Food & Drink

Bulgarians give the best tongue. That is, if we’re to judge by the tongue action at the Bulgarian-European Mirage Grill and Bar. Mirage is a beautiful watering hole/eatery on the west side, known for preparing a number of exotic Eastern European treats, such as poached eggs over yogurt, sautéed tripe, and Balkan sausages. But the beef tongue is our fave. Quite unlike the sliced, sandwich-thin tongue you’ll get in Jewish delis, Mirage’s tongue is thick, soft, pan-fried and très savory. (Kinda like Eva Longoria’s, or so we hear.) If you haven’t had it before, you’re in for a treat: an entree that can actually taste you back! And this in romantic environs of travertine floors, marble fixtures, an S-shaped black granite bar top with gold flakes, wrought-iron chairs, and beige tablecloths. What with that decor and a little tongue, you never know, you may just get lucky.

In our house, grandma is GaGa, and she’s best known for her brisket. We’re not sure who YaYa is, the name behind Zoës’ delicious chocolate cake, but that’s enough for us. There’s nothing fancy about YaYa’s Homemade Chocolate Sheet Cake, and that’s the way we like it. This chocolate cake with chocolate icing tastes like you baked it yourself with some help from another famous lady named Betty — but way better. Creamier, richer, more chocolaty. We’re grateful for YaYa’s chocolate cake, and more than that, we’re grateful that rather than brisket, Zoës’ main course consists mainly of chicken and salad, so we can justify dessert.

The trailer park treat that’s sweet to eat, and easy on your gum and cheek. Also known as Tennessee tiramisu or Carolina crème brûlée. Every Southerner worth his mud flaps knows what we’re talking about. Banana pudding. Trifle of the Gods. The stuff Southern Culture on the Skids sings about on their classic CD Plastic Seat Sweat, wherein co-vocalists Mary Huff and Rick Miller croon an ode to “day old banana puddin’.” It’s good stuff, but difficult to find, unless you head over to Calico Cow Central, where they serve a tasty version with de rigueur slices of “naner,” as we call the fruit down South, as well as vanilla wafers. The current incarnation of Calico Cow Central is in a historic building, once the site of the Phoenix Country Club, and it boasts a menu heavy on comfort food. But we’re feelin’ that banana puddin’ most of all, y’all.

Maybe it’s because tiramisu tastes so sinful that stories linger about this Tuscan trifle being so popular with Italian whores, who used it as their “pick me up” (the English translation of tiramisu) between clients. Or maybe it’s because Eye-ties tend to be rather sensual. After all, are there any Fellini films that do not feature prostitutes? Heck, we know we’d turn tricks in Rome for just one goblet of Scottsdale trattoria Radda’s tiramisu. It’s the creation of chef Lori Hassler, who runs the hip little spot along with her band of youthful restaurateurs, and since we tasted Hassler’s tiramisu late last year, it’s become the yardstick by which we judge all others. Could it be the savoiardi (ladyfingers) dipped in strong coffee, espresso and amaretto? Or the made-from-scratch cream of mascarpone, eggs, sugar and Marsala? All we know is it tastes so delightful served in those bulbous wineglasses that many a nosher has been known to swipe them from the premises! Egad, and we thought our collection was going to be one of a kind.

The folks at Asi Es La Vida offer up a twist on this Mexican custard that’s currently our fave: its flan Napolitano, which, no, is not named after Governor Janet. Of course, we asked the folks over at Asi Es La Vida why it was called Napolitano, and they didn’t know either! But they were able to tell us that this thicker, cakier version of the traditional flan is made using cream cheese, which explains the cheesecake-like texture that results. We’ve had flan Napolitanos elsewhere, but never as good as at Asi Es La Vida. And it should be a popular dessert with Republicans, as it’s the only time they’ll be able to stick a fork in a Napolitano and get away with it.

There’s something about squab that sounds so PBS. A dish some pudgy, truculent barrister should be supping on with a glass of sherry at hand. And when you get right down to it, squab, or domesticated pigeon, is about the last thing you’ll see on menus these days, even at better restaurants in town. Too bad, because the flesh of this four-week-old bird is dark and succulent, far more delicious than Charlie chicken or Tom turkey. However, Zinc Bistro is known for providing a classic French bistro experience in the middle of the desert, right down to the look of its interior and the waiters in ties and vests. The best appetizer on the menu is a seared LaBelle Farms squab leg and breast, topped by foie gras, seated on a bed of mascarpone polenta, with cipollini braised in a honey liquor. If Zinc served nothing else but this, it would be worth the drive to Kierland Commons to try it. Even if that drive began in Oregon!

Super Dragon is probably the most consistent neighborhood Chinese eatery in the Valley, serving up mainly Cantonese-style fare in a clean, pleasant environment with superior service. Standards such as cashew chicken and walnut prawns never disappoint, but our faves on Super Dragon’s menu are the Cantonese roasted duck, and the braised duck with mixed veggies. In both cases, the duck is flavorful and juicy, a feast for the senses that only Daffy and Donald would have trouble noshing. Whenever we ease our haunches into one of Super Dragon’s booths, the waiters always know what we want, and after we get it, they know those duck-laden platters are gonna end up with a tongue-bath by the end of our stay. Super Dragon also does an excellent Peking duck, i.e., a whole, roasted duck with a crispy skin, plum sauce, and Chinese crepes. As if that weren’t enough, the place stays open late, ’til 10:30 p.m. daily. Super Dragon, indeed!

Come on down to the sign of E.A. Tovrea’s “circle-walking-L” brand, and enter an era where the men were men, the women wore dresses, and the calves were scared. And no, they weren’t afraid of any, er, animal husbandry. Rather, it was all those cowpokes walking around with buckets filled with the gonads of their brethren. See, “calf fries” are just a euphemism for the testicles of young calves, fried up and served with a spicy chipotle relish. Tastes like chicken? No, tastes like veal, which it is. Very soft and juicy veal, as you might expect considering the source. The same glands from not-so-young cattle are often referred to as “mountain” or “prairie” oysters. We get the oyster part, because there is something about the texture which is, well, oystery. And “prairie” makes sense. But “mountain”? When’s the last time you saw a cow on a mountain? Anyway, the Stockyards was once the biggest feed lot in the West, if not the country, supporting 40,000 head. The feed lot came first, the restaurant second, to feed the cowboys and cattle barons, folk not terribly squeamish about eating cow cojónes. That’s how the tradition began, and now that the Stockyards has reopened after a long renovation, even a tenderfoot like you can enjoy a platter of the best balls in the Valley. Yum.

Some of the best things in life hurt, at least a little. Like getting slapped on your fanny by that obscure object of your desire. Or eating the Thai chile-flaked clear noodle salad at the newly opened Sala Thai Restaurant. This innocent-looking pile of glass noodles, ground pork and shrimp is guaranteed to set your eyes to watering unless your tongue’s made of cast iron, or your mouth’s lined with ceramic tiles. Why, if you’re one of those who likes their Thai food spicy, and Sala’s clear noodle salad doesn’t do the trick, then please give us a holla, and we’ll be down there with a jug of gasoline and a flamethrower to make sure you can be classified under Homo sapiens. The other stuff on Sala’s menu is grand, but we dig the way those clear noodles with the red flakes hurt us so good, à la John Mellencamp.

The folks at Cowboy Ciao are good cooks and good writers. Their menu is a work of art, with funny quotes from customers (“Sprinkle my ashes over Cowboy Ciao”), thorough descriptions (the Buffalo Carpaccio is rubbed with espresso and cumin) and creative names (an octopus/spinach mix is called the Big Biceps Salad).

But no name, no description, can do justice to our favorite dessert at this cowboy-chic spot. The menu dutifully lists the ingredients of the Cuppa Red Hot Chocolate: cinnamon-spiked chocolate pot de crème with chipotle crema, ancho chile honey, and cayenne-spiked ginger cookie. But nothing will prepare you for the impossibly thick chocolate (custard, pudding, mousse? We’re at a loss, but it’s the richest chocolate you’ll ever taste) beneath a foam of what looks like the top of a cappuccino. Put a bite in your mouth and you’ll immediately taste the cinnamon, then the chocolate, then a hard kick from the chipotle.

We give up. We can’t describe the experience. You’ll just have to trust us. Try it, and you’ll be at a loss for words yourself, trying to explain to friends and family why they absolutely must run over to Cowboy Ciao for, um, a cup of hot chocolate.

In the States, eating escargots usually means chewy, tasteless gastropods so overwhelmed by garlic and butter that you might as well be gnawing on someone’s shoelace. Why are these terrestrial mollusks so gross here and so exquisite overseas? Well, for one reason, the snails you get in Europe tend to be fresher, and we suspect that some of the black, rubbery escargots restaurateurs are palming off to us here in the ol’ U.S. of A. are so tasteless that loads of garlic and butter are the easiest way to hide this fact. After all, if their snails were fresh and delish, why would you choose the one way of preparing them sure to obscure their earthy magnificence? There are other ways of preparing escargots, and one place unafraid of breaking with the cliché is Tempe’s Caffe Boa. Its “lumache Boa” consists of escargots sautéed in a tomato sauce with mushrooms, black olives, red peppers, white wine and two slices of grilled polenta. Not only is the sauce palatable without being overpowering, but you can actually taste the snails. And that’s a good thing. For those who’ve only had escargots in garlic and butter, Caffe Boa’s lumache Boa should be a revelation. Then you’ll realize just what a fraud the whole garlic-butter-snail combo usually is.

Lotus Asian Cafe and Grill is small in space, but colossal when it comes to taste. Chef Abraham Indradjaja does Chandler proud by offering the best curry in the PHX with his gulai kambing. Gulai kambing is a hot, rich brown curry served in a bowl, almost as a soup, with small bits of lamb ribs and meat and a dozen or more different spices. Unlike any other curry you can imagine, it explodes like Chinese fireworks in your mouth, with a complexity most other curries cannot match. If you need to cool down afterward, try a bowl of es campur, an ice-cream-like mélange of shaved ice, jellied palm fruit, and lychee-esque rambutans. Only in Chandler? Well, until you can afford that round-trip ticket to Jakarta, or until Lotus opens up a sister cafe in downtown Phoenix, the answer is “Yes.”

Just in case you forgot, spareribs are not supposed to be health food. And no, that white stuff on ’em that tastes so good is not granola. That’s pork fat. Each hunk you suck off that rib bone is equal to a pack of unfiltered Camels and is sure to slice 365 days off your life span. Okay, we’re exaggerating, but you get the point. Still, what would ribs be without a little gristle on ’em? They wouldn’t be ribs from Joe’s Real BBQ in Gilbert, and they wouldn’t make you want to lick your dining companion’s pile of leftover bones. Maybe that’s why the place is called Joe’s REAL BBQ. At other places, the ribs are lean — the porkers work out on the treadmill and do sit-ups. But Joe’s hogs are lounging somewhere, drinking margaritas, eating bonbons, and watching reruns of Curb Your Enthusiasm. (Well, Larry David is a pig.) The ribs have just enough fat on them to make ’em delish. And the sauce is sticky, tangy, almost sweet. No one makes granola that tastes like this, but then again, maybe they should.

Finally, someone who knows and loves our beloved Gadus morhua better than we do! That’s cod, dude, the tasty bottom feeder of the deep blue sea, and we enjoy its flaky-white flesh better than that of haddock, salmon or even halibut. And the guy we trust to fry us up a proper mess of fish and chips, just like you’ll get in Merry Ol’ England, is British expat Mark Briner, who along with wife Ruth and son Jordan runs The Codfather chip shop in sometimes merry Fountain Hills. Paterfamilias Briner trained in England with the National Federation of Fish Fryers before moving to the States, and has spared no expense in shipping over a Hopkins fryer from England, the kind used in nearly all fish-and-chips establishments across the pond. The result is the pinnacle of piscatory pleasure: moist yet firm and flavorful fish topped by a light, golden crust. Forget Pete’s. The Codfather restores fish and chips to their rightful gustatory glory.

Seems like every other new restaurant in Phoenix is offering grilled Italian panini these days, which is lovely, but may we remind you that the Earl of Sandwich was a subject of the English crown, not some cat from Milan. So recognize a fad when you see one, and head on over to Prickly Pair, where the sammies are more Gotham than Tuscany, though there is an old-school New York Italian thing going on here. In any case, there’s nothing pinkie-in-the-air about the babies that PP’s deli pumps out. These are big muthas, double stacked with meats and cheeses, slathered with tangy Russian dressing, and given oddball names like Ike and Tina Tuna, Hammy Davis Jr., and the Great Barrier Beef. Atmosphere is, well, nonexistent, but who cares? We just want a “Huge Hefner” to go, baby.

The thing that makes a city a city is late-night life. Being able to hit the town in the evening, and not having to fret about snaggin’ a meal after normal din-din hours. We ain’t talkin’ about the drive-through window at Jack in the Crack, bro. Restaurateur Lenny Rosenberg is doin’ his part. Rosenberg had the first 5 & Diner in town, a place we still hit when desperate for an after-drink repast, and his Zen 32’s guarantee of sushi-’til-midnight was nothing less than revolutionary.

Now with his stylish new venture Delux, Rosenberg not only delivers the best burger and fries in town, but he makes sure they’re served until 2 a.m. Both the Delux and the Standard burger are blue-ribbon-worthy, and a bargain at $9 each. The fact that you can cop one after midnight? Priceless.

Ted’s Hot Dogs started as a hot dog cart run by a Greek immigrant named Theodore “Ted” Spiro Liaros in western New York. Today, there are nine Ted’s hot dog shops — eight in western New York and one in Tempe, run by the current president of Ted’s, Spiro Liaros, Theodore’s son.

Lucky us. Ted’s is a diner without the frills but with plenty of trimmings for your crisp, juicy hot dog and crunchy, sweet corn dog, both cooked before your eyes. The price is right, too: We ate well for under $5, including skinny fries and a drink.

We prefer Tempe to Buffalo, too, Spiro. Glad to have you here.

Once upon a time, Cornwall, England, was best known for its tin mines. Thousands of them. Indeed, the patron saint of Cornwall, St. Piran, was beloved by the common folk for teaching them how to smelt the tin ore contained in local rocks, thus giving the region an industry. St. Piran’s good works may be the stuff of legend, but it’s no legend that Cornwall’s miners preferred pasties (pronounced pass-tees) during their meal breaks. A pasty is a pastry filled with meat, potato, rutabaga and/or any number of other savory innards. Shaped like a deflated football, a pasty’s crust is thick, thus allowing miners to hold onto the crimped ends and nosh away without fear of poisoning themselves from the arsenic of the mines that ended up on their fingertips. As far as we know, the Cornish Pasty Co. is the only pasty shop in the Valley, though some pubs do serve them. You don’t have to be a miner to enjoy these Cornish treats, but be prepared. After a pile o’ pasties, you may not be hungry again ’til the next day. And even then, you may just want another.

The Food Channel has really effed up America’s eating habits. Now everyone and his brother wants to make hot dogs with goat cheese, pizza with portabella mushrooms, and hamburgers with sun-dried tomatoes. What the hell is wrong with this country? There’s no reason to go and mess up perfectly fine, Americana-type food with unnecessary culinary experimentation. That’s why it’s so hard to find a good bowl of chili. But after wading through a swimming pool full of high-class beef stew masquerading as chili, we finally found some chili con carne worthy of the epithet at a west-side greasy spoon named Susan’s Diner. Set the way-back machine for circa 1960-something, and you’ll end up at this little white house with a peaked roof. Take a seat at the weathered benches beneath all the pictures of Elvis, and vintage signs advertising stuff like “Babe Ruth underwear.” Order a bowl of chili with cheese, and you get a brown mélange thick with beans, ground beef, and just enough spice to tingle your tongue. Fresh Cheddar shavings are piled on top. Mix them in until the cheese melts, and alternate each third spoonful with a sip of a Mr. Pibb-vanilla ice cream float. Later for that Food Channel gourmet-gobbledygook. When we want chili, we’re headin’ over to Susan’s Diner.

From a culinary perspective, the only thing worse than “cafeteria” is “hospital cafeteria.” Which is why we were so surprised when we visited the cafeteria at Phoenix Children’s Hospital in central Phoenix. At first, we thought we were just sleep-deprived and distracted, and that maybe that salad wasn’t so fresh, those veggies weren’t so tasty, that pizza wasn’t so good that we’d consider coming back even when we didn’t have a sick kid.

But then we learned that PCH’s executive chef is Mensur Duzic, a German-trained chef who has worked in Bosnia and, upon his immigration to the Valley, for resorts all over town, including The Buttes in Tempe and the Sunburst Resort in Scottsdale.

On a recent visit to see someone else’s sick kid, we tried the food with a clearer head. Sure enough, Duzic’s talents were evident in the roast chicken, and you’d never get away with paying $2.75 for a half chicken at the fancy restaurants where he used to work.

Okay, we admit, the surroundings might be a bit of a downer, even with the colorful artwork on the walls. But once a year, Chef Duzic donates a meal for 10 to a hospital fund raiser. (Check the hospital’s Web site for future details.) You can eat well and do good. What could taste better?

With the spectacular backdrop of the Bradshaw Mountains looming above, the Rock Springs Cafe and General Store offers travelers a perfect respite from the road. Located about 45 miles north of downtown Phoenix, the cafe serves up tasty and hearty meals. If a cool cocktail is what you’re after, check out the adjoining saloon that features off-the-track horse race betting.

Once a stagecoach stop, the cafe attracts a wide variety of guests, from grizzled prospectors and cowboys to glittery Scottsdale divorcées on the prowl; from families packed into the minivan for a trip to the Grand Canyon to bikers out for a Sunday ride. The coffee is strong, and don’t forget to try one of Penny’s amazing pies and enjoy a slice of old Arizona before it disappears under the relentless wave of development that’s steadily marching north along the Black Canyon Freeway.

From the caramels at Pane Bianco to the paintings in the restroom at Pizzeria Bianco, the attention to detail at the Bianco establishments — run by Chris Bianco with help from his partner Susan Pool — is exquisite. Bianco and Pool are the most gracious of hosts; diners will happily wait hours for a table at the pizzeria, or roast in the summer sun to enjoy a market sandwich from Pane Bianco. Bianco and Pool wisely leased a building near the pizzeria and opened a perfectly appointed, shabby chic bar, with a beautiful selection of wine and beer, and a first-rate cheese plate to ease the hunger pangs. And the picnic tables outside the sandwich shop are handcrafted, the paper napkins tied with a sprig of rosemary, a chocolate in each perfect brown bag, stamped with the Pane Bianco logo.

We only wish we had such good taste — at least, for a meal, we can have such good tastes.

We have a dream: Our favorite local chef rings the doorbell, enters our humble home with coolers full of fresh food, and proceeds to cook a five-course meal in our kitchen as we look on, sipping wine, then sit down to dinner in our own dining room. (With more wine, of course.) The chef’s kind assistant serves us dish after dish — gigantic prawns, delicate won tons, sweet chicken and rice. Sated, we stumble into the kitchen to find more wine, and it’s cleaner than when the chef arrived.

The dream came true when Johnny Chu, proprietor of Fate, the funky Chinese eatery that’s a favorite of the downtown lunch crowd and First Friday scenesters, happened to mention that he moonlights, happily accepting the assignment of cooking in any kitchen. The meal wasn’t cheap, but it certainly didn’t cost more than a feast at Fate, and the food was even better, if that’s possible.

Our compliments to the chef!

When a friend invited us to join him for dinner at Four Peaks, we went willingly. We’ve eaten the burgers at Four Peaks before; the prospect of another was a happy one. We didn’t wind up with a hamburger, but we were still thrilled. Who would have thought that there, in the back of Four Peaks, with a Suns game blaring in the background, we’d have one of the best meals of the year?

Every so often, the folks at Four Peaks break out and get their culinary groove on, in a big way. In this case, it was with a four-course, five-beer dining extravaganza. We mingled with Cask-Conditioned Mild Ale, then sat down to a first course of lamb won ton soup and a glass of Idle Hands. We kept busy with a second course of buffalo spring rolls and Hop Knot Ale. We have to admit we don’t remember much after that, but seems to us a rib eye — perfectly prepared, brushed with oyster sauce and accompanied by veggies and rice — appeared next, with our favorite Four Peaks blend, Kiltlifter. We do remember one thing: that dessert, a calzone filled with ricotta and brownie filling, with chocolate and raspberry sauce, would have fed the entire table, it was so big. But we were glad to have one to ourselves, along with a glass of Chambord oatmeal stout.

We can’t wait for the next pig-out, er, we mean gourmet dinner at Four Peaks. The Web site promises the next one is coming soon.

Are you in the mood for some “hog-slopping, field-plowing, hair-on-chest food” just like they done eat in the Hawkeye State? Well, git on down to the Iowa Cafe in Mesa and grub on some good ol’ down-home cookin’. The bustling true-blue Iowa-gal-owned restaurant has been serving up diner-style breakfast, supper and dinner all day, every day, to hungry customers since 1983. The inside is adorned with Iowa paraphernalia, including a wall completely covered with license plates from 97 of Iowa’s 99 counties. Dessert is a must, with more than 15 types of pies baked nightly, including apple, mincemeat, rhubarb and chocolate peanut butter. After chow time, check out the novelty items in the gift shop, such as rubber ears of corn and John Deere bottle-cap catchers. Ooo-wee! It’s more fun than a greased pig contest at the county fair.

We love Tucson, but we’ve gotta tell you, sometimes people from Tucson can wear a little thin on the nerves. We’re getting sick of hearing how much better the Old Pueblo is than our metropolis, sick of complaints about how much water we waste irrigating our bright green lawns, how no restaurant up here compares to the restaurants down there. The truth is that Tucson is populated with aging hippies, and what really bugs them is that they’re under the impression that you can’t find a decent vegetarian meal north of Marana.

Next time one of your Tucson homies can’t avoid a trip to Phoenix, shut him down and fill him up at Pita Jungle. Every time we eat at the grunge-chic, concrete-floored restaurant in Tempe (or its similar companion in Chandler), we feel the Tucson love. This place is straight off the campus of the University of Arizona, with a wide variety of Mediterranean dishes including a cheese-topped pita “pizza” and a great combination platter of chicken, beans, rice, garlic sauce and pita. The best part of Pita Jungle is the environs — with groovy local art on the walls and dreadlocked customers kicking back over berry tea, you’d swear you’ve died and gone to — yep — Tucson.

Even the proudest Phoenician can’t help but be a bit deflated walking the Arizona State University campus with a New York visitor and hearing, “Gee, where are all the people?”

That’s why we were so delighted to hear a squeal when we passed Cold Stone Creamery. We like Cold Stone’s ice cream, sure, but for us, it’s no big deal — we can have it any time, at one of dozens of shops that the Scottsdale-based company runs in town. But our friend was through the door, already placing her order in, well, a New York minute. Turns out Cold Stone’s the hottest thing to hit Manhattan since Coors started selling beer east of the Mississippi. But it’s still hard to get to, in the Big Apple. There isn’t a Cold Stone on every corner — yet.

We watched our friend gorge on a vanilla/cookie dough mix-in and thought to ourselves, “See? Phoenix isn’t so bad after all.”

We must confess to a certain trepidation whenever our sophisticated Manhattanite friends come for a visit. To hear them tell it, everything in the Big Apple is so fabulous, it’s hard to presume that anything here can possibly measure up to their standards. So that’s why their reaction to dining at Patsy Grimaldi’s charmingly traditional pizzeria is so gratifying. Apparently, New Yorkers wait in line for hours to get Patsy’s pizza at its flagship Brooklyn Bridge location, but in Scottsdale, you can often just walk right in. And as our New York friends can tell you, the pizza here is just as good.

It was only a matter of time before the North Central vibe crept into Sunnyslope. Drive along the bridle path on Central Avenue, over a slight hill, and there’s Sunnyslope — you can’t miss it, it’s marked with a huge “S” on a low mountain, right there. Before you hit the mountain, veer east into Corbins parking lot — you can’t miss that, either, it’s painted a bright, obnoxious orange. To be truthful, there’s much that’s obnoxious about Corbins: It’s obscenely loud, clearly no one’s done anything about acoustics. The crowd is, um, eclectic. (Don’t be surprised if the chick at the next table asks you for a sip of your drink — and not in an effort to pick up on you, she just wants some.)

But settle in and check out the sleek decor, then look at the menu, and you’ll be reminded of AZ 88, the quasi-gay bar in Scottsdale, one of the first cool places to drink and dine in the Valley. Some AZ 88 originals opened Corbins, and it was a smart move — the place was packed on a Monday night in August.

If we were dining at AZ 88, we would have ordered a salad, natch. But when in Rome, we figured. So we got onion rings. They were very, very good.

“Hey, you’ve got your meat in my Emmenthaler!” “Yes, but you’ve got your chocolate on my beef!” Okay, so that’s how we imagine it going down at the stylish new Chandler eatery Shabu Fondue, which offers diners a chance to sample both Swiss fondue and Japanese shabu-shabu in one night. Of course, you may be singing “The Sukiyaki Song” in German before it’s all over, but the reality is that most folks have these very different hot-pot experiences in tandem, not together. In the case of shabu-shabu, you heat up a bowl of water and oil, swish around thin slices of beef and veggies, and voilà, you’ve got shabu-shabu. Fondue, of course, is the Swiss version of same, using mostly bread and fruit with melted cheese and chocolate. All of this is done on the stove built into your table, which does make you wonder how that meat would taste cooked in chocolate. . . . Hmmm. Just remember, you heard it here first.

One of our toddler’s first words was “Mugget” — short, of course, for Chicken McNugget. Who knows what’s in those things (well, thanks to a certain book and a movie, now we know and want to forget), but let’s face it: There comes a time when even the most health-conscious parent needs to feed the kid, and fast. We recommend Taco Del Mar. At first we thought this was not a kid-friendly joint, since the restaurant’s motto appears to be “Roll a Fat One.” (Burritos, you lowlife!) But then we saw a high chair in the corner, and a kid menu on the wall. For just $1.99, we fed Junior a quesadilla and a drink, more than she could eat and enough for us to snack on, too. Taco Del Mar could probably scare up a few veggies on the side, too, along with a jumbo burrito (pork mole or fish sound good?) for you.

The nice kid behind the counter even gave us a coloring book and pack of crayons, promising that if the kid colors the back, we can bring it in for a free child meal next time. We do have to warn you, though: There’s an enormous fake swordfish on the wall at the Mill Avenue location. This led to an uncomfortable conversation:

“Mommy, look at the fish!” “Uh-huh.”

“Mommy, remember when the orange Dorothy fish died and Daddy flushed her down the toilet?”

“Um, uh-huh.”

“Mommy, why did orange Dorothy die?”

“Um, um. Uh. Um, don’t you want some more of that delicious quesadilla, sweetie?”

As a parent, you can’t prepare for everything, but at least this way you can prepare to avoid McDonald’s.

Under the best possible circumstances, dining out with kids is enough to send you to bed for the night with a very, very bad headache. We have developed a close, personal relationship with Easy Mac, Kraft’s foolproof (as long as you nuke the noodles, not the cheese powder — true story) mac ‘n’ cheese. But mom and dad cannot live by faux-cheese noodles alone, and baby sitters are expensive. So sometimes we venture out, Tylenol waiting by the bed.

On such evenings, we’re grateful to the very kind staff at C-Fu Gourmet. The cavernous hall of a restaurant is a great spot for dim sum, and an even better place to let the kids run (almost) free. From the fish tanks in the front to the generally empty sections in the back, this is a place where kids definitely feel like members of the family.

You won’t find mac ‘n’ cheese or chicken nuggets on this expansive menu, but what kid doesn’t like to cover herself in white rice, or slurp egg drop soup? Speaking of slurping, we’ve had many fun family contests, slurping lo mein noodles at C-Fu, and as long as you pad the tip a little, no one will mind the mess you leave behind.

We are certain we detect just the hint of an English accent when we speak to Jeffrey Hattrick, the Tea Maître d’ (yes, there is such a thing) at the Ritz. But Hattrick cheerfully admits that he hails from Portland, Oregon. No matter, we’d let him read our leaves any day — he clearly knows his way around the tea pot. In fact, Hattrick tells us, he heads up tea service for the entire Ritz-Carlton chain. Lucky us. We put ourselves in Hattrick’s capable hands, and he pours a lovely Earl Grey Supreme (plain old Earl Grey is clearly not good enough for the Ritz!).

We lean back into the comfortable lobby couches at the Ritz, and sip. Then we pig out. Er, we mean nibble. We promise, after Jeffrey’s tea we will never make fun of a cucumber sandwich again. Now we understand that whole lemon curd thing. And we will never forget the pastries, nor the chocolate dipped strawberries.

Sated, we sink back into the pillows and sip more tea, our reverie broken when Jeffrey politely clears his throat to announce the presence of a birthday girl in the lobby and then launches into song.

What a tea party!

It goes without saying that the view, like real estate, depends upon location, location, location. It also goes without saying that most businesses that invest in the view don’t have enough money left to invest in the food.

Such is not the case with Different Pointe of View, located on top of an 1,800-foot mountain just north of Thunderbird Road. You can enjoy this spectacular outlook while sampling from a wine cellar stocked with a mere 86,000 bottles; more than 800 different wines are carried on the menu. Chef Ivan Flowers runs a kitchen that keeps pace nicely with the staggering alcoholic assemblage.

Bonus points if you can name the star witness in the state’s most infamous corruption trial who was involved in a fatal car accident exiting the restaurant.

A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou patio, House of Tricks. That’s all we ask. Well, you might want to throw in a field green salad with beets and a Dijon sherry vinaigrette alongside the basket of bread and bottle of wine (from a fine selection). And the coriander-crusted rack of lamb with serrano-mint syrup and pear salsa’s not bad. We know we’re making this place sound super-fancy, but you can show up in shorts and no one will blink. Instead, you’ll be treated to the best seat in the house — on the pretty brick patio (you can sit inside in shorts, too, but trust us), beneath a maze of grapevines, outside the 1920s bungalow that House of Tricks has called home since the late 1980s. We also like to call the outdoor bar home — a lovely tile-covered affair with high, comfortable stools and wonderful cocktails.

This is one of the few spots in town where you’ll find us outdoors in summer, under the twinkly lights, drinking a cold glass of Chardonnay.

For us, the best Sunday brunch is enjoyed at the table, with the food coming to us. Buffets are so much work. We’d rather relax in a beautiful setting with strong coffee and fresh juice. That’s why our favorite place to brunch is Lon’s, where we feel like we’ve been invited to dine with good friends — who happen to be good cooks with impeccable taste. Lon’s is in one of the most beautiful settings in town (you’ll feel far out of town, in fact, when you enter the grounds), and the food is equally lovely. Dishes like eggs Megargee (poached eggs on wood-grilled natural beef steak and English muffin with grilled tomatoes, asparagus and smoked chile hollandaise) are served family-style at the table, so you can graze without getting up. Or try the warm cornmeal griddle cake with hazelnuts and sun-dried cranberries with huckleberry sauce. Not as hungry? You can order a bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon. Your food will still come with a lovely setting on the side.

We know, we know — we’re supposed to boycott chain restaurants. But when we’re looking for lunch downtown, pardon us if we cheat a little, and head straight to il Palazzetto at the America West Arena. To all the members of Arizona’s Chain Reaction: Save the hot air for your next balloon ride. See, this bright, elegant Italian grill, with its flawless service and satisfying eats, is part of Chicago-based Levy Restaurants, with 25 eateries nationwide. Levy restaurants are known for their quality, and il Palazzetto is no exception. We dig their traditional pizzas, panini and insalatas, as well as lip-smackin’ entrees like spaghetti and meatballs, braciole alla pizzaiola (beef sirloin slices with both Alfredo and pomodoro sauces) and orecchiette con salsiccia (ear-shaped pasta with sausage and mushrooms in pomodoro). Here at last is one place in downtown proper where you won’t be ashamed to take an out-of-town client. That is, without driving all the way down Central Avenue to Durant’s. And if ACR can’t hack it, let ’em eat cake — or, in this case, tiramisu.

Matt’s Big Breakfast serves a big-tasting breakfast in a sweet, sunny little diner, and if you don’t time it right, you’ll have to wait for a table. But it’s worth it for the thick (yet still crispy) bacon alone; you might also want to sample the fresh orange juice, omelets and whole-wheat toast while you’re there. The coffee’s strong, and so is the chance you’ll run into someone you know — this has become downtown Phoenix’s hipster hangout for the morning meal. If you can’t stand that, stay away from Matt’s kitchen. If that doesn’t bother you, stick around — Matt serves breakfast ’til 2 p.m., and at lunchtime, you can get a great Cobb salad.

Thanks to local entrepreneur David Roth and his pal Rick Bacher, your inner child need never go hungry again. The duo last year launched Cereality, a Tempe-based cereal bar that allows the fourth grader in you to mix Sugar Smacks with Fruity Pebbles and call it dinner; to feast (in public!) on Frankenberry sopped with chocolate milk. Cereality turned a profit just two months after opening its flagship in ASU’s Memorial Union, then launched plans for a nationwide chain (they’ve opened stores in Chicago and Philadelphia thus far) devoted to pushing Post Toasties topped with all manner of sugary crap — candy, yogurt-covered nuts, even other cereals — served up all day long by pajama-clad counter help called “cereologists.” We like that there’s a place we can go to order Grape Nuts topped with Gummi worms, and are especially proud to tell people that such a place originated here in the Valley. Then again, where else?

You’d think spaghetti and meatballs, lasagna and all that classic Eye-tie stuff that’s as common in Brooklyn as drive-through liquor stores are here would be a no-brainer. Apparently not in the PHX, where there are too many crappy Italian joints to count, with pasta like rubber and marinara fresh from the can. Chef Anthony Redendo puts them all to shame with the aid of his gorgeous wife Carolyn by serving bowls of the best pasta and meatballs in town, Brooklyn-quality Bolognese, and calzones that’ll have you crooning standards à la Frank Sinatra. He’s got garlic knots like you get in Bensonhurst and pizza like in Brooklyn Heights. His establishment is small, but he’s decorated it with memorabilia of New York in the ’40s, and added brick walls to make the Gotham expats feel at home. We like your style, Anthony. Not only have you got a lot of talent as chef, you’ve got a lot of heart as a restaurateur.

The first time we visited Stingray Sushi, not long after it opened, we were more impressed by the eatery’s decor than its maki or nigiri. Brought to us by the same team that gave us the hip Scottsdale tiki bar known as Drift, Stingray was an instant hit with the Gen Y party set, with its orange walls, zebrawood tables, and general James Bond-ishness. It’s taken a little time for Stingray to prove itself as more than just a pretty face, but our last few outings of bellying up to its sushi bar have shown us that it is. Sure, the crowds are still attractive, and the interior is still fit for a Bond nemesis, but now the sushi is produced as professionally as you’ll find anywhere else in our oceanless metropolis. And in many cases, it rises to the level of greatness, as it does with the lollipop — tuna, salmon, whitefish and crabmeat wrapped in cucumber, then sliced and skewered. Or the pink blossom, with unagi, tamago, shrimp and avocado in a roll bound by pink rice paper. Standards like tuna, yellowtail, and toro (fatty tuna) nigiri and maki are just as fresh and delicious. And that’s why, over time, Stingray has become the first place we think of when we want to get our sake and sushi fix. Good work, gents.

Why is the Buddha’s belly so fat and his smile so wide? Too many Twinkies and six-packs of Old Milwaukee? Wrong again, pork bun breath! Actually, the “golden Buddha” statue in the lobby of the Chinese Cultural Center’s Golden Buddha restaurant is Bu-Dai (Hotei in Japanese), the corpulent, smiling mendicant revered for his good humor and generosity. Chances are the Phoenix version has been packing on the pounds by eating dim sum to his heart’s delight at his namesake, the new eatery at CCC, which serves dim sum daily from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. See, dim sum actually means “heart’s delight” in Cantonese, so that’s a little pun on our part. But we don’t kid when it comes to Golden Buddha’s dim sum, an endless parade of small plates that include sweet shrimp-stuffed noodles, shark-fin dumplings, barbecued jellyfish, custard-filled pastries, coconut cake, and red-bean-stuffed sesame balls, to name a few. In fact, a few too many trips to Golden Buddha, and you may resemble, well, a golden Bu-Dai. But hey, at least you’ll be smilin’.

From Central Avenue, Autumn Court looks like some funky gingerbread house, but stepping inside is like walking into the fog-draped Chinatown of San Francisco in the 1940s. The main dining area is designed like a faux autumn arbor, with a tree’s amber-tinged limbs overhead and a waterfall that gurgles over fake masonry. Dining areas are walled in by dark, wooden paneling and glassed-in shelves with all manner of wax and plastic fruits, veggies and dry goods. Paper lanterns hang overhead, and the tables are set with kitschy ceramic glasses filled with chopsticks.

And the food? A grab-bag of reliable, old-school faves, like pot stickers, crispy aromatic duck, sizzling rice soup for two, moo shu pork, moo goo gai pan, spicy Szechwan chicken, and many others. Not as exotic as some other places in the Valley, but 100 times better than what you’ll get at the mundane, prefab chain joints.

We don’t know what we’d do without Stacy Phipps, proprietor of Stacy’s, Phoenix’s finest soul food restaurant. Phipps consistently prepares the best fish, fried chicken, greens, rice with gravy, and black-eyed peas that we’ve had outside of Dixie. Moreover, he includes items on his menu sure to warm the heart of any erstwhile son of the South, like fried chicken livers and chicken gizzards, that mass of muscle in the fowl meant to grind up any stones the unlucky clucker has swallowed. Fortunate indeed was the little girl or boy down South who got to eat the gizzard or the liver when their mama cooked a whole chicken for dinner, and we feel just as fortunate when we down a whole hopper of gizzards and/or livers at Stacy’s. But that’s not all. There’s barbecue, sweet tea, corn bread, peach cobbler, and so on. Why, with Stacy’s nearby, we never have to go home for all that good eatin’, which is exactly the way we want it.

With “cattle” being one of the Zona’s four C’s, along with copper, cotton and citrus, and considering the fact that the PHX once was home to one of the largest feedlots in the nation, you’d think that there’d be killer barbecue on every corner of this burg. But for whatever reason, great barbecue is harder to find than a fur-wearin’ Phoenician in August. That’s why we’re friggin’ thankful someone bent our ear about Big City BBQ, which has slammin’ barbecue, whether you’re talking about pulled pork or chicken, beef brisket or pork spareribs. The sauce is thick and tongue-tingling, but the meat itself is soft and juicy, so that superior sauce isn’t hiding second-rate meat. Sides are off the hook as well: candied yams, savory mixed greens, peppery black-eyed peas, brown sugar baked beans, and so on.

For dessert, there are sugar biscuits and peach cobbler, but the barbecue is the real reason to pay a visit. Believe us, you won’t be mad at us for recommending Big City to you.

They say you can tell a good Chinese restaurant by how many Chinese people are dining there, and we feel the same way about a good deli, if you know what we mean, which is why we were so happy to see a nice Jewish guy like David Leibowitz on a recent trip to Katz Deli. Leibowitz works up the street at KTAR radio, and assured us he’s a regular. So are we, after tasting the chopped liver, which, to us, is the most important item on the menu at any deli.

We dragged a friend from New York along on our deli mission. At first, she suggested we simply recommend that anyone looking for good deli food in Phoenix have it FedExed in from Carnegie Deli in Manhattan. Very funny, we said. She changed her mind after lunch at Katz Deli, where she pronounced the whitefish as good as the chopped liver (although she found it odd that the whitefish salad was orange) and gave the corned beef the New Yorker’s seal of approval.

She also nodded her approval at the decor, which could have been plucked out of any one of a number of boroughs (think wood paneling and cartoons from the 1970s, along with faux-leather booths dating back at least that far). The friendly help? Now that wasn’t so New York. But that was just fine with everyone.

Someone cue Meat Loaf wailing, “Whatever happened to Saturday night? When you dressed up sharp and you felt all right?” That’s what we hear, along with the rumble of Meat Loaf’s motorcycle from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, whenever we stop by Fast Eddie’s Diner for a Cosmic Burger with crinkly fries and a cherry phosphate. The booths are gold-flecked, and there’s a long, checkerboard counter where you can sit on one of the oversize red stools and watch them make your strawberry malt.

All the place needs are some chicks in poodle skirts snapping their gum to complete the picture. Even the kids’ menu chimes in with The Cunningham (pancakes), the Ralph Malph (French toast), and the Pinky Tuscadero (eggs, hash browns and bacon), although the Happy Days references are likely lost on today’s adolescents.

But for the rest of us, when we pull into Fast Eddie’s parking lot, we’ll join in with Meat Loaf, and cry with all the nostalgia we can muster, “Hot patootie, bless my soul, I really love that rock ‘n’ roll!”

Donovan’s dark, mahogany-lined, Remington-appointed interior, its free valet, its flawless three-person service, and its high-end chops are not there for the hoi polloi to appreciate. Better be a high roller or a retiree with stock dividends up the wazoo if you want to enjoy a pocketbook-painless evening at this steak house. Still, if you’ve got it, there are worse ways to blow it. When it comes to the steak alone, it’s worth the price tag, though don’t look for any fancy prep, because here it’s about the meat, son. Prime rib is topnotch, as is every other cut you can imagine. Stellar appetizers include bacon-wrapped scallops, Maryland crab cake, and lamb chops. Desserts? Can’t go wrong with standards such as the triple-chocolate brownie, crème brûlée, and strawberry-topped cheesecake. Make sure there’s room in your belly before you go, because there won’t be any when you leave.

You will not nosh better pasta in town than at Marcellino Ristorante. Period. End of story. Yes, there are plenty of other high-class Italian joints in the Valley; maybe too many, if you catch our drift. And, yes, you can get your fill of semolina sticks elsewhere and feel satisfied with yourself for not spending too many ducats, but if you experience the handmade pastas at Marcellino’s, what you eat elsewhere will seem like Chef Boyardee by comparison. That’s because Chef Marcellino Verzino is a true maestro who began cooking at age 11 on his father’s farm in Italy, and has since performed culinary magic in acclaimed restaurants in Rome and New York. He and his enchanting bride Sima decided to start over in Phoenix in 2003, and our lives have been the richer for it. Verzino’s gnocchi, linguini, strozzaprete and capellini are unforgettable. And if you’re not in the mood for such heavenly starchiness, Verzino’s non-pasta entrees are equally gustable, like gamberi affogati, jumbo shrimp sautéed with white wine, or fegato all’uva, calves’ liver sautéed with grapes, then flambéed with cognac. And if it’s pricier than an evening at a mom-and-pop pasta shop, remember: You get what you pay for, bucko.

Sea Saw is the province of Chef Nobuo Fukuda, renowned for his “tapanese” cuisine, a marriage of the Spanish concept of little noshes called tapas with high-end Japanese eats. It’s all about the rare combinations of delicate flavors Fukuda brings to the table: kabocha (Japanese pumpkin) purée topped with a bit of curry and a little pile of caviar; chilled, pan-seared duck breast in a soy-zinfandel reduction; white fish “carpaccio” with thinly sliced ginger in a bath of yuzu juice with sesame seeds. It ain’t cheap. The portions are nouvelle-size at best (read: small, people). Everything is prepared slowly in front of you by Fukuda and his staff, and by the time your bank account is depleted, you may have to use your remaining five bucks to buy a couple of hamburgers to fill the gaping hole in your tummy. Somehow, it’s all worth it, because Sea Saw’s taste sensations are so varied, refined and creative that you’ll willingly max out your credit card for them. Come to think of it, identity theft would come in handy here. Why, with some rich dood’s Amex in your pocket, you could load up at Sea Saw until you’re actually stuffed! Anyone out there got a copy of Jerry Colangelo’s Gold Card?

You were at Barcelona earlier, but the scandalous Scottsdale ho you were with started making out with this gross bald dude after you left her for five secs to go hit the head. Well, eff that beeahtch! And to think you wore your new Sean John for the outing, too. So you hop in the whip, and decide to call it a night, but Five-O gets on your tail and stays on it all the way to Old Town. You’d had a few monster-size mojitos back at Barcelona, and it’s like the pigs can smell it on your breath a mile away. Somehow, you ditch ’em and you need some grub, maybe a slice of pepperoni pizza or sausage with black olives, just to help soak up the Bacardi, so you head over to the Slices on East Fifth Avenue, around the corner from Next. There’s a serious scene there, with loads of fly squalies to eyeball as you munch your pizza and get sober. You hook up with your boy Tiny who just got out of ACME and smells like well liquor. Then Trina, who you left at Barcelona, texts you, wondering where you’re at. But you don’t even pay her no mind, and take another bite of your pizza and smile at one of the chickalinas next to you.

Ha! Damn, this pizza rocks!

In the past, the term “personal pizza” meant a late-night delivery from Pizza Hut. Welcome to Pie Zanos — they don’t deliver, but who cares, when you can order up a small pie, made with a two-tiered pizza toaster that could fit in the trunk of your Toyota! Yes, the pizza paisanos at Pie Zanos take out the competition with a slingshot, some foodie can-do-ism, and more than a little inventiveness. Co-owners Jayce Elliston and Mike Curtiss serve some scrumptious pies in a kick-back cafe environment. Specialty pizzas range from The Cheeseburger, with ground beef, sliced pickle and mustard, to The Bordertown, featuring enchilada sauce, jalapeños, ground beef and salsa, sprinkled over with chili-cheese Fritos. You can also craft your own pizza from the scores of toppings, or enjoy a salad, frittata, or the soup du jour, all better than at most fancy-pants joints in town — or Pizza Hut.

Tired of waiting for two hours for a frou-frou pie? Then head over to Cibo (pronounced “chee-bo”) for pizza that’s better than that other guy’s, and in even classier environs, a restored 1913 bungalow with hardwood floors, stained-glass windows, a wood-burning pizza oven, and a wine bar. It’s the work of proprietors Karen and Tony Martingilio, who’ve brought in Italian pizza chef Guido Saccone to deal with the comestibles, while they work the front rooms. Not only is Cibo more expansive than that other ballyhooed bistro, the pies taste better. Try the marinara, with tomato sauce and anchovies, or the capricciosa, with sauce, prosciutto cotto, mushrooms, artichokes and black olives. This is the pizza place we’ve been longing for, the one that blows all the other gourmet pie shops away. Long may it reign.

Everyone loves pandas. And a panda dressed up like Pancho Villa — with a big mustache, a sombrero, a pistol on his hip, and a bullet belt strung across his chest? Now that’s a winner, and one that can turn Panda Express’ wimpy, two-tone bear into beef with broccoli any day of the week. “Pancho Panda” is the mascot for the PHX’s Chinese-Mexican fast-food restaurant Chino Bandido Takee-Outee, and Chino pictures the fun-lovin’ critter seated on the floor with legs spread wide, a huge grin on his kisser as he’s about to dive chopstick-first into a bowl of wok-prepared eats. A giant stone version sits in Chino’s otherwise spare dining hall at the 19th Avenue location, and his rascally image fills tee shirts and murals.

But the 15-year-old Chino is more than a mascot. Chino Bandido offers a unique combo of Mexican and Chinese creations atop rice, everything from chile relleno and Chinese barbecued pork to the spicy jade red chicken and pollo diablo. Burritos and quesadillas are also available, and for dessert — cinnamon-sprinkled snickerdoodle cookies like the kind you used to get in grade school. Chino’s opened another location this year in Chandler, but we think there should be a Pancho Panda on every block from sea to shining sea, or at least throughout AZ. Then it’d be a heckuva lot easier for us to quell our jade red chicken jones.

It’s probably a given that wunderkind chef William Bradley at the Vu restaurant in Scottsdale’s Hyatt Regency is a genius of gastronomy. After all, isn’t it a foodie rule of thumb that the bigger the culinary brain, the smaller the portions? Why, we can even foresee the day when highfalutin hash-slingers of the future, empowered by genetically engorged cerebellums, will offer us a mere whiff of their creations, bottled fresh for sniffing, so we need not even open our yaps, save in praise of the kitchen’s commandant. True, Chef Bradley’s entrees could be smaller, and his sides are even of near-normal size. (Shocking!) But we wonder about the extra-long dinner fork one’s given at Vu. Could this be an attempt to make us believe that the servings are smaller than they actually are? Or maybe he’s just expecting Shaquille O’Neal to stop by for din-din one of these days. Either way, it makes for the perfect back-scratcher for those hard-to-reach areas. All we want is a spoon large enough to change our contacts in, and we’ll be happier than Ron Popeil with a new set of steak knives.

El Chorro Lodge is cool. Barry Goldwater cool. ¿Comprendes? We’d call it old-school, if it wasn’t still cool, an adobe grande dame that can seat 165, with copper lamps on the tables, a copper-topped bar in the lounge, juniper-burning fireplaces, and that hint of Sonoran Desert decadence that still has the power to seduce. The menu is a class act, too: lamb chops with mint jelly; sautéed chicken livers; beef stroganoff; fried lobster tails; a pre-dinner relish tray; and El Chorro’s famous “sticky buns” as your dinner’s bread. El Chorro even has brandy Alexanders and pink ladies on its drink menu, as well as blended margaritas that’ll put your knickers in a twist. For dessert, there’s pecan pie, caramel custard flan, and El Chorro’s pièce de résistance, chocolate ice box cake made with Belgian chocolate, and walnuts, and topped with fresh cream. Cool? It doesn’t get any cooler, baby.

We’re suckers for excellent Southwestern fare, especially when served in a classic Southwestern ambiance. So it may be no great surprise that our pick for the best new restaurant of the year is the Sierra Bonita Grill, formerly a bar known as the Copper Queen.

After much work by Sheldon Knapp, the SB’s owner and also the owner of the Phoenix City Grille, the new eatery is a gorgeous salute to the ranch-houses of old, with ceilings of dark wooden beams, Cherokee red flooring, and walls inside and out that have that charming adobe look to them. The food is the perfect companion to the eatery’s aura: buttermilk chicken with mashed sweet potatoes; cowboy stew, featuring chunks of beef in a piquant brown mélange; rainbow trout in a maple-butter sauce; green chile posole; and for dessert, a Oaxacan chocolate soufflé with roasted banana ice cream.

We doubt the cowboys of yore ate this well. Tough luck for them.

So you just won a small bundle on the Addams Family slot machine, parlayed that into a larger bundle on an Austin Powers slots, moved your way up to the dollar machines, and finally hit it big playing blackjack in Wild Horse’s Vegas-style gaming emporium. That’s when a pair of high-class call girls escort you to the limo waiting outside for a night of Beluga caviar, Dom Perignon, and the sort of unbridled wickedness that we can’t even begin to allude to here.

Then your wife nudges you and awakens you to reality: You’re down $20 after playing the same machine for eight hours straight. Hey, it’s not a total loss. At least you can dine like a winner at Wild Horse Pass’ Wind Dance Restaurant. Just go for the filet mignon or the surf ‘n’ turf, dood. Spoil yourself. After all, your gold card isn’t maxed out yet, and you can always play keno while you chew. Sure, we’ve never heard of anyone winning the mother lode with keno, but for God’s sake, let a man dream, will you!

Vietnamese cuisine in the Valley is nowhere more accessible and toothsome than at Justina Duong’s stylish Vietnamese cafe Cyclo. Duong’s eatery is no dive, but instead a modern, artsy chow palace with her own spray-painted murals of the home country as well as handmade tin models of the bicycle cabs for which the establishment is named. The food is fresh and authentic: pork short ribs topped with basil; green papaya salad; spring rolls; Vietnamese crepes; and bowls brimming with different types of pho, the hearty and hot Vietnamese noodle soup, made spicy with generous squeezes from a nearby plastic bottle of bright red Sriracha. Duong is usually on hand, joshing with diners, congratulating them for their choices, or warning them about how salty-sour the plum soda will taste. It’s a small space, one that often fills to bursting during prime time, and once you eat there, you’ll understand why.

You don’t have to be a gourmand to appreciate State Senator Ken Cheuvront’s spiffy downtown wine bar. Sure, it’s got enough panache to satisfy the snootiest connoisseur — a long wine list and one of those ever-changing, overlong cheese selections that manages to include two dozen options without a single supermarket Brie. But the thing that endears us to the place is its accessibility. Every cheese comes with a useful description: You’ll learn if it’s salty or sweet, hard or soft, and where it’s made. Best of all, each cheese also comes with a beer or wine recommendation, so you can try something you’ve never heard of and still not feel lost. Still confused? Sit at the bar, and we guarantee you’ll get a wise recommendation, some political gossip, and probably a sample, too.

Bandera is perhaps best known as a chicken and rib joint, but the thing that keeps us coming back to this chain-that-doesn’t-act-like-a-chain restaurant is the side dishes. We dream about the peanut coleslaw, the jalapeño corn bread, the garlic mashed potatoes. We know a woman who, for years, tried to replicate the house salad dressing — to no avail. Now she just goes to Bandera and orders several sides of dressing, to douse her lettuce. We can commiserate. In our dream, we walk into Bandera and order a slab of peanut coleslaw, with a dish of ribs on the side. How about a vat of mashed potatoes to go?

It’s strange. When we were kids, our moms practically had to cake sugar onto vegetables to get us to eat them. But as our palates have progressed, there’s nothing we like more than well-prepared veggies of all kinds. Hence our fondness for James Porter’s Tapino Kitchen & Wine Bar, which sits in the same cul-de-sac as Sushi on Shea and Radda. Porter’s menu is expansive, with numerous items usually ignored by the competition. In the veggie realm, these include such delights as hearts of palm, sunchokes in aged sherry, Carolina okra, braised rosemary salsify (pronounced “salsifee”), and the braised fennel with tarragon. Of course, Tapino is more than just veggies. Not only is there an excellent wine list, Porter also satisfies us with an array of bruschetta and tapas-like plates such as Kobe beef tips in chimichurri sauce, and Moroccan lamb skewers with mint cucumber raita. Still, it’s his veggies we salivate over while remembering our last visit to Tapino.

One of the best salads ever created is the niçoise, made after the manner of cuisine from the French city of Nice, and containing such ingredients as tomatoes, black olives, garlic, tuna and anchovies. More often than not these days, you’ll find this classic cold mixture as the innards of a niçoise sammy, but you can still find places that offer it as a salad, with Carly’s Bistro on Roosevelt Street, just east of Central Avenue, being one. As prepared by co-owner Carla “Carly” Wade, there are no anchovies, black olives or hard-boiled egg on this niçoise. But her mix of albacore and capers over mixed greens with haricots verts and sliced tomatoes, bathed in a light, vinegary niçoise dressing, is most refreshing.

And with a bowl of gazpacho, a platter of hummus, and a glass of chilled white wine, doubly so. Because of its location and the links Wade and her partner, MadCaPs musician John Logan, have to the art community, Carly’s is packed nearly every First Friday. But listen up to our little secret: Carly’s isn’t just for First Friday anymore. In fact, we like it best for a midweek lunch, when we can enjoy our niçoise in peace.

In the good old days, waiters at Durant’s prepared our fave Caesar salad tableside, rather than delivering it done from the kitchen as they do today. But no matter where they mix it up, this is still the hands-down tastiest, most authentic Caesar we’ve ever eaten — and believe us, Caesar salads are practically a staple in our diet. Which means we’ve eaten more than our share of limp, wide-cut romaine doused with bottled dressing, sprinkled with grated (rather than shredded — can you imagine?) Parmesan and topped with boxed croutons.

But never at Durant’s, where we’ve consumed our weight in homemade croutons and made-from-scratch dressing with just the right combination of egg and anchovy paste. In fact, Durant’s is one of the few restaurants in town that will actually top our salad with anchovies if we ask.

This Japanese-style, central Phoenix nosh shop is better known for its various forms of Far Eastern starch, hence the “Noodle” in the name. But the reality is that nearly everything Cherryblossom serves up is super, including its salads, like the Hot Thai Beef Salad, with a sautéed mix of beef and veggies over leaves of fresh romaine. Or there’s the slightly less spicy Yakiniku, with savory, Korean-style barbecued beef over a spring mix. The place has even got a killer shrimp salad, and a unagi, or charbroiled eel, salad.

But our fave is the Shanghai duck salad, with warm duck breast on a spring mix, and sliced peaches. Kudos to Cherryblossom for crafting unique Asian salads — the perfect complement to a pile of starch.

Try as we might, we’ve yet to consume better wings in town than we have at Half Moon Sports Grill. These are not traditional Buffalo wings like the kind you’ll get at the Anchor Bar in Buffalo, New York, the spot where the snack was invented back in 1964 by proprietress Teressa Bellissimo. Still, they’re pretty dang scarfalicious, fat and juicy, but with an almost gourmet sauce. The “medium” tastes like barbecue sauce. Not bad, but we suggest the “hot,” which is at the threat level of the “mediums” of other spots. It’s just slightly sweet, and its spiciness lingers on the tongue for a while after there’s nothing left but bone on your plate. As far as dressing goes, you can choose either ranch or the traditional blue cheese, and the celery is nice-sized and fresh. The wings are a little pricier than elsewhere, but that’s because Half Moon is slightly upscale for a sports bar. What’s in a name? The “half moon” refers to the plumber’s crack revealed whenever someone bends over. Unappetizing, we know, but trust us — the wings at Half Moon Sports Grill kick a full “moon” and then some.

Who’da thunk it? The best tea in the Valley is not in some hoity-toity, pinkie-in-the-air tea room, but at an Uzbek restaurant in the Avenues called Samarkand, where Iron Mike Tyson has reportedly stopped by for the grub. Otherwise known for killer kebabs, fat, stick-to-your-ribs dumplings called manti, and hearty salads of carrot and mushroom, Samarkand also serves tea that will knock your Nikes right off your tootsies: a blend of black and green teas, prepared with the loose leaves placed in the bottom of the teapot, citrusy and full of flavor. No tea bags here, bubba. Plus you get a big-ass pot of the stuff to drink with Samarkand’s homemade sweets — a sugar-coated football of dough filled with crushed walnuts, or a cake of crushed walnuts sprinkled with powdered pistachios. Hey, Iron Mike, next time you need a break from the gym, the tea’s on us, pal! Just give us a buzz!

Visiting Tina Tamrat Hildebrand’s cozy Chandler eatery is so intimate an experience that it may seem you’re in someone’s home, being served by a friend who happens to be Ethiopian. Hildebrand herself is often doing double duty as server and cook, and in the back is an area with couch and coffee table that looks just like a living room. Chances are Hildebrand’s hubby Dan will be in, tending to their two kids, David and Daisy. The overall aura of domesticity is comforting, and you can choose to eat your watt, or Ethiopian stew, on a traditional straw table, called a messob, while watching an Ethiopian soap opera or perusing the various travel posters featuring beautiful Ethiopian women. Hildebrand gives you lots of fresh enjera with which to scoop up your chicken, beef or veggie watt. Don’t forget to try the house salad, and some of those Ethiopian-style samosas as well. We love all the Ethiopian eateries in the Valley, but right now Tina’s is the one where we’d most like to spend an evening.

When the phrase “casino buffet” passes through your cranium, your gray matter is instantly populated with scores of classy folk chain-smoking Parliament Lights 100s and hoping for a big win at bingo. But Fort McDowell Casino, operated by the Yavapai Nation, actually makes an effort to do things a little differently from other gambling spots, and this extends to its international buffet, which eschews the usual not-ready-for-prime-time rib and rubber chicken Parmesan for authentic Indian, French, seafood and Italian selections.

The Indian section — as in the country, not America’s original inhabitants — is the most surprising and rewarding, with rotating selections like a stew of lamb, fenugreek and green peas that would not be out of place at a buffet in a South Asian eatery. And there’s the spicy “okra in yogurt” that’s just as tasty. The Italian section might offer veal Milanese or spaghetti and clam sauce. The French? Pork loin in sherry and/or lyonnaise potatoes. There are also crab legs in butter, fried catfish fillets, a near-pristine salad bar, and a dessert section with bread pudding, cinnamon cake and cream puffs. Yeah, thanks to “The Fort,” casino buffets aren’t just for geezers anymore.

Takamatsu means “tall pines” in Japanese, which may be the reason this west-side eatery boasts a façade of blond plank wood. The use of Japanese for its moniker is a hint that the place has a killer sushi bar, and that’d be reason enough to dine there. But Takamatsu also offers the most reliable Korean barbecue in the Valley, with plenty of grills set into the tables, and steel chimneys overhead. It’s a clean, pleasant place to eat, with speedy, efficient service, which may be the reason Korean celebs like golf wunderkind Michelle Wie reportedly stop by while they’re in the PHX. On the walls are sports memorabilia, including a jersey from Chan Ho Park, formerly of the Los Angeles Dodgers and now of the San Diego Padres. You’ll usually see plenty of Koreans and Korean Americans supping there — always a good sign. And aside from the barbecue, the bibim bap served in a hot stone bowl, and panchan, a.k.a. “Korean tapas,” are first-rate chow. When it comes to Korean grub, Takamatsu is a winner’s bet.

When we’re desperate to get our tikka on, and want a sure-fire Indian fix, not some fly-by-night curry joint that may or may not cure what ails us, we head over to Indian Delhi Palace’s complex on East McDowell, next to Jugheads. Not only does this venerable establishment have a huge L-shaped main dining area, with crafts and images from East India, but upstairs is a banquet hall, and on the other side of the building is a little shop selling Indian spices and sweets. Still, the grub is the main draw here: chicken tikka masala, lamb korma, and palak paneer (spinach cooked with homemade cream and cheese), to name a few. The place serves some of the best naan this side of New Delhi, and desserts such as basmati rice pudding (kheer) or a syrupy confection called gulab jamun. The all-you-can-eat lunch buffet is one of the better deals in the city at $7.99 per person. Believe us, if you really eat “all you can eat” here, you might risk exploding in the parking lot as you waddle back to your car. And even then, it might be worth it.

We admit it — our ass is the size of a baby sea lion, and chances are it’s here to stay, because we’re not gonna be taking any Pilates or spinning classes any time soon — or, to be honest, ever. Diets? Strictly for suckas and simpletons. That B.S. might be okay for some airhead like Lindsay Lohan, but we’ve got to eat, Bonedaddy.

Still, just ’cause you got a fat tushy doesn’t mean you have to feed it junk food. Instead, roll on over to Fattoush Mediterranean Restaurant, where just about everything on the menu is healthful, whether it’s baba ghanouj with pickles and tomatoes, grape leaves, tabbouleh, or lamb couscous. Chances are your butt won’t grow any smaller while you’re eating it, but at least your corpulent keister will be hale and hearty compared to those that’ve been on a dietary regimen of Ho-Hos and Mountain Dew. Even the name of the place is for a Mediterranean salad that’s served there, not for the kind of fat-toush you already own. For real, this spot serves the freshest and best Mediterranean edibles in the Valley, and we’ll keep eating there no matter how much our caboose expands. Belee-dat.

Ja, dummkopf, we know there are other German joints in the Valley. After all, German fare isn’t quite as popular in the metro area as, say, Mexican or Chinese — or even Thai or Korean, for that matter. So, yes, we’ve tried the handful of places out there, and perennial winner Haus Murphy’s still takes the brass ring. Haus Murphy’s has that unbeatable combination of atmosphere and good grub that its competitors can’t seem to outdo. Think of it as the Lance Armstrong of Black Forest fare, with Armstrong looking more like Sergeant Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes than his old skinny self. Inside, Haus Murphy’s is always lit up like a fir tree at Christmastime, with cute barmaids in dirndls, two huge biergartens out back, and sausages and rouladens out the yin-yang. In addition, there’s oompah music and the dark dunkel on tap, and everyone’s always in a good mood, like the whole place is about to erupt into a German drinking song. If you think Haus Murphy’s can be beat, go ahead and try it. But pardon us if we don’t hold our schnitzel-smellin’ breath.

What makes a great French meal? Start off with coquilles St. Jacques as an appetizer, along with escargots in a puff pastry à la Normande. Follow with onion soup. A main course of calves’ liver with potatoes, coq au vin, or a plate of fat frogs’ legs smothered in a garlic butter-Pernod sauce. Wash it back with a bottle of Bordeaux. And end it all with a chocolate soufflé or a plate of cream-filled profiteroles covered in chocolate sauce.

Oh, and very important: Make sure you have all of the above at George Venezia’s Mes Amis Bistro and Bar. Owner Venezia hails from the old country. And though he has lived in the Valley for several years and run many a bistro here, he still retains that Gallic bonhomie that is the true hallmark of his countrymen. Venezia’s presence, his boisterous singing, and hobnobbing with guests are emblematic of how un-stuffy an evening at a French restaurant can be. And his Provençal-style menu is as accessible as the man himself, whom you’ll often find near the bar, in jeans, entertaining everyone with a song. Go, but save some frogs’ legs for us.

It must be the lack of zydeco music that keeps the Cajuns and Creoles from starting restaurants in the PHX. Maybe they’re afraid they’ll spontaneously combust in the dry heat. Or could it be the fact that the alligator isn’t our state bird, like it is in Louisiana? Whatever the cause for their P-town phobia, there’s a distinct lack of Cajun/Creole eatin’ here in the Big Not-So-Easy. Someone get Paul Prudhomme on the horn, pronto! Actually, there is one Louisiana grub-ateria in town worth the visit: Baby Kay’s, over at Town & Country. We don’t know what Chef Prudhomme would think of Baby Kay’s, but at least it’s making an effort to represent the bayou. Baby Kay’s menu boasts red beans and rice, shrimp rémoulade, crab cakes, boudin with apricot-pepper jelly, and jambalaya with andouille sausage. And like Justin Wilson used to, we gar-on-tee that Baby Kay’s serves catfish, po’boys, gumbo, and some of the best garlic bread this side of the Mississippi River.

“Hey, can I buy you a shot of ouzo?” If you don’t hear that and “Opa!” about a half-dozen times during the evening, then you’re probably not at Greektown, where chef-owner George Vassiliou will do everything to make your stay a joyous one short of feeding you moussaka by hand. Come to think of it, he’d probably do that, too, if he figured it’d make you happy. Vassiliou’s sure to do his Zorba dance for you, even if you’re the only one in the room, downing a plate of souvlaki by your lonesome. The food’s all good, whether it’s gyro pilaf, dolmades, avgolemono soup, spanakopita, roast lamb, or baklava. And Vassiliou’s got a nice selection of Greek beers and, of course, ouzo. The place used to be a Pizza Hut, but you’d never know that from the blue-and-white interior, with its murals and decorative stained-glass windows depicting Grecian cityscapes and seascapes. A lot cheaper than plane fare to Athens, that’s for sure.

There’s something about living in the desert that makes you crave seafood as if you were a pregnant walrus. And if we were a hungry, knocked-up walrus in the desert, we’d want a condo nearby Eddie V’s Edgewater Grille. It’s way up in Scottsdale’s DC Ranch, but it’s worth the drive, because Eddie V’s leaves the competition in the proverbial dust by doing two things: preparing incredibly fresh fish, and doing more than just grilling it and plopping it on a plate, like they do at some other fish eateries in town. If you order oysters, you can bet those suckers are straight from the sea, and the lump crab would snip you with its claws if it still had ’em. But Eddie V’s excels when it comes to such piscatorial pleasures as Pacific escolar, Chilean sea bass, or lemon sole — all served in gorgeous, upscale surroundings. Don’t forget to check out the long, swanky lounge bar — and good luck getting a seat there on a Friday night, especially if you’re a pregnant walrus.