This small enterprise features a constantly evolving repertoire of Mediterranean flavors that provide a mischievous zing to our Southwestern staples. Everything, from the crusty, baked-on-site breads nestled in a painted wooden box with ramekins of dips, to the signature prickly pear tiramisu, is a work of art.

Ordering is always intriguing. Will it be baklava with nubbins of plump rabbit, fig, quail egg and pine nuts? Or eggplant tacos with lamb, arugula, cucumber radish and Kasseri cheese in roasted tomato garlic sauce?

Perhaps charbroiled beef tenderloin in sun-dried cherry barbecue sauce plus green chile stuffed with butternut squash, smoked bacon and provolone cheese? Or salmon, grilled with achiote seed in morel and baby clam sauce with crayfish-corn risotto?

Medizona's chef-owner, Lenard Rubin, gave up a comfortable resort kitchen career to open his dream restaurant, and it's sure paid off.

Medizona opened to rave reviews and continues to draw a steady crowd. And, with just 13 tables, reservations are a must.

Readers' Choice: Bahama Breeze and Voo Doo Daddy (tie)

So how do you entertain an out-of-town "foodie," that live-to-eat restaurant buff who wants to sample our city's edgiest cuisine?

If you're lucky, you secure a reservation at Gregory's, where chef-owner Gregory Casale has put together a menu that takes world cuisine on a whirl. Ginger and lemongrass-cured albacore tuna (Thai) shares the pages with mussels vindaloo and naan bread (Indian), monkfish tajine with preserved lemons (Moroccan), and pan-seared Hudson Valley foie gras in a sweet potato tart (French). If his pumpkin Israeli couscous soup is available, you'll swoon over the rich garlic chicken broth.

The wine list is all-out global boutique, a short list that tempts us with unfamiliar-to-most-folks grape blends we love after the first sip. It's difficult to find these wines anywhere else, and there's no shame in asking the chef's advice on the perfect pairings.

Trust us: Even the most jaded foodie will eat Gregory's up.

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And it sure feels special when we lounge in Bistro 24's gold-and-green-striped silk booths, taking in country French accent pieces, sophisticated artwork and peeks at Valley glitterati sucking down $7.50 French press coffee.

This is where the lords and leaders of our economic, political and social scene come for designer dishes like Bicher muesli, steel cut oatmeal brûlée, duck hash and chocolate brioche French toast.

It's better to move and shake on a full belly, after all.

There's just something so civilized about a continental breakfast. It makes us want to toss on a long silk robe, tuck our tootsies into monogrammed slippers and snap open an Important International Newspaper to read while we nibble.

Unfortunately, our bathrobe is coffee-stained terrycloth, our dog ate our slippers, and we don't subscribe to any papers without a comic section.

So instead, we get dressed and head over to Pierre's.

Breakfast starts off with steaming, fresh-brewed French roast coffee or just-squeezed lemonade, orange juice or sparkling apple juice. Handcrafted pastries flaunt fresh cream and real butter, and weigh in at the size of small sofa cushions. Our favorite is Pierre's lemon brioche, topped with terrifically tart lemon preserve and powdered sugar. The dough is buttery, billowy and positively bursting with mind-blowing poppy-seed-studded cheese.

Who needs Tiffany's when you've got breakfast at Pierre's?

Your head feels like it's going to wrench itself violently from your body. Your stomach's threatening to eject its contents all over your shoes. You shouldn't have had that last drink.

Now, you need grease. The kind of good, old-fashioned, fatty, dripping grease served at Bill Johnson's to coat your stomach.

The Big Apple means big breakfasts, served country style in a setting so casual it doesn't matter that you look like you've been dragged behind a truck all the way to the restaurant. It's kind of dark, to soothe your bloodshot eyes. It's big enough that you can usually find a quiet corner for your pounding head.

Fill up on country ham, chicken-fried steak, bacon, sausage, T-bone or pork chops with eggs. Sweet-talk your stomach with three-egg omelets, blueberry pancakes and French toast (six massive slabs topped with nutmeg and cinnamon). If you've been really bad, stuff yourself with the Wrangler -- a full order of French toast, two eggs, a hefty ham slab, four slices of bacon or two saucer-size sausage patties.

After all, you've got to get your strength up so you can go out again tonight.

Anyone can serve a huge Sunday brunch. It takes alarmingly little skill to toss together pedestrian scrambled eggs, table after table of mayo-based salads, endless wheels of cheeses, chicken done in by chafing dishes, and roast beast carved by sleepy resort staff.

Most skilled chefs can easily fashion a high-quality, dainty Sunday brunch, too. A talented chef can impress with sumptuous à la carte entrees, perhaps fancied up with a trip to fussy salad and dessert tables. But that's little more than an excellent lunch, isn't it? And let's admit it: Brunch isn't a true treat unless it's all-you-can-eat.

Marquesa has captured the best of both. The Mobil Four Star/AAA Five Diamond restaurant unites inspired Catalan cuisine with Italian and French influences for a drop-dead gorgeous unlimited tasting experience.

We don't eat for weeks in anticipation of a mid-morning tour of Marquesa's market-style nirvana. And not just to allow for greater gluttony, but to better savor the delicacies put forth by chef Reed Groban. The menu changes per availability of ingredients, but we can always count on the radiant treasures of the Mediterranean.

It's almost an embarrassment of riches, but we struggle bravely through, feasting on duck with cauliflower puree, lentil and sausage; fire-roasted couscous; paella; braised quail; veal empanada; turkey with hazelnut polenta; and caviar.

Does Marquesa's brunch cost a little more? At $49 per person, yes. But it's so satisfying that it's the only meal we'll want to eat that day. And since the open-air brunch isn't offered during the heat of summer, we've got some time to save up the cash, and the calories.

The area around the Arizona Capitol has always been pretty grim, and not just because it's populated half the year with the humorless mouth breathers we elect to represent us in the Legislature. The area is dense with government offices and run-down buildings, and there's never been so much as a decent cuppa joe within walking distance -- until now. The Capitol Coffee Co. pours espresso and Italian sodas, and offers a full menu of pastries, wraps, salads and sandwiches made on foccacia bread from the Willo Bakery. The place is airy, with funky art and mismatched furniture -- maybe a little too hip for Governor Jane, but certainly not for us.
Booths shaped like couches, throw pillows provided for the lumbar-conscious and portions so large they'd stymie late stoner Chris Farley -- Richardson's is the place to be after an early-evening bong session with your buddies, wife, dog or whomever. Who needs the harsh light of reality when you can't even remember your PIN number?

Richardson's dimly lighted adobe/ranch thing is comforting, even soothing to the dimly lighted head. Of course, you'll have to suffer the obnoxiously mainstream thirtysomethings who crowd the place, much like their SUVs in the parking lot, bumper to grinding bumper, but it's worth it. Besides, it's so dark inside, you'll forget about them once your draft lager (Richardson's has tons of them) and forearm-size burrito arrive. There are sports on the TV monitors, a moderately priced menu (forget the specials -- they ain't worth the coin), a smoker-friendly policy, and a waitstaff that seems to be glad they're serving your stoned countenances rather than another table of yuppie wankers.

One minus. Richardson's is always crowded, and without a reservation, a party of four can easily wait more than an hour. Toke it or leave it.

From the raspberry iced tea to the fresh-baked cookies, lunch at Coronado Cafe is the highlight of any workday.

Nestled in an old house in a historic corner of downtown Phoenix, the restaurant features a breezy patio and cozy rooms decorated with the work of local artists. Diners are seated in old school chairs, but don't expect cafeteria fare. The menu -- eclectic without being intimidating -- features daily soups and entree specials, along with staples like the chicken corn chowder, a meal in itself but great with a mixed greens salad or a Southwestern caesar. Another favorite is the roasted turkey sandwich, spiced up with cranberry-serrano chile chutney.

The staffers are friendly and they'll keep filling your iced tea long after you know you should have returned to the salt mine.

Readers' Choice: Durant's

Long to escape the ugly, overheated concrete of downtown Phoenix during your noon repast? Located just 10 minutes from downtown, this pecan grove-cum-country oasis is the perfect lunch-hour antidote to civilization.

From September through June, The Farm Kitchen serves hearty sandwiches and delicious salads -- complete with bread and veggies made/grown on the premises -- in sturdy baskets, picnic-style. Lounge at outdoor tables or toss a Mexican blanket on the ground, listen to classical music or the sounds of nature while you enjoy grilled eggplant on sourdough or a Waldorf salad.

And if you've still got time before you return to work, snag a piece of pecan pie. It'll put a smile on your face that will last until you're back to the daily grind, downloading Internet porn from your station at work.

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