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Guadalupe not only has the distinction of being Phoenix's smallest suburb, but it's also the East Valley's favorite barrio. Residents from Chandler and Tempe come to the town for its shops and restaurants -- or maybe just to see how the other half lives. In any case, one of the more popular destinations is this rustic produce depot, with its bountiful piles of fresh fruits and vegetables with choices ranging from the more vanilla standards of a one-stop harvest shop -- such as Granny Smith apples or golden peaches -- to more obscure selections, like yucca root. Suburbanite gringos arrive in their SUVs, clad in D-Backs wear, bragging on their cell phones about the great deals they're getting on the different kinds of chiles for sale -- from habaneros to serranos -- some of which are roasted outside in a rotating grill. Others inspect the crisp leaves of bunches of cilantro and organic herbs, looking for any sign of wilt or wither.

Frankly, at night this 'hood's not so safe. But in broad daylight, on any given weekend, it's only a threat to your local supermarket.

Pizza is not what it used to be. At least, not since pizza delivery chains introduced the conveyor oven, which may churn out more pizzas per hour than traditional pizza ovens, but reduces the quality of the pizza because of all the openings in the oven that prevent a good, even heat. We recommend you make it at home -- and we don't mean by opening the freezer. Get yourself a pizza stone, which will ensure even heating. And then get yourself over to Riccobono's Italian Bakery and pick up a batch of pizza dough. The Riccobonos, a Sicilian family from Brooklyn, prepare the dough every morning at their Chandler bakery, using a recipe that is a cross between New York-style pizza and pizza from the old country. Pick up a pound, about all you'll need to make a large pizza. You'll be so happy, you'll forget the number to Domino's. And you won't even mind doing the dishes.

Our hands are stained with the amazing flavor dust (well, that's what we call it, anyway) that the geniuses of this wonderful snack spot sprinkle all over their delicious popcorn. We can't stay away from Pass the Popcorn, where we buy a daily bag of zesty seasoned kernels and sometimes eat the whole thing for dinner. When we're not glomming on the amazing caramel corn, we're buying tins of cheese popcorn (they come in several sizes and holiday themes) and giving them as gifts. Even the plain popcorn is unlike anything we've had anywhere else -- crisp and buttery and oh-so-slightly salted. (Try it with one of Pass the Popcorn's yummy Madagascar Vanilla Icees. No, really!) Can't make up your mind? Start with our personal favorite, the Cheezy Caramel Corn, which combines all the best flavors perfected by these local popcorn purveyors.

There are thousands of low-carb products on the market, which is a good thing, because most of them taste horrible. If you're looking for a little something to go with that plate of bacon and eggs -- maybe a low-carb tortilla or some chocolate for dessert -- it's all trial and error, 'til you find something edible. That's why we're so happy to have the Low Carb Mall. We have to chuckle at the name. It's a little ambitious, but then again, this shop is the Metrocenter of Atkins-friendly foods. You'll find rows of Atkins products, along with just about everything else on the market -- low-carb brownies, pasta, spaghetti sauce, margarita mix, peanut brittle, Gummi Bears, even something called "popped cheese" -- as well as vitamin supplements, books and anything else you might need to do the protein thing.

Bon appètit! Just don't mind the after-taste.

A few years back, some New Ager ruined the simplicity of fruit and ice by calling it a smoothie and adding enough supplements to choke a steroid addict.

But at AJ's Scoops, the art of the smoothie is returned to its essentials. You tell the nice folks behind the counter what fruits you like, and they'll purèe fine specimens of those fruits into a delicious drink topped, if you so choose (and you should), with gourmet whipped cream. Don't mention protein or echinacea or fiber boosts. It's all femme Greek to them. Just the fruits, ma'am.

Then sit down in one of the plush leather chairs and stare out the large corner-store windows at the bustlings of Second Street and Washington -- one of the most cityscape-ish scenes in the Valley -- and celebrate the fact that you're supporting a small independent business.

If AJ's smoothies aren't health-supplemented enough for you, think of it this way: The place has the ambiance of an intimate little pub. You'd be smoking cigarettes and drinking Irish whiskey in a real pub. Instead, you're having fruit.

Isn't that enough health for one day?

These flowers won't wilt, but we can't guarantee they'll be around long. Cookies in Bloom will deliver your loved one a lovely bouquet of iced cookies for any occasion. We like to challenge the folks at this little shop to get really creative, and they never disappoint -- they can decorate a cookie with anything!

Cookie monsters, this bud's for you.

Many a wayward Gothamite has found himself or herself in the Valley thinking, "What the hell have I done?!" Sometimes you find them hyperventilating, in a state of shock that they can't find the Village Voice and the Daily News on every corner of P-town. There's even a special ward at the Mayo Clinic devoted to ex-New Yorkers who've never recovered. They lie around all day watching Seinfeld reruns with glazed eyes, muttering, "All I wanted was a matzo!" Poor sods. Someone should've told them about Chompie's. With locations in Tempe, Phoenix and Scottsdale, Chompie's is so close to the real deal, you'll think you hopped the F train to Kew Gardens. That's because these kosher-style delis are run by the family Borenstein, who themselves moved to the Valley from Queens back in the late '70s to establish an outpost of Gotham in the desert. Sure, they've got classic American and Italian fare, but we go for the bagels and bialys with a schmear, the kasha varnishkes and kreplach, the matzo ball soup and the brisket au jus, the stuffed cabbage and plates of pickles that come with each order. And if we're feeling especially sinful, we'll order a side of the chopped liver, the best in the Valley, which comes in ice-cream-like scoops and is so smooth and rich we think Ben & Jerry's should consider adding a pint of Chompie's chopped liver sorbet to its repertoire. So next time, if you see an expat New Yorker going into convulsions, send him to Chompie's. He'll survive.

Readers' Choice: Chompie's Deli

How can something so simple go so wrong so often? Phoenix is a veritable citrus mecca, yet drinks bearing no trace of lemon get passed off as lemonade here every day. And don't get us started on how people have served us Crystal Light with a straight face, as if we wouldn't know the difference. Lemonade is simple; there's no need for creativity, tricks or gimmicks. Or artificial sweeteners. If you like your lemonade tart and straightforward, Jamba Juice does it just right. Buried amidst a lengthy menu of smoothie combinations, it's easy to overlook the almost quaint listing of lemonade. But it's there -- so satisfyingly sour, with just a little sweetness, and chilled with plenty of slushy ice. Pucker up.

It's not often that we break into tears at the sight of food. But as soon as we walk into Guido's, our hearts swell, and our eyes well up at what must be the closest thing to heaven on Earth for real (or wanna-be) Italians.

How could we not grow misty over San Marzano tomatoes? Overwhelmed by olive oil, bread and imported pasta? Smitten with sauces, marinated olives, cookies, pastries and even imported antacids? And that's just the stuff on the shelves. Mascarpone cheese, handmade mozzarella, carved capocollo, hard salami and more than a dozen from-scratch salads fill the cooler cases (the tomato and garlic salad is outstanding). If we don't feel like cooking our own, Guido's caters with its take-home lasagna, cheese tortellini, potato dumplings and ravioli. Whatever you do, take time to smell the sausage. It, too, is made by hand, gloriously juicy and bursting with fennel.

The name is deceptive: This is a shop with regular hours, not a weekend event. For cooks who despair of finding exotica like in-season cherries for less than $7 a pound, or for those who have heard tell of mythical eggplants that come in colors other than purple but have never actually witnessed such sights, the Guadalupe market is a mecca. It's not a tiresome gourmet shop with the precious-gem prices we've come to expect for things that should be everyday items, like ripe tomatoes or local grapefruit. This is a straightforward produce market, run by people who understand that they're selling vegetables, for goodness sake, not Russian caviar. Guadalupe Farmer's Market's plentiful produce is fairly priced, always fresh, and local whenever possible. Better yet, its fruits and vegetables taste like foodstuffs you've only heard about from elderly relatives who swear no one sells produce like they did "way back when." Guadalupe does.

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