Prize

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

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.