-crusty Best Of award from years past. It's the cheap, kick-ass bowls of pho, the jumbo shrimp spring rolls, and the crisp, crunchy egg rolls that draw diners like paparazzi to a Michael Jackson court appearance. And as far as celeb endorsements go, there's William Hung, who, unbeknownst to the judges on American Idol, was actually singing "She Pho Bang" during his tryout. Great product placement, guys! Readers' Choice: Cyclo
Okay, so maybe it's not the most healthful food on the face of the planet, we think as we espy the opened can of Crisco sitting in the Fry Bread House's kitchen, but then it's not exactly as if Popeye's or Taco Bell serves diet food. Anyway, we'll put FBH's palate-pleasing puffs of flour, salt and shortening up against any fast food, anywhere, any time. Not only is FBH's fry bread outstanding when topped with honey and powdered sugar, but it can make for a hearty, rib-sticking meal when paired with beef stew or when used as a taco with chorizo, beans and lettuce. So why aren't there scores of Fry Bread Houses across the Southwest, and perhaps, even, the nation or beyond? If there are any aspiring Donald Trumps out there with the means to make it happen, what are you waiting for? Get on the stick so that by this time next year, Tokyo will be opening its own FBH and the Japanese can at last enjoy the culinary delights of fried dough. Then after Japan, it's on to China, India, and finally, world domination . . .
For Thai purists, there's no better place for Siamese cuisine than Thai Rama, which has resisted the mainstreaming of Thai food that some places have championed. Nothing wrong with experimentation, of course, but we like our Thai restaurants to be an echo of old Bangkok, with Thai embroidery on the walls and classic dishes that taste the way Thai Rama makes them, such as pad Thai, chicken satay, and red, green or yellow curry. The Thai iced tea with cream is exquisite, and while you sip it, you can peruse an extensive menu of entrees and appetizers unrivaled in the Valley. The angel wings -- chicken wings stuffed with pork and slathered with chili sauce -- are as good as anything you'll be served in L.A., the cashew duck will have you quacking with delight, and the kaeng kung, or shrimp curry with coconut milk and bamboo shoots, will have you singing "I'm the King of Siam," ˆ la Yul Brynner. As for Thai Rama's coconut ice cream, it's thicker and sweeter than Hollywood cutie Lindsay Lohan in a tank top, albeit with slightly smaller scoops. Readers' Choice: Malee's on Main
Psst. Hey, buddy, smell our hands. No, it's nothing gross, we promise. Just take a whiff. Know what that tantalizing fragrance is? That's the smell of Korean barbecue, and if there was a way to bottle it, we'd rub ourselves down in it from head to toe, but Chanel is still working out the kinks in its Eau de Beef cologne. So until they get that down pat, we'll just stick to our favorite Korean barbecue restaurant, Tempe's Seoul Garden. Seoul Garden was formerly known as Korean Garden, an establishment that had been in business for more than a decade. Then owner Sarah Kang came along and, with the help of her sis Missy, revitalized the food and the service to such a degree that it's now our favorite place to partake of Korean barbecue. That's where you grill a big platter of marinated meat, whether it be bulgogi beef, chicken, pork, or something slightly more exotic, like pork tongue. Once the animal flesh of your choice is properly grilled, you wrap it in a lettuce leaf, add some rice, kimchee, or any of eight or nine pickled sides, pop it in your kisser and wash it down with generous amounts of Korean OB beer. There are lots of other items on the menu: savory Korean seafood pancakes; dumplings, steamed or fried; or bi-bim-bap, veggies, rice, beef and eggs in a bowl. But only with the barbecue do you get your hands to smell like freshly seared beef. That's our idea of heaven. Readers' Choice: Seoul Garden Korean BBQ Restaurant
Longtime fixtures on the Phoenix culinary scene, Tom and Chrysa Kaufman have created a low-key restaurant that winks at Western kitsch. From the Mexican kitchen altar to the Lon Megargee prints on the wall, the art is nearly as sly as the gourmet dishes posing as comfort food.
So just what the hell is "authentic Arizona" cuisine? Roasted javelina with a prickly pear salad and a side of chopped roadrunner liver? Hmm, come to think of it, that doesn't sound half bad. But until some gifted chef realizes our twisted culinary vision, we'll stick to Scottsdale's Pinnacle Peak Patio, which serves porterhouse steaks you can use as doorstops and bowls of cowboy beans that call to mind that infamous campfire scene from Mel Brooks' Blazing Saddles. (For those of you who haven't seen it, think "musical fruit.") The remainder of the menu you could fit on a napkin: burgers, ribs, corn on the cob, and a slice of apple pie á la mode for dessert. The ambiance is, well, rustic, with sawdust on the floor, red-and-white-checked cloths on the picnic tables, wooden benches instead of chairs, and old-fashioned kerosene lamps made of pewter. The only modern decor hangs from the roof beams -- a field of neckties cut from the collars of any who dare defy the management's long-standing No Necktie Policy. Since it opened in 1957, the Triple-P has hosted stars such as Joan Crawford, Jane Russell, Paul Newman, George C. Scott, and our favorite, Wayne Newton, as well as tons of ordinary folks hungry for a taste of the Old West. But would it kill 'em to put a little javelina jerky on the menu? Sheesh.
Would you like to be under the sea, in an octopus' garden, in the shade? All apologies to Ringo, but that's the first thing that comes to mind upon descending two floors into the ground to the nautical-themed, wood-paneled dining rooms of Scottsdale's renowned Salt Cellar Restaurant. Well, it's either that, or the last time we watched Sealab 2021. There's something about taking a meal in this odd, partly subterranean structure that's akin to supping with Doc and Captain Stubing on the Love Boat. But the Salt Cellar isn't all atmosphere. Au contraire, this is the premier seafood spot in the Valley, with everything from Alaskan king crab and turtle soup to Maine lobster and blue marlin, all flown in daily from around the world and so fresh you can almost smell the spray of salt air as your waiter brings you your order. Moreover, the interior is elegance defined, with white linen, candlelit tables and spotless silverware, and the service is superb. What else could you ask for in a seafood place? Well, a half-hour back rub from the manager would be nice, but we're not holding our breath. Readers' Choice: Salt Cellar Restaurant
The Welcome Diner is such a quaint little place, painted white with red trim on the outside, that it looks like Matchbox made it and you could pretty much pick it up and stick it in your pocket if you wanted. The interior is essentially a short-order kitchenette and a red counter surrounded by nine -- count 'em, nine -- blue stools in a space that's so tiny we have to grease our love handles with lard to get to the stool in the far back. Well, people were a lot thinner back when this lovingly restored 1930s eatery was in use. (They didn't call it the Great Depression for nothing, boyo.) And it's worth greasing our pear-shaped hips for one of chef Peter Deyo's egg sandwiches, hot dogs, burgers or BLTs. For dessert, his deep-fried fritters are a must, but with all that powdered sugar on top of them, just how the heck do you expect us to squeeze out of that dainty diner? Pork fat can only do so much, people. Guess that's why the W.D. has a to-go window, huh?
When we're not at home watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force with a bong full of Humboldt County's finest, you'll find us in Tempe enjoying a chronic blunt at Cheba Hut Toasted Subs. See, Cheba Hut calls its sub sizes nugs (4-inch), pinners (8-inch) and blunts (12-inch), and "chronic" is the name for a barbecued-beef sub. Thus to the staff of Cheba Hut, a "chronic blunt" is something you masticate rather than inhale. Other smokin' sandwiches include Jamaican red (spicy grilled chicken), magic mushrooms (portabella mushrooms with Monterey Jack cheese), and Dr. Dre's fave, the Endo (essentially, a classic Reuben). A case of the munchies can also be addressed with Cheba Hut's homemade Rice Krispies bars, or the deliciously moist hemp brownies, the hemp part essentially consisting of seeds sprinkled on top. Cheba's motto is, "Where the only thing fried is the occasional customer." So, not surprisingly, the walls are decorated with plenty of pothead memorabilia such as giant (and, alas, fake) spliffs, Grateful Dead posters and the like. One wonders who Cheba Hut's celebrity spokesperson should be. Woody Harrelson? Whitney Houston? Snoop Dogg? Our pick: Towelie from South Park, who's always saying, "Anybody wanna get high?"
Though there are a number of great Mediterranean restaurants in the Valley, sometimes you have to give it up for the newbie, and that's the way we feel about Efes Turkish Cuisine in Tempe, which has been open for less than a year. Efes is Turkish for Ephesus, that ancient city of Roman ruins and Christian shrines, and the name evokes the mystery of foreign lands, as does Efes' traditional Turkish decor, its colorful rugs and pillows, and its good-luck charms to ward off evil, shaped like large, blue eyes. The menu is equally enchanting, with spiced and marinated chicken and lamb kebabs that are juicy and savory, and stuffed grape leaves that are as plump as Cuban cigars.
True to the Turkish palate, Efes offers about a half-dozen ways of eating eggplant, perhaps the most delightful being the imam bayildi, or baby eggplants filled with tomato, onion and peppers. The arnavut ciger, a dish of seasoned, fried cubes of calf liver, is outstanding, as is the very non-Turkish cheesecake, made extra-fluffy by the addition of ricotta, and flavored with a touch of lemon, orange and vanilla.
If we never make it to Istanbul, at the very least, we'll always have Efes. Readers' Choice: Taste of Mediterranean Restaurant
The best Indian restaurants not only serve fantastic Indian cuisine, but they transport you for an hour or two to some mythical Delhi or Bombay that you may otherwise only experience in films or picture books. Royal Taj facilitates this flight of fancy for us with its elegant furnishings, its tchotchkes from the Subcontinent, and its Saturday nights featuring live Indian music and dance. Indian patrons often arrive in colorful saris, adding an additional touch of authenticity. And then there's the food itself, which is nothing less than excellent: crispy samosas filled with veggies or meat; mulligatawny soup, that fave of the Anglo-Indian upper class; a tandoori mixed grill, or any number of curries and masalas available; spicy kormas and vindaloos with lamb, chicken or both; and those splendid biryanis, the Indian equivalent of fried rice, with a mixture of lamb, chicken, nuts and raisins. Royal Taj offers a full bar, and doting service from its personnel. It's been in that same far corner of that same little shopping center since 1992, but new ownership has reinvigorated this establishment and made it shine like a pearl from the Bay of Bengal. Readers' Choice: Indian Delhi Palace
We may be as agnostic as an ACLU weenie roast, but we have to give it up to that big beatnik in the sky and say a collective "God bless you" to Lo-Lo's Chicken and Waffles, the best thing to hit Phoenix since our pioneer forebears gave up eating beans seven days a week. Lo-Lo's is actually a riff off Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles in L.A., made famous by Quentin Tarantino's Jackie Brown, but that's okay. Roscoe's is a riff off the chicken-and-waffles combo that Wells Restaurant in Harlem made popular during the Harlem Renaissance. Larry White, grandson of Elizabeth White of the venerable Mrs. White's Golden Rule Cafe, is the fella responsible for bringing the bird-and-battercake concept to P-town, and as a result, he's the fella responsible for the fact that our britches no longer fit. Of course, Lo-Lo's also serves slightly less decadent fare, like salmon croquettes, chicken omelets, catfish, and red velvet cake for dessert (well, that might be equally decadent). But let's be honest, the reason we hoof it down to Central and Yuma is to pour syrup all over our waffles and fried fowl and dig in. Of course, we'll probably stroke out one of these days after doing so, but at least we'll die happy, people.
If you've never had fried okra before, you're in for a true, Southern-styled treat, especially if you stop by Lil' Mama's Soul Cafe. The green, pod-like plant is believed to have originated in Africa, and was first brought to the American South by slaves, who also introduced the word "gumbo," the stew-like okra-laden dish with which it's associated. When boiled, okra is as viscous and slimy as a TV evangelist on the make, but when cut up and fried, okra is sweet and delicious, one of the South's great gifts to American cooking. Now, we've eaten a lot of okra in our time, and we've sampled the okra at every soul food spot in the Valley, but the best fried okra to be found, by far, is at Lil' Mama's Soul Cafe. At Lil' Mama's there's no attempt at making fried okra healthful. Here, it's brownish, crusty and a tad on the greasy side. Lil' Mama's also prepares a mean plate of catfish, some truly inspired fried chicken, and desserts such as 7UP cake and blueberry cobbler. But just give us a huge bowl of that fried okra, a case of Mountain Dew, and the first season of The Dukes of Hazzard on DVD, and we'll be as happy as Kirstie Alley with a bucket of KFC, people.
Now pay attention, biahtch, we're only going to explain this once. We know you just got finished watching Troy, with all that business about Greeks bearing gifts, yadda-yadda-yadda. But there's one Greek present you can enjoy without opening it, and it doesn't look anything like a wooden horse. Stumped, oh ye of little gray matter? We're talking about stuffed grape leaves, or dolmades as they're known to your intellectual superiors. Actually, dolmades comes from an Arabic word meaning "something stuffed," and they're common throughout the Mediterranean region. But the best dolmades we've ever had were served to us by chef/owner George Vassilou at his lovely Greektown Restaurant on North Seventh Street. Vassilou's dolmades are served warm, in a rich avgolemono sauce made from chicken broth, lemon juice and egg yolks. And he prepares each one just like his mom did, filling the grape leaves with a mixture of ground meats, rice and herbs. Everything on Vassilou's menu is first-rate, but his dolmades are practically Olympian, baby. If the Greeks had offered up these to the Trojans back in the day, both sides could have avoided 10 years of fighting and gotten down to some serious peacetime eatin'.
Okay, we'll come clean. We'd kiss Robert McGrath's stinkiest pair of cowboy boots for one of those little cast-iron pots of green chile pork stew that he serves at his Southwestern-styled Roaring Fork restaurant. And dagnabbit, you may feel the same after a visit to one of the best restaurants in the Valley for a bowl of this desert ambrosia with a side of flour tortillas. Actually, screw the tortillas, all we want is the stew, hoss, with its generous chunks of pork, and its New Mexico chiles, hominy, poblano, and loads of butter. Old-school foodies may balk at us referring to anything with pork as "chili," but the concept is the same, and one spoonful of this stuff will make you forget all about semantics. McGrath is an example of one Valley chef for whom all of his plaudits are deserved, so we bow down to him, Wayne's World-style, and cry, "We are not worthy!" And of course we will, as promised, kiss his freakin' boots. But please, not while we're eating. Readers' Choice: Wendy's
Chef Georges Venezia of Scottsdale's Mes Amis Bistro and Bar whips up a mess of Provenal-style frogs' legs that would turn Kermit into a cannibal. According to Venezia, the frogs' legs were added only after a regular customer began to ask for them. So Venezia, who hails from Nice, began to prepare them as they do in southern France, in a sauce of white wine, butter, garlic, tomatoes and Pernod. Very quickly, Venezia's frogs' legs began to sell out every night he offered them as a special, so he did the wise thing and added them as a permanent part of the menu. Do they taste like chicken? Yes and no. They taste more like a cross between chicken and something aquatic, with a sweetness to the meat no doubt enhanced by the Pernod.
Roaring Fork chef Robert McGrath has achieved something we didn't think possible, something long sought after by cooks high and low, the Holy Grail of American grilling, if you will. That is, he's built a better burger. That's a 12-ounce Big Ass Burger, to be exact, one that you can only enjoy during dinner hours in the saloon area of his popular Scottsdale restaurant. We know what you're thinking: All hamburgers are pretty much alike. And so we thought until we saddled up to the bar at McGrath's Southwestern-themed establishment, and bit into that ground hunk of primo cow flesh, topped with roasted green chiles, longhorn cheese, grilled onion and bacon. Eaten medium rare, with a glass of Pinot Noir as accompaniment, there's no better way to massage the pleasure centers of your brain, unless of course you happen to have a bikini-less Lindsay Lohan waiting for you in a Jacuzzi somewhere (or a Speedo-less Jake Gyllenhaal, depending on your preference). In which case, we strongly suggest that you eat McGrath's piéce de rèsistance as quickly as possible. Readers' Choice: Fuddrucker's
Back in our college days, we hung with the vegan crowd for so long that those damn hippies finally persuaded us to disavow our flesh-eating ways. Eventually, we came to our senses and sold out around the time that one bumper sticker ("If we aren't supposed to eat animals, why are they made of meat?") started making sense -- or maybe it was because Jack in the Box introduced the Ultimate Cheeseburger. Regardless, we're no longer welcomed in PETA, but the peeps at Pita Jungle will still take us in, and we can't wait for our next veggie burger.
Served between two slices of seven-grain bread, the patty is a delectable hodgepodge of soy, sesame bits, and vegetable products that beats Boca Burgers any day of the week. The patty's buried under mounds of chopped romaine lettuce, red onions, sliced roma tomatoes, alfalfa sprouts and a large slice of fire-roasted sweet red bell pepper. A side of tahini is included, thus reducing the potential for a mushy sandwich meltdown.
Whether you like PETA or pita -- or both -- you'll love Pita Jungle's veggie burger.
Fries are one of those sides we all tend to take for granted, and maybe that's why they're usually so forgettable. After all, when's the last time you had memorable pommes frites, people? Well, we don't know about you, but the last time we had an unforgettable frittered tuber was at Blac-a-Zoli Grill, a swankish little Eye-tie joint over on Seventh Street, right across from Hamburger Mary's. At BZ, we're talking about steak fries, thick and hearty, made in house, not from frozen, and, most important, not overfried so you can't even taste the potato like so many other establishments seem prone to doing. Rather, BZ's steak fries are lightly fried, and the perfect accompaniment to the steak of choice, an eight-ounce filet mignon in a citrus red wine reduction that tastes like Merlot syrup, if there were such a thing. Swirl those steak fries around in that sauce, bub, and you'll find out what paradise is (or should be) all about. Kill it with a frosty mug of Stella Artois on tap, and call it a day, week, and year. Unless, of course, you're like us, and make steak-fry noshin' at BZ's a regular gustatory event.
Wally's promotes a blue plate special nightly that evokes home cooking (provided one of your parents could actually cook). From spaghetti and meatballs to pot roast, each dish is the real McCoy. As you tuck it away, you can't help wondering: Whatever happened to make this kind of food vanish from local menus? Unlike at home, there is a good wine selection by the glass. The atmosphere is so casual that you almost don't notice that Wally himself is always present pressing his relentless vigilance of the details. That's one reason his neighborhood joint hangs with the big dogs.
Culinary bad boy Chris Bianco is best known for his pizzas, but it's Bianco's other stab at digestive glory that garners our garlands: Pane Bianco, Bianco's sandwich shop next to the cooler-than-thou Lux Coffeebar. Bianco's panini don't taste overly sooty, a nice trick since they are house-made in a wood-fueled oven. The finished product makes for the perfect lunch when you have to go back to work and don't want to feel too heavy. The offerings are limited to three or four sandwiches and a couple of salads, all using superior ingredients such as roasted peppers, aged provolone and fresh mozzarella. The menu changes with the seasons, but the hours usually remain the same: 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. Tuesdays through Saturdays. We'd love to find the place open more often, and it's tough luck when you visit on a rainy day, as Bianco only offers outdoor seating, but in the case of Pane Bianco, excellence deserves some leeway, and we're more than happy to grant it.
"Best Gourmet Pizza" is a spurious epithet as applied to Patsy Grimaldi's in Scottsdale, as the phrase "gourmet pizza" connotes pizza eaten with pinkie raised, the consumer smug in the knowledge that he or she has chosen the snootiest slice to be had. But there's nothing effete about Grimaldi's coal-fired pies, crafted with house-made mozzarella, sweet tomato sauce, and any of a number of traditional toppings, such as pepperoni, ham, black olives and mushrooms. No, there's no barbecued chicken, fennel sausage, or Arizona pistachios -- none of that frou-frou stuff that the Sex and the City crowd adores. Rather, what you get at Grimaldi's is the sort of pizza Ol' Blue Eyes was proud to push into his pie-hole when he was a regular customer of the Gotham branch. The crust is thin and slightly crisp, singed by the colossal coal ovens, and nothing short of magnìfico. Moreover, the atmosphere is old-school, N.Y. Italian, with red-and-white-checked tablecloths and Dean Martin croonin' on the box. "Best Gourmet Pizza"? Let's just say Grimaldi's has the "Best Frickin' Pizza," and leave it at that. Readers' Choice: Oregano's Pizza Bistro
Shut up and eat. That's the motto of Valley pie shop Slices, which has two locations, one in Scottsdale and one in Tempe, and we'll be damned if we couldn't say it any better ourselves. Atmosphere, shmatmosphere. This place is all about the pizza-by-the-slice, hence the name, Matlock. So expect nothing more ambiance-wise than stools, paper plates, and a TV set tuned to ESPN. Further, there's no wood-fired, coal-fired, or any other kind of fired oven. It's a regular gas deck oven that produces the best slices in the Valley, such as the baked eggplant with roasted red pepper, or the four-cheese "white" with garlic and sliced tomatoes. And that's gotta make you wonder -- maybe all that crap about what kind of oven you use is BS. After all, Slices' slices melt on your tonsils like they were some doughy form of Breyer's, so even if they were cookin' up those savory triangles in an Easy-Bake Oven, what's the big deal? Isn't it all about how the pizza tastes? Here, the ends most certainly justify the means, and all for $2 to $2.50 a slice. Readers' Choice: Slices
Greens are to soul food what tomatoes are to Italian cuisine: a culinary sine qua non. Indeed, every soul food place in existence has its take on this Southern-born side dish, sometimes just using collards and sometimes mixing them with other leafy greens, such as kale, turnip, and/or mustard greens. Our complaint regarding those served at many soul food joints in the Valley is the over-use of salt, which overpowers the savory taste of this boiled vegetation, and kills any delight to be had from the "pot likker," the juice resulting from stewing the greens with a bit of ham added for flavor. Mrs. White's doesn't make this mistake. Its mixture of collards and mustard greens is absent excess sodium, and thus is the perfect accompaniment to its golden yellow cornbread, which crumbles so effortlessly over the pot likker remnants. It's difficult to overestimate the importance of a good mess of greens. For soul food aficionados, it's the one item sure to draw you back to an eatery, over and over again. And it's one of the many reasons we love Mrs. White's. Other soul food purveyors should pay heed! Spare our high blood pressure and ease up on yon salt shaker. Try Mrs. White's, then go and do likewise, ladies and gents. Readers' Choice: Souper Salad
As repulsive as it initially sounds -- dipping corn chips into a thick glob of peanut sauce one step away from Jif -- the taste of Plaid's Thai sauce is irresistible. The "Thai" part of the moniker is a little misleading. At least, we've never had a peanut dipping sauce with any satay in any Thai restaurant that was quite this glutinous, nor quite this spicy, either. It's almost as if the cook mixed a bottle of Sriracha with a jar of Skippy and stuck it in a bowl to accompany the chips. But even if the recipe were so simple, would it detract from the sheer genius of it all? The cross-cultural creativity of combining American, Thai and Mexican elements into a side nosh that most likely has more fat than Star Jones' booty and more calories than China has chopsticks? Yes, Plaid offers an extensive menu of salads, sandwiches and Indian-inspired entrees, but only the chips with Thai dipping sauce rises to the level of culinary greatness, elevating the lowly peanut to undreamt-of heights! And for this we say, "Bravo, Plaid!"
Oh, how we adore aubergines, whether in eggplant Parmesan or in that Mediterranean eggplant dip known as baba ghanouj -- but in a cheesecake? Actually, it's not so odd, as a cheesecake can be either sweet or savory, and the eggplant cheesecake served at Zest is an example of the latter. The creation of chef/co-owner Rich Rathert, who has run restaurants in Colorado and the Virgin Islands as well as here in the Valley, it's a creamy concoction of roasted eggplant mashed into a bowl of cream cheese, eggs and so on, with the resulting "cake" bathed in a roasted tomato-eggplant-balsamic vinaigrette sauce. It makes an outstanding appetizer for this quaint new eatery just north of Indian School Road, and if Rathert could figure out a way to make one the size of Tempe Town Lake, we'd be more than delighted to wade right in, face-first. Yum.
All apologies to fans of the late ventriloquist Shari Lewis, but we love lamb chops, and not while they're still on the lamb. A lot of places in town make great lamb chops, but these days, you practically have to beg your server to bring you a side of mint jelly when you order them. Or you might have to sneak in your own. But at Richardson Browne's swanky new surf and turf spot Rokerij, no such subterfuge is required. Rokerij's lamb chops come smothered in a glaze of mint jelly sauce, and devouring that tender meat, you realize that mint and lamb is one of the greatest food combos ever -- right up there with chocolate and peanut butter, or champagne and caviar. Why restaurants ever ceased this old-school culinary touch is beyond us, but at least Browne's Rokerij knows what it's doing, as is also apparent by the elegance of the interior and the superb service given by the wait staff. Rokerij's lamb chops are wunderbar, and we'd return just to lick one more of those bones clean.
Co-owners/chefs/cousins Rasul Alramahy and Ali Alhachami put every other restaurant in Phoenix to shame with their lamb and rice plate. For about the same as it costs to eat at some fast-food grease factory in town, their Iraqi eatery will serve you a heaping plate of rice, topped with a shank of lamb that can best many a plate of osso buco. The lamb falls off the bone if you as much as look at it cross-eyed, and the bone's marrow is soft and delectable. The lamb meat itself is savory and moist, and along with the meal comes a serving of round Iraqi flatbread, similar to Indian naan. A cup of chicken/lentil soup akin to Indian daal is also free with the combo. What else could you ask for in an Iraqi joint? Terrific baklava? Chicken kebabs that kick butt? Well, they've got that covered too, buddy. So get your fanny over there, pronto.
How now, browned cow? Delicious, if it's at Deseo. The Westin Kierland Resort's signature restaurant preps its 10-ounce Kobe sirloin with some surprising seasonings -- cinnamon and ground ginger among them -- then adds gourmet garnishes: sliced heirloom tomatoes, caramelized onions, blue cheese dressing and oregano oil. A mouth-watering example of multiculturalism, Deseo's "American-style" Kobe beef is a cross between Japanese Wagyu cattle and premium American Black Angus -- and is so tender, a butter knife slides right through it. For committed carnivores, the $30 price tag is worth the splurge. Meat us at Deseo.
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
BEST DESSERT FOR ALKIES
S`amus McCaffrey's Irish Pub and Restaurant
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.
We had just settled into a comfortable chair at a perfectly appointed table at Vincent's one recent afternoon, when we almost spat out our tap water. We're well-accustomed to the concept of the dessert cart, but the water cart? Sure enough, here it was, wheeled with as much pomp as the tarts and cheesecakes -- except on it sat a dozen or so varieties of water. "Sparkling or still?" the waiter asked, running down a list nearly as long as the restaurant's wine selection, and just as complicated. We ordered a Diet Coke instead, but sat back happy, relieved to know that even during one of the worst droughts in our city's history, Vincent and his water cart are here to parch our well-heeled thirst.
Phoenix is full of frickin' wing nuts, and we don't mean the kind who have pinups in their garage of Vice President Dick Cheney buck nekkid on a bear rug. Instead, the Phiddy (i.e., Phoenix city) is wing-nutty about those defeathered and deep-fried chicken appendages, which everyone from Long Wong's to highfalutin chop houses peddle. We've eaten so many chicken wings in this town that we've taken to bobbing our heads and clucking every time someone scrambles an egg. But for our scrilla, no one in the Big P. beats Bobby C's Lounge and Grill for the biggest, meatiest, most satisfying Buffalo wings, just orange enough from the spices to make you think those fryers were Baltimore orioles. These come with a tangy-ass sauce in which to dip them, though as big as these are, you may need a bucket instead of the normal condiment container. Our preferred drink, with wings or anything else? Grape Kool-Aid on the rocks. Can't beat it with a drumstick. Readers' Choice: Native New Yorker
Most people think the key to a perfect chicken salad has to do with the chicken. Most people are wrong. It's the lettuce. We don't really care what kind of lettuce you use, but it must be finely shredded. Not too fine, just make it about the consistency of coleslaw. Kona Grill has that down pat, and it tops the salad with macadamia nut chicken, a handful of crunchy noodles and a very light dressing. Perfection.
Why is something so apparently straightforward as a Caesar salad so difficult to obtain these days? The classic dish, invented in Tijuana, Mexico, in 1924 by Italian restaurateur Caesar Cardini, should ideally be tossed at tableside, using fresh romaine, grated Parmesan, croutons, a dressing made with lemon juice and Worcestershire sauce, and sometimes anchovies, either on the side, or ground into the sauce. Good luck getting it tossed at tableside in the 21st century, or even with romaine, instead of its ubiquitous and horrid iceberg cousin, the bland bane of foodies everywhere. Usually what you get in restaurants is some bizarre variation on the original, with anything from nachos and corn to seared ahi and "Southwest-style dressing." (Blech!) The one place in the Valley that you can rely on to deliver a solid Caesar is Durant's, the dark, red-velvet-lined chophouse, which since 1950 has fed everyone from John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe to the late senator Barry Goldwater, and the still-kickin' Senator John McCain. At least Durant's uses romaine, and the waiters won't look at you funny if you ask for anchovies. Is that so much to ask from other eateries, we wonder? Apparently so. Readers' Choice: Oregano's Pizza Bistro
We slither all over the Valley, looking for the very tastiest snails -- and always leaving a moist, weary trail of disappointment behind. Or at least we did, until Gregory's World Bistro began serving its mind-bendingly delicious escargot phyllo purses. There's nothing freeze-dried about these garden bandits, which are wisely served with tender wild mushrooms and spiced with tasty basil pesto, then swaddled in garlic butter and wrapped in a teeny clutch of phyllo. At only 10 bucks a pop, we're tempted to make them an entree. Usually, we settle for pairing them with Gregory's seared foie gras and a glass of Pinot and calling it supper.
We confess that we dine at My Florist Caf almost more often than we do in our own home, in part because we find its version of comfort food so, well, comforting. And we're profoundly comforted every time we dip into a plate full of My Florist's tasty baked oatmeal. Who knew that rolled oats, brown sugar, and a pinch of nutmeg could make for such a flavorsome, almost dessert-like breakfast food? Topped with sour apple slices and swaddled in a tart, creamy yogurt sauce, this is a morning meal that puts the rest of the day to shame.
My Florist's baked oatmeal is even better than Mom's. Or would be, if Mom had ever made the attempt.
BEST POOL TO TAKE A DRINK IN
JW Marriott Desert Ridge Resort & Spa
Resort life can be harsh. First, there's the decision of which one of six pools to swim in. Then, there's the tough call of which one of eight restaurants to dine at. And finally, we've all suffered the travails of finding a good tropical drink by the pool, without having to drip-dry across the courtyard to get it. Luckily, the JW Marriott Desert Ridge caters to convenience. You don't even have to get out of the pool. Just swim on over to the Just A Splash Pool Bar & Grill and order a fuzzy navel or a pia colada. The bar specializes in tropical drinks, but it's got grub, too, including burgers, pizzas, salads, hot dogs and sandwiches, which begs the question: Does the "wait 30 minutes after eating" rule apply if you're already in the pool?
We love fancy hotels, but we don't like getting gussied up, particularly on a Sunday morning. That's why the brunch at the Hyatt's Squash Blossom is so perfect. No one expects you to dress up. Oh yeah, and don't get us started on the food. Well, since you asked, we recommend that you starve yourself all day Saturday, because this is a serious pig-out. Along with the piles of fresh fruit, omelets cooked to order and mounds of baked goods, the Squash Blossom offers both paella and Caesar salad stations, as well as carved meats.
Loosen those sweatpants, and belly up to the omelet bar. Readers' Choice: The Phoenician
If the Pink Pony were a big, nasty redhead, we'd plant one right on her over-lipsticked kisser. You see, so much of what passes for the restaurant industry in this Valley of pawnshops and palm trees is so corporate and lacking in class that the historic Pink Pony looks better the longer we dwell here. Blimey, the Pink Pony's been around since Truman was Prez, y'all. Now that's history. Moreover, the Pink Pony has served such baseball legends as Joe DiMaggio, Ted Williams, Willie Mays and Billy Martin. The place is a veritable shrine to the game of baseball with framed jerseys from the likes of Sammy Sosa and Gene Autry. And its late owner Charlie Briley was instrumental in bringing the Cactus League to the Valley. But even if you know as much about America's Game as a hedgehog does about rocket science, the Double P should still appeal to you, assuming you have an ounce of style in your corpus. Just pay a visit on a Friday or Saturday night, ease into one of the slightly worn, black vinyl booths, order a stiff drink and a fat steak, and chill like Joltin' Joe did in the day. By the time you make it to your second cocktail, the lounge singer will be halfway into a finger-poppin' version of "Mack the Knife," and it'll be like you slipped through a wrinkle in time.
We love the drive up to Sanctuary, the super-chic hotel nestled up against the north side of Camelback Mountain, and we love the fiery hot wasabi nuts they serve in the cozy bar. After a cocktail or two at elements, the beautifully arranged bottles behind the bar twinkle, particularly at twilight. Or maybe it's just the cocktails. Either way, this is a perfect spot to end the day, just a short drive to either downtown Scottsdale or the Biltmore.
Cheers! Readers' Choice: elements
BEST PLACE FOR A FIRST DATE
Arizona Biltmore Resort and Spa lobby
The lobby of the Biltmore is so elegant, you just can't help but feel your best as you sink into a chair in the lobby bar and eye that brand-new guy or gal. Good choice. A drink is the perfect first date. If you like each other, you can eat dinner at the hotel restaurant, or head a few blocks south to Biltmore Fashion Park, which houses several fine dining options. If there's a lull in the conversation, you can count on the lobby bar at the Biltmore for some prime people-watching -- or charm your date with some little-known facts about the hotel's history ("Did you know that Irving Berlin wrote 'White Christmas' outside at the pool here?").
Just think -- if the date goes really well, you're just steps from the hotel check-in desk. Readers' Choice: Oregano's Pizza Bistro
One of the first things we do as soon as fall arrives is call House of Tricks for a lunch reservation. We love to sip a raspberry iced tea (the trick is real raspberries) on the patio in front of this decidedly non-chain restaurant right off Mill Avenue.
There's still enough hustle and bustle to keep our eyes busy as we watch the downtown Tempe and Arizona State University traffic, and the best part is that we feel like we're guests at someone's home, dining under a vine-covered trellis. Evenings are equally delightful at the outdoor bar, and the food is consistently some of the best we've had in town. Readers' Choice: Mickey's Hangover
BEST REASON TO LINGER AFTER DESSERT
Nicole Pesce at My Florist Cafe
You think you know "The Girl From Ipanema" until you've heard it played by Nicole Pesce, the resident pianist at My Florist Cafe. Ditto "Flight of the Bumblebee," which she's been known to pair with Elton John's "Rocket Man" or any of several Jelly Roll Morton numbers. Is it any wonder, then, that folks come from far and wide to listen to this amazingly talented lass play everything from Rachmaninoff to Billy Joel, in a signature style that's part Tchaikovsky, part Eurolounge, and always very groovy? During a standard six-hour set, Pesce (who's played with Buddy Greco and once toured the country with the Jerry Lewis Orchestra) is likely to shift from Franz Liszt to Frank Sinatra and on into her infamous ABBA medley, nodding and smiling all the while as if to say, "Hey, music is music, pal." Somehow, though, music is a little bit more musical when Pesce plays it. But don't take our word for it. Hang back after supping on one of My Florist's signature salads, and listen while Pesce arpeggios her way through Van Morrison, Queen, and an arrangement of Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" that must be heard to be believed.
There are enough police officers eating at this relaxed pub at all hours of the day to inspire confidence no matter what color the folks at Homeland Security announce. What are the cops eating? It sounds un-American, but everyone is here for gourmet burgers. An outfit called Snake River Farms imported to the States a herd of cattle from Japan and fed them barley, wheat and alfalfa in a natural, unconfined setting. Whatever. The resulting Kobe beef burgers, created without growth hormones, are a wonder. Wash down the protein with a half-dozen local brews or Sonora's own handmade root beer.
The Emerald Lounge is the CBGB of Phoenix. All the proper elements are there: a garage-like punk-rock stage where you can peep such acts as Hell on Heels, Smut Muffin, and Spaz Kitty; a cool bar with an even cooler bartender -- Don "Mr. Spock" Baber; ice-cold beers on tap; and the sort of inky darkness that takes your eyes about 10 minutes to adjust to. Even then, you'll never be certain that "the dime" in the low-cut blouse beside you isn't "a deuce" -- or vice versa -- until the sunlight hits her bedsheets the next morning. But then, the darkness hides a multitude of sins both ways, bubba. The real reason we like the club's crepuscular ambiance so much is that we can hide out and be as sociable or as unsociable as we want to be.
And if it allows us the occasional anonymous, surreptitious grope of the opposite sex, that's not so wrong, is it?
When it comes to late-night decadence, it's hard to bite Zen 32's steelo. Not only can you order a plate of yellowtail sashimi or tuna rolls, and a pint of Kirin beer or a bottle of hot sake, but there's plenty of eye candy to gaze upon while you consume mass quantities. The waitresses are booful (and yes, that spelling's correct, Jack) wearing those long, Japanese-style skirts with the slits up the side, and there are plenty of hot babes of both sexes in the Zen Bar in the back.
Whether you're a chickie on the prowl or a hunk on the hunt, after 10 p.m., the Zen Bar turns into a pickup spot legendary for the hookup luck it bestows upon sushi noshers of all stripes. Alicia Silverstone-like lovelies feed each other Tootsie rolls (with eel, shrimp and snow crab), while Brad Pitt-like studlies chew their edamame (i.e., soy nuts, bee-ahtch) and hope that girl on her fifth sake bomb needs a ride home.
Seoul Jung Restaurant is not only one of the best Korean barbecue houses in the Valley, it also boasts one of the bigger Korean menus in town, with everything from kimchee pancakes and yook hwe (Korean steak tartare) to broiled mackerel and abalone porridge. In addition, it's got an impressive list of authentic Korean barbecue dishes, which includes the standard bulgogi (marinated beef), beef tongue, tripe, pork, prawns, and so on.
You can grill these on the gas ranges set into your table, or have the kitchen do it for you. In either case, you get a huge array of panchan, the pickled and marinated veggies, seafood items, etc., that are like the Korean equivalent to Spanish tapas.
It doesn't take much to over-order. But when you inevitably do so, you're the beneficiary of a veritable Korean cornucopia of eats, remedied only by prolonged gorging and the help of more than one take-home box.
Thus, a visit to Seoul Jung makes gluttony fun.
When you step out of the blinding morning (or early afternoon) sunlight into the dimmed breakfast oasis that is Harlow's, you'll be greeted with a glass of ice water almost before your butt's hit the comfortable leather booth. Then, depending on the delicate nature of your stomach, you can go simple or all out.
If you're looking for absorbency to sponge that last quart of Budweiser, Harlow's fluffy homemade biscuits are a must. If sugar's needed to ease your pounding head, hit the Belgian waffles with strawberries and a scoop of ice cream.
When more drastic fat and grease infusions are called for, head straight for the signature Eggs Maximillian with chorizo -- a tortilla covered with a layer of crispy hash browns, eggs cooked the way you like 'em, slathered with Harlow's awesome chorizo and a scoop of sour cream. After you eat, head straight home and mix up a Bloody Mary before taking your well-deserved nap -- hair of the dog is the only thing lacking from Harlow's menu. Readers' Choice: Denny's
BEST VIEW
Acacia at the Four Seasons Resort Scottsdale at Troon North
You can't help but feel a tinge of Arizona pride when you watch the sun setting behind Pinnacle Peak from the patio at Acacia, with deep shades of rose and violet reflecting off the bubbles in your champagne glass. Or maybe that's just the champagne talking. Either way, this stunning spot equals pure romance (even if it's just a love of our wondrous desert surroundings), and offers a real sense of escape though it's not far off the 101 and Pima Road. Of course, you'll have to spend a few dollars once you set foot on the manicured grounds of the Four Seasons, but it's worth it -- you can keep the memories, free of charge. Readers' Choice: Sanctuary Resort on Camelback Mountain
It's always a treat for us to do lunch at Calabria Italian Grocery and Deli. There are larger, busier places to go for lunch in downtown, but then that's the point of visiting Calabria, which only has a couple of tables, and mostly deals in takeout orders. Our favorite thing to do is take a late lunch and hide at the table wedged between a window and a tall steel shelf of Italian dry goods. Perhaps we'll order an array of Italian olives and pickled mushrooms as a starter, and one of Calabria's superb subs, like the Sicilian, made with mortadella, sopressata and prosciutto, for the main course. There are also calzones, and arancini -- rice balls with ground beef centers -- and, for dessert, a variety of Italian ice creams to choose from. Sure, Calabria is great for ordering to-go, but just give us that Sicilian sub, a lime San Pellegrino, and a good book, and we may even forget we have a job to go back to. Readers' Choice: Zoë's Kitchen
Most people like to hide after dark, but if you've never tried hiding at lunch, you really should. We recommend McCormick & Schmick's. Along with regular tables and booths, the seafood restaurant has half a dozen "snugs," described as "private dining booths with luxurious velvet drapes for the ultimate in dining privacy." Now, we wouldn't recommend that you get too intimate in a snug -- you're still in the middle of a restaurant, for heaven's sake -- but you can certainly hide out. And what you do in hiding is really your own business -- unless, of course, your waiter catches you.
As the proverbial Ugly American, we had no clue as to what constitutes a proper high tea experience. So we found ourselves some English ladies (well, one actually only went to school in England, and the other, frankly, is no lady) and headed to the Phoenician on a late summer afternoon. We were surprised to hear that reservations are required -- who knew there'd be a run on hot drinks in August? -- but luckily a table opened up and we settled gingerly on a plump white couch in the airy lobby of the Phoenician.
And then we immediately made a spectacle of ourselves, ordering herbal berry tea and spilling it all over the lovely linens. Our Brits assured us that English Breakfast is the only way to go (which confused us, since it was closer to dinner time) and we got a long lecture about how the tea has to be warmed just so, and you must use whole milk, not cream.
We made a mess, but the Phoenician held up nicely, with a three-course presentation fit for a king. (Or, in this case, three wanna-be queens.) First came finger sandwiches. We preferred the lightly spiced curry egg salad with watercress and daikon sprouts and the poached chicken salad with lemon and thyme on pumpernickel. But the classic cucumber sandwiches weren't bad, either.
Next arrived buttermilk and cranberry scones. Our friends told us that scone should be pronounced "skawn" (rhymes with pawn) and although they scoffed at the notion of dried cranberries, both scarfed their scones, dabbing them with lemon curd, fresh strawberry preserves and Devonshire cream, so rich we could all feel our arteries clogging.
And then, the pastries. The selection was broad, and our lovely waiter would have happily put one of each on our plate. We managed to down a chocolate-covered strawberry and something called a fruit tartlet.
By the time we stumbled out of the Phoenician, brimming with tea and stuffed with enough carbs to fuel a kindergarten class, we understood the meaning of high tea -- it was definitely the high point of the day. And our lady friends agreed.
BEST PLACE FOR A CURRY AND A QUICKIE
Downtown Curry and Grill/Best Western Hotel
Catherine Deneuve once said that "Sex in hotels keeps love alive," and who are we to disagree with a French film diva? Now, we may not be in Paris, but there are still plenty of places in town where you can schedule an amorous assignation with that hot and bothered hometown honey of yours. However, if we're doing the picking, there's going to be some Indian food involved before, after, or (if we're feelin' kinky) during. When we're ready for a little afternoon delight, we book a room at the Best Western on Central, just down from Burton Barr Library. Not only are the rooms recently refurbished and affordable, but the hotel harbors the only Indian joint in the vicinity, Downtown Curry and Grill, run by the ever-affable Prem Tamang, a Nepalese fellow whose first name means "love" in his native tongue. (How appropriate!) Tamang's restaurant is outfitted like any other hotel eatery, with no outward signs to betray its secret passion: some of the tastiest Indian treats this side of New Delhi.
Unless you ask for the Indian menu, the server may bring you the American one, which offers the standard burgers, fries and tuna melts. But it's Downtown Curry's savory samosas, chicken tikka masala, and mango lassis that'll fuel the fires of your sultry sexcapades.
For dessert, try the ultimate Indian aphrodisiac -- small, round auburn confections that Tamang likes to call "camel balls." More formally, they're known as lal mohan, and taste like doughnut holes drenched in syrup, unless camel balls are actually a lot sweeter than we imagine.
There are a lot of great happy hour specials in town, like the free popcorn at the Cork and Snort, or the two-for-one Manischewitz Mondays at Morrie's Hooch-House in Tempe. But we have to admit, Eddie Matney's takes the concept to a whole different level, which may be why it's so difficult to squeeze into the bar/lounge area of the popular eatery at the intersection of 24th Street and Camelback.
First off, Eddie's is home of the "nonstop happy hour," so happy hour prices prevail as long as you're in the bar. And as far as drinks go, featured wines, cosmos, lemon drop martinis and appletinis are just $4, with all well drinks $3. But what Eddie's is known for are its appetizers, often inspired by the Lebanese heritage of Matney himself, and as part of this reverse happy hour, these tantalizing delicacies are offered at reduced prices. Imbibers get to choose from eats such as Matney's mouth-watering sumac grilled lamb chops with mint hummus, his spicy "mo'rockin shrimp" with honey dough balls, the superb Lebanese chicken quesadilla with harissa sauce, or a to-die-for plate of seafood won tons filled with creamy mascarpone served over a raspberry jalapeo dip.
We could go on and on, but when it comes to Matney's marvelous morsels, we'd rather eat than talk. So we'll see you at Eddie's, if we're able to squeeze in.
If you've got spurs that jingle-jangle-jingle, or just a tape of Tex Ritter singing the same, then at some point you should give yourself a treat and ride that horseless carriage of yours up to Tortilla Flat, way up in the Superstition Mountains, where the Superstition Saloon serves Bullrider Burgers, Killer Chili and bread bowls filled with beans, cheese and salsa. Eating at the bar means sitting on a stool outfitted with a saddle, drinking your Amber Bock draft in a Mason jar, and checking out the thousands of autographed dollar bills, pound notes and francs that paper the establishment, left behind by the 300,000-plus visitors per year. Tortilla Flat is an actual town with six residents and a post office, and it sits on the site of a former stagecoach stop on the historic Apache Trail.
In addition to the saloon, there's a gift shop and a general store that sells homemade ice cream and fudge. But after that dusty, winding trek from Phoenix on Highway 60, past Apache Junction, up State Route 88 with gleaming Canyon Lake and sheer cliffs of red rock for scenery, nothing will taste as good on the back of your throat as that draft brew in a jar. Yippie yi-yay, indeed.
Dining at a restaurant table by yourself is a foolish exercise; eating at the bar is cool, and nowhere is it cooler than at Tarbell's. With a long, graceful curve, the bar is staffed by a friendly crew that appear to have no life of their own. The same folks are always on hand offering seemingly effortless service. The menu is both reliable and first-rate, and if you are there for more than 20 minutes, you will meet the owner.
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