Food

This spinach never saw the inside of a can. A square dish is layered in the center with steamed spinach leaves, and soy sauce is channeled between the stack and the edge of the dish. The leaves are dusted with shredded bonito, blond thin curls of dried skipjack tuna. The bitter, leafy earthiness–silky in texture–is deftly foiled by the concentrated sea wash, delivered in whispered bursts shrouded in a delicate crunch. This stuff can do more than just swell biceps.

We make the trip over to Mai’s at least once a week for the clay pot, a devilishly hot (in every sense of the word) mixture of rice, Asian vegetables, rice noodles and, in our case, tofu. (It works just as well with chicken and shrimp.) We’ll accept no arguments when stating that it is, without a doubt, the best thing we’ve ever eaten, Vietnamese or otherwise. Seriously, don’t test us on this one. The only strong competition comes from the other items on the menu; may we suggest the supple spring rolls, or perhaps a bowl of spicy chicken soup? Whatever you get, remember to wash it down with a tall glass of the finest iced Vietnamese coffee in town, which deserves its own award. Mai’s doesn’t look like much, inside or out, but the kitchen is the only place that counts.

A friend suggested this as his favorite spot for butter to put on bread, and so on a day we were feeling particularly decadent, we gave it a shot. (“I’ll have just butter and toast, please. And my friend will have four fried chickens–and a Coke.”) We agreed. Not for the reason he said–“Because it tastes good, and I like to put it in my mouth”–as that could apply to a dozen categories of food, drink and lascivious miscellany. No, we appreciated it because it’s herbed and spicy. We do this to our butter at home, but why do so few restaurants do so? A few flecks of green, a bit of piquant flavor and then butter becomes not just a condiment but a meal.

OK, granted, we don’t know anywhere else you can actually get a cachapa in Dallas, but even if we did, we would still think this is the best one in town. This South American bakery is one of our favorite lunchtime hangover spots, and that’s primarily because of said dish. The cachapa, the big corn pancake with cheese and your choice (or not) of meat filling, is the perfect big, heavy, sumptuous meal you crave after a night out. Add that to some of the outstanding teas and coffees brewed here, and you have a lunch worth scarfing.

On a recent Saturday, we stopped by our regular bagel provider for a dozen of the everythings–garlic with poppy and sesame and the wondrous addition of sunflower seeds–and were told there won’t be a batch ready for 10 minutes. So we waited patiently, like Job or his second cousin, and were greeted by a bagful of the hottest, softest, moistest round of bread we’ve ever put between two (scorched at this point) lips. We devoured half our dozen before walking out the door–this is to bagels what Krispy Kreme is to the hot doughnut, the closest thing to nirvana since Dave Grohl was just a drummer. So beg Herschel, the owner, for fresh ones when you walk through the door. Wait if you must–skip school, ditch work, put off writing Best of Dallas entries, whatever you must to get those bagels before they cool a single degree. Cream cheese is for wussies.

Lord, how we try to keep healthy–hard to stay that way when the last time you saw the inside of a gym was in sixth-grade P.E. But, hey, Central Market’s expansive produce section–some 4,312 varieties of radishes alone, at last count–was gonna help us stay trim. For months we cruised the asparagus like horny frat boys at a sorority mixer; we guzzled the green-veggie mystery swirl, ate only fresh chicken and the still-twitching seafood, bought nuts in bulk and fat-free milk by the gallon. And, man, were we ever getting fit, lean enough to fit into our senior-prom tux, still a lovely hue of blue. Awesome. Then they had to go and open a Krispy Kreme right next door, and eff it if our jeans didn’t suddenly look one size too small for Kate Moss. What were we supposed to do? Ignore the red sign, taunting and daring us with its promise of fresh, hot doughnuts right off the assembly line? No. No. No. Our car full of healthy goodness, we inevitably steered just inches and gained feet on our waistline, and we couldn’t help it; we’re junkies in need of the hot, sugary fix. But every now and then we do the guilt-free thing and get the doughnuts before they’re doused in sugar; surely, that’s the diet version, innit?

The Observer‘s Mark Stuertz suggests you “feed your culinary soul” at Watel’s, a French restaurant that is one of Dallas’ top eateries. But we suggest you experience your fine food with some aural ambience. Chef-owner René Peeters (one of the nicest guys who’ll ever confit your duck) offers $29, four-course jazz dinners every other Monday or so. (Check www.watels.com for updates.) With your music you get a soup of the day, salad, one of eight entrées (such as crabmeat lasagna, spinach ravioli with chardonnay and walnuts or petit filet mignon grilled with herbed jus) and a choice of dessert. Music to our ears.

A few times a year, we ship the kids to the baby sitter, dress up like the hip kids (plus 30 pounds) and go out for a grown-up meal. Good food, good wine, good times. Our favorite place in which to do this, as it has been for about a decade, is The Green Room. Hip enough to be fun, serious enough for sophisticated tastes, head chef Marc Cassel’s restaurant continues to impress every time out. When we arrive, we always ask for the “Feed Me, Wine Me”–four courses chosen by the chef and four glasses of wine picked to match each course. The result is mesmerizing and instructive: wonderful dishes perfectly prepared, matched with always-interesting vino choices. The best part: We usually end up loaded, take a cab home and make out like teenagers. Sure beats counseling.

We hear that one of our staff has had a bad waitstaff experience here. Not saying that isn’t possible, just saying that we’ve never experienced anything except top-notch attention and care from the folks at Blue Fish. The sushi here is fresh and huge–it’s often hard to put it all in your mouth. (Stop it.) The specials are rich and original (the crab bake over California rolls is not for the weak of stomach). If you’re a Blue Fish virgin, you’ll need to know these two alcohol facts: They have an outstanding cold sake selection, and Wednesdays offer $1 Blue martinis. Chop chop.

Turkeys were never meant to trod where cattle hoofs tromp. And that fleshy wattle growing from its throat ain’t no set of horns. That’s why turkey burgers don’t have steer power: They often lack juice and richness, and they crumble like parched bran muffins under stress. Here the burgers are juicy and rich, and they stick together like their beefy counterparts. Pesto topping and a whole-wheat muffin don’t hurt any, either. It’s enough to make one utter an aria of rapid gobbles.

Fried calamari is as ubiquitous as Monday-morning yawns, but it’s the subtle details that make it shine. Crú’s scraps of squid are light and airy and virtually greaseless. And the spicy sweet-and-sour sauce kicks your senses back into alignment, should your wine-tasting flights knock you off course.

You can get something to take the edge off a hangover anywhere. A meat-and-potatoes plate of, well, meat and potatoes? Nothing special. There are plenty of places that’ll hook you up. In a pinch, there are also half a dozen 7-Elevens on your way home. But if you’re sober enough to want real food, something you can (and want to) remember eating the next morning, look no further than Cuba Libre. Chef Nick Badovinus mixes ingredients like a good DJ, giving well-worn ideas (say, tacos) a brand-new taste. Bonus: Thanks to the beautiful-people spillover from nearby Sense, you still have an outside shot at hooking up before you head home.

Waka chef-owner Seiji Wakabayashi defines his craft as nouvelle Japanese. And the nouvelle part is like a projector or viewer for peering at Japanese cuisine from a different vantage point. The examples are subtle–creamy carrot soup, rich nutty foie gras perched on yams, mixed seaweed salad fluffed with baby greens and little surprises like a thing called an eel carpet ride (the kind that won’t skin your knees). Though there is no sushi bar, you can watch them carve it from the stools perched near the open kitchen.

Catfish can often be dull, spongy and soggy, even when fried. It takes a special set of fingers and a deft mind to breathe life into these supple fillets. Hattie’s chef Lisa Kelley does it. Her pecan-crusted catfish resonates with such rich buzz that you’ll find it bathes your mind as well as your buds. A long fillet, tapered on one end, shimmers in a scaly gold coat glossed with lemon-butter sauce, ebony patches breaking through where heat held more sway. It’s crisp, nutty and draped over a mashed-potato cushion snarled with bits of scallion melded into reverential communion with lemon-butter sauce. The butter is full-throttle stuff–rich and salty–and the citrus is dribbled to perfect pitch.

He was a founding partner of Sipango, which in the mid-1990s was perhaps the hottest restaurant in Dallas. But after cashing out some five years ago, Matthew Antonovich trekked a bumpy road, sustaining a bruising at III Forks, a bounce on Chuck Norris’ defunct Lone Wolf Cigar Bar, a fizzled restaurant project with former Mansion maître d’ Wayne Broadwell and the fast and furious crash of his own restaurant, Antonovich’s Tuscan Steak House. But just as he was about to hit the most bizarre pothole in this trek–selling residential real estate in Kentucky–he landed back in Dallas on a lark and did a guest-chef stint that led to Sipango redux. Now, after striking a deal with his former Sipango partner Ron Corcoran, Antonovich is taking another taste of his former glory, albeit as a leaner, wiser, cooking machine. And God knows he needs a good meal after that long strange trip. So do we.

Citizen’s neo-Asian fusion menu stapled to a traditional sushi bar has eked out a foie gras recipe that is virtually peerless. It’s seared and draped on a brioche seasoned with a little cinnamon and sugar and placed on a square plate with dots of dark berry sauce in each corner. It’s an ample bit of flesh, mottled with blotches of yellow, beige and gray. But the richness spreads with such smooth elegance across the tongue, you’ll forget your mouth is lounging on a swollen waterfowl organ.

It’s a frugal place already (see above). On Saturday afternoons, however, it becomes a freeloader’s heaven, as top Dallas chefs drop by to offer sample plates paired with a good wine. That’s right. For the cost of a little gas and a bit of shoe leather–well, not leather, perhaps, but whatever Target makes their shoes from, you damn cheapskate–you can try out crab cakes or risotto or whatever while sipping a red or white from the Best Cellars collection. The likes of Gilbert Garza from Suze and Bartolino Cocuzza of Amici prepare dishes for the Saturday fete. Best of all, the chefs hang around to answer questions, which makes it easier to say, “I didn’t notice the hint of basil, let me try another free sample, chop chop.” Yes, the wine comes in little plastic sample cups, but we assume they’re clean. Besides, it’s all free, so quit your bitching.

Best Cellars is clean, crisp and easy, everything wine should be but mostly isn’t. Instead of by geographical origin or grape variety, wines are arranged by color and taste–fizzy, fresh, soft, luscious, juicy, smooth, big, sweet–so shopping is easy on the brain. Best Cellars scours the globe to dig up wines that veer elegantly from the beaten path. Yet this won’t land you in a pack of dogs. (OK, you may hit a pooch here and there.) It’s easy on the wallet because most of their stash of 150-plus wines is priced at $15 or less, which can be further shaved via case discounts.

For the low, low price of $3.59, they serve up the po’ boy to end all po’ boys. Just ask for the “red wrap” and they’ll know what you’re talking about: double ham, double German salami, double provolone cheese, mayo, chowchow and pickles on fresh hoagie bread. On the Dallas scene for almost four decades, Antoine’s serves up color-coded slices of heaven. The “green wrap” is Antoine’s original and most popular. It’s the “red wrap” without double helpings of all the goodies. Then, there’s the “brown wrap” (turkey), the “purple wrap” (roast beef), the “orange wrap” (pastrami) and the “blue wrap” (tuna).

Ceviche is a peculiar twist on the Crock-Pot: scraps of raw fish cooked slowly, not with heat but with lemon or lime juices. La Calle Doce’s ceviche is a tight, focused arrangement–a tiny still life–with a cupped lettuce leaf spilling over with avocado chunks, chopped tomato, scallion and opaque creamy-white chunks of fish and shrimp. It strikes the palate like a laser, searing the tongue and scorching the roof with tightly focused acid layers that gently unravel into briny sweetness. Leftover juices don’t pool; they puddle once the debris is evacuated, leaving a fluid that might serve as a foundation for a killer margarita.

You wouldn’t expect a steak house to deliver a zesty rich gazpacho, at least not one that hasn’t been carpet bombed with A-1. But there it is, dark and delicately lumpy, ceremoniously poured from a silver urn into a white bowl–a ritual that seems mildly out of place in one that serves knife-wielding carnivores. It resembles a homicidal salsa. But it is deliriously brisk with cool rich tomato savor and a burst of heat that pokes at the back of the throat long after the swallow, a hefty soup that rakes the mouth clean, paving the way for the bloody loins and rich bones to follow. Summer swelter has slipping away, so this cool dish is off the menu, but watch for its return.

We’ve been addicted to this sandwich ever since we tried it at Jimmy’s Food Store on Bryan Street, which is still the best version in town–hotter and heavier than the Central Market variation, which means it’s the lunch that lasts till breakfast. But Central Market’s Cuban, ham and cheese and pickles melted and then pressed twixt hot griddles, is a great addition to an already star-studded lineup of sandwiches, including a right-on Reuben and a mozzarella-tomato joint packed between loaves of the store’s amazing prosciutto-and-black-pepper bread (which is, all by its lonesome, a meal). And since it doesn’t weigh a ton, you can eat it for lunch and not have to suffer the consequences of telling the old lady you don’t feel like dinner, which never goes over well. It’s guilty eating, guilt-free.

You scoff; we can hear you cackling all the way from the Dream Café, you snobs. But think about it: Where else in town can you get breakfast just as late night gives way to early morn? This 24-hour joint, where Deep Ellum gets a little deeper, serves up just what you need after a night of getting hassled by downtown criminals or before an early shift at neighboring Baylor hospital; it’s where you fuel up on good joe and a great jukebox, where the eggs are fried just right, the bacon’s just that side of crunchy, where the hash browns are the right shade of greasy and where the waffles and biscuits can fill you up till lunch (the next day). And you can get breakfast at 3 a.m. or 3 p.m., which is perfect for those who pass out just to wake up. You can get snazzier breakfasts at Breadwinners, where we go when we wanna feel like tourists, but you can get no heavier breakfast anywhere.

The term “fast food” does not have to describe the greasy cesspool of unidentifiable mystery meat served up at drive-through windows. Well, at least not in El Fenix’s case. Quick, simple and delicious, we’d take a sit-down meal in this cozy Dallas landmark over a puck-sized burger in our car any day. The service is the fastest in town, but don’t think that means they’re sloppy. Orders come out perfect every time, even if you request an enchilada combo with double the rice, nix the beans, extra sour cream and no jalapeños. As partial to iced tea as we are, while dining at El Fenix, we can never pass up their sodas, which are noticeably crisper, lighter and more refreshing when consumed in conjunction with their famous tortilla chips. In less than 60 minutes you can get in, get full and get out.

While Buffalo wings at most restaurants are an afterthought, Wing Stop makes it their business. Though we understand that it may be inconceivable that a chain restaurant has the best of anything in town, just hear us out. They do, because, um…we say so? There’s no substantial argument here or anything, just our opinion that they’re really, really good. Lip-smackingly good, even. Wing Stop’s wings are served up hot and slathered in the best sauce around, with yummy fries alongside if you wish. They’re prepared when you order them and can be doused with an array of obscure sauces (garlic Parmesan or lemon pepper, anyone?), so you can change it up when your tongue gets tired of being singed. These wings are hot and messy, so be sure to load up on napkins. You’re going to need them.

Somewhere between Mi Piaci and Chef Boyardee lies the concept of the family Italian restaurant, which is best exemplified by Café Amore in Richardson. Mama makes the tomato sauce, which is sweet, satisfying but never heavy; Papa flings the pizza dough, which makes “Ray’s Original” New York pizza seem, to put it mildly, unoriginal. Their friendly bambinos wait on the hungry crowds, chilling kids with fresh hot bread and little cups of shredded mozzarella (upon request) as they wait for authentic homemade pastas, pizzas and subs, all at prices so reasonable you feel as though you should be eating in your car. So what if the family is actually Albanian? The dishes are always hot, fresh, generous and cooked to order. Try the linguini with red clam sauce–which has never failed us. Never.

This inconspicuous little shop on Preston Road in far North Dallas could pass easily for just another nursery or patio furniture store, but it’s what’s inside that makes this hidden jewel shine. Beyond the aisle upon aisle of clay chimeneas and farther past the piles of imports ranging in origin from China to the Ivory Coast is a family restaurant serving up some of the best desserts, coffees and chicken salad in town. The Obzeet Restaurant and Tropical Bar is hidden behind rows of fine imported statues and artifacts but defines itself by being one of the most unique dining experiences in Dallas. With a menu that consists of soups, sandwiches and cigars, how can you go wrong? But none of that endears it more than its pies, cakes and other confections. Obzeet is great for a late lunch after a day spent buried among the ordinary.

There are gyro sandwiches, and then there are gyro sandwiches. First, there’s the thinly sliced mystery meat piled into a cold piece of flat bread and topped with a tomato and a little bland white sauce. That’s not the gyro sandwich we’re talking about. Z Café owner Nicholas Zotos sells gyro sandwiches that are consistently far above average. The bread is oven fresh, and the plentiful meat (not a composite) is tender and tasty. The sauce is tangy and complemented by fresh onions. Zotos knows gyros.

A trip to the ballpark is not complete without the food: peanuts, hot dogs, pretzels, Philly cheese steaks. Yo? Philly cheese steaks? One of the best, most improbable features of the charming Dr Pepper/7UP Ballpark in Frisco is the fact that they serve the best cheese steak in this time zone–from a cart way down the left field line. A little investigation revealed that the cart at the ballpark is actually an outpost of Philly Connection, a chain of restaurants based, of all places, in Atlanta. With 12 area stores, mostly in the Northern suburbs, Philly Connection has ambitions for our market that approach Starbucks proportions. They expect to have 50 locations all across Dallas-Fort Worth within a year and double that number in five years. The reason you can expect consistently satisfying sandwiches as they grow has to do with the passion of company founder John Pollack. “I grew up in Philly,” says Pollack, “and like most Philadelphians, I consider myself a connoisseur of the cheese steak. My two favorite places to get them are pretty famous: Gitanos and Big John’s in Cherry Hill.” Moving to Atlanta in the early ’80s left Pollack with an inner need as well as a perceived opportunity, and Philly Connection was born in 1984. “Our goals have always been consistency and authenticity,” he says. “Even though Southerners had no basis of comparison at the time, I did because I’d learned from the best.” To ensure meeting those goals, Philly Connection has bought its meat from the same Philadelphia supplier since 1984, a 92 percent lean cut that provides the optimum balance of taste and texture. And the way the meat and grilled onions and peppers nestle into the steamy, soft, authentic roll just feels and smells right.

A friend asked us to make a Sunday lunchtime trek to this far north outpost. We weren’t excited, as the word “Plano” and the phrase “sushi buffet” make us queasy. Of course, we were blown away by the quality of the food and the family atmosphere. The buffet at Osaka Sushi is huge, composed of not only cool, comforting sushi but a wide array of meats, fish, sauces, soups and vegetables. They’ll even grill you up a bowl of goodies Mongolian style. When you leave, stuffed and wobbling, don’t be surprised if you feel a little drunk on food–perhaps even yelling “shabu shabu!” at random customers as you giggle between belches. Sounds yummy, no?

There are more high-dollar Cajun restaurants in town, but high-priced food ain’t what Cajun is all about. What we’re looking for is the best taste of NOLA, the combination of better-than-good bar food, ice-cold beer and gluttonous/libidinous spirit that exemplifies all things bayou. You find that at HG: great bar food (fries and oysters are faves), all-you-can-eat crawfish on Wednesdays when in season and cold brews, brought to you by a helpful (read: borderline flirtatious) waitstaff. Good lunch menu, great street-side patio and a decent jukebox round out this underappreciated Greenville Avenue spot.

River Spice has a fairly typical Thai menu with clever atypical touches. Pad Thai is often an effective barometer of Thai kitchen brilliance–or haplessness. It’s far too often cloyingly sweet or a sticky knot of noodles or a soupy mess or some frightening combination of all three. Here, it is superb. At the far end of the plate is a curved cup of sheer rice paper that reaches a few inches above the plate and embraces–like a concert shell–a river of gently twisting noodles and crisp bean sprouts, egg, crushed peanuts and scallions in a culinary freeze-frame on the plate. Panang pork delivers a similar thrust with strips of tender juicy pork, bell pepper, gently bending green beans and tears of basil leaf deposited into a rich, fragrant curry sauce. Whole fried fish is compelling, as are most of the fried foods–spring rolls and curry dumplings, for example. A transparent glass water wall tinkles in the entrance to animate the river part of the moniker. (A River Spice extension recently opened in the structure off Lower Greenville that was once home to Liberty Noodles.)

Soul food is the quintessential home-style cuisine: black-eyed peas, corn bread, macaroni and cheese, meat loaf, okra. At South Dallas Café, greens such as cabbage and okra skirt mushy textures and rise to supple sensations. Meat loaf is thick and hearty, smothered pork chops are tender and rich, and the fried chicken is crunch-crisp, spicy and moist. To really reach into your soul, South Dallas Café runs a two-meat special with your choice of two meats, three vegetables and corn bread for $9.95, a fine spot to drop a 10-spot.

“Think of us as a power steak house with a seafood center.” This is how the top brass at Oceanaire want you to think of their restaurant. They’re referring to the beefy, two-fisted portions that in some cases–in true oxymoronic fashion–contain shrimp. Chilled shellfish is delivered in two portable ice mountain versions ($35 and $65) embedded with all manner of water crawlers, including lobster, crab and shrimp as well as shelled critters that do nothing but suck and make expensive jewelry–the freshest, richest stuff we’ve tasted in a city. Jumbo lumpmeat crab cakes are bumpy, ugly barnacle-like nodes of sweet brackish crabmeat chunks laced with just a puff of bread crumbs glued in place with a mayonnaise dressing and packed into balls before they’re baked with a little bay butter. This allows the delicious crab flavor to easily pierce the thin starch draperies–a welcome maneuver in a town where chefs seem determined to smother crab flavor in a blizzard of sticky bread crumbs. Whole fried fish is delicate, moist and greaseless, while Chilean sea bass, resting on a mattress of bacon-studded wilted spinach basking in a beet purée, is brilliantly buttery–a flawless twist on a fish that has become a cod-like staple for high-end fishmongers. Great Key lime pie, too.

Though it was conceptually groundbreaking when it fused tastes from Thailand, Korea, China, Laos, Malaysia, Vietnam and India under one roof, Liberty was mostly a bore when it opened. Aside from the birdcages posing as chandeliers with incarcerated amber bulbs and a swell, spacious patio with a huge aluminum washtub posing as a koi pond, there was little of interest in the cramped Lower Greenville quarters. The new Liberty is almost thoroughly denuded of such whimsy. Slipped into the two-decked Pavilion strip mall on Lovers Lane near Inwood Road, the new Liberty Noodles is at least a washtub above the old. And the strip-mall funk lifts once you slip through the door. The flickering birdcages are still there. But Liberty no longer flaunts self-conscious “ain’t we hip?” flamboyance. Its style comes across more as a self-deprecating smirk, an acknowledgment of twisted excesses of youth. In short, Liberty has grown up, and nowhere is this more evident than in the food, which is brighter, brisker, tighter and tastier than ever. Promise realized is always the best move.

Three things you can never get people to agree on: whether Polyphonic Spree is gimmick or salvation, just what is the best advertorial in the history of D magazine and who has the best Chinese food in town. Everyone has his fave, and though we’ve tried many, many of them (August Moon, P.F. Chang’s and others rank high on the list), we can’t tell you whether this Preston Royal Shopping Center eatery is definitively the all-time greatest. We can, however, inform you that the best dishes here are some of the best dishes anywhere and in any cuisine; dare you to find prawns more fearsomely flavorful than the General Shrimp, which commands a mighty plate. Same goes for the dry-stirred beef, which whets our appetite and then some. Royal China’s also expanding its menu to include edamame and cold, rice-paper-wrapped spring rolls–a little Japan and Thailand, in other words. Owner George Kao, who runs the place papa Buck opened years ago, and wife April make every stranger feel like friend and every friend feel like family. One thing’s for sure–you will not find a friendlier restaurant in Dallas.

There are a lot of good things that can be said about Local, the tiny boutique restaurant that opened in the heart of Deep Ellum in the historic Boyd Hotel, one-time stopover for Bonnie and Clyde, Huddie “Leadbelly” Ledbetter and Blind Lemon Jefferson. One of them is the Sluree, a blend of Rotari, an Italian sparkling wine, and scoops of house-made grapefruit-rosemary sorbet that quickly melt into the fizz. The Sluree is a good source of vitamin C as long as you don’t fortify yourself into blurred vision. Another is the small collection of imaginative salads equipped with things like fried pears, oven-baked Roma tomatoes and strips of skillet-fried prosciutto. The cheeseburger is hearty and bursting with flavor, the fried chicken flits like a cloud and the fish is provocatively simple, letting the natural fish flavors blaze a path across the tongue (the footprint of chef Tracy Miller is ever so slight, yet undeniably shrewd). But perhaps the best thing that can be said of this restaurant is that it has no ambition to be anything other than what it is: a distinctly Dallas restaurant that bubbled up organically from the inner city’s pavement. This is no New York or L.A. or Chicago wannabe posing. It just is what it is. To this spirit is stapled a tiny, eclectic and thought-provoking wine list and deliciously clean and crisp design lines (even wool shag carpet) by hotel designer and co-owner Alice Cottrell. Plans for an outdoor courtyard and wine lounge only assure that the luster deepens, carving another notch in the short bedpost of culinary experiences tasted through a distinctly Dallas prism.

Even though Gilbert’s Deli broke the hearts of many of its most loyal patrons by leaving North Dallas and moving to Addison, there are too many things about the restaurant that make the drive worthwhile. The meat loaf sandwich, the bagels, the pastrami, the vegetable soup, the knishes–all of which cost money. What doesn’t cost are the pickles, which are placed on every table alongside a mountain of crunchy bagel chips. Those deli pickles are of two varieties–kosher dills and half sours–and besides their abundance, they make the lips pucker, the mouth water and prepare the taste buds for the deli food that follows. If you ask Alan Gilbert where you can purchase a jar of these pickles, he has been known to reply, “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.” Rather than press the issue, the occasional drive north will have to suffice.

Their tagline is “We’ll make you a pizza you can’t refuse.” The logo splashed across their menu features a sextet of sharp-suited gentlemen walking toward you like a pack of reservoir dogs…and one is armed with a pizza box. The name of the joint is Café Nostra, and while they may play it up “bad,” every run-in we’ve had with these fellas has been good. Backed by lunch and dinner choices that are available in-house, for pickup or (best of all) for delivery, the fine folks at Nostra make us almost forget that we’re not around the corner from a genuine New York eatery. Appetizers to salads, pastas to pizzas, it’s all here, capice? Our favorite? Start off with some garlic knots and maliciously addictive Buffalo wings, then move on to the main event: The Sicilian. Aesthetically, it’s a bit like “The Big New Yorker,” but the similarities end there, as Nostra’s Sicilian is actually, you know, good. Each ingredient is balanced with precision in this thick-crusted rectangle of pie perfection. You’ll likely have leftovers, and you’ll definitely make use of them.

Better get to the Metropolitan Cafe early on Wednesdays, because the lunch special is crab cakes, and they sell like hotcakes, whatever that means. Unlike many Dallas restaurants that buy their crab cakes from food distributors, Metropolitan’s Momma Christine makes these oval morsels from scratch, having divined her recipe from a dream, she says, as she did for many of the soups, salads, sandwiches and such that find their way onto the menu of this hot downtown spot. These babies are sautéed rather than deep-fried, loaded with fresh crabmeat rather than frozen and served up Texas-style with black-eyed peas and coleslaw. Lawyers, cops and journalists lousy for lunch turn away in tears when they learn there will be no more crab cakes until the following Wednesday. Unless, of course, they can dream up their own recipe.

Located across from Baylor hospital, this place deserves a spot in the Greasy Spoon Hall of Fame. Waitresses balance three or four orders at once, all the while yelling good-natured chatter at one another and calling every customer “sweetie.” Signs on the wall note that only “two coffee warm-ups are allowed” before you start paying again, and another politely asks that you “do not stand in front of the door to smoke.” The griddle is on 24 hours, cranking out breakfast feasts (eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, breakfast tacos, etc.) anytime you get the urge. Back in the kitchen they’re whipping up chicken-fried steak, smothered pork chops, pinto beans and turnip greens to die for. Their motto is “Always Cookin’,” and that’s truth in advertising. Don’t be surprised if you have to wait for a booth or a spot at the counter to open.

Technically speaking, Krispy Kreme’s isn’t the best cup of coffee, if by “cup of coffee” you mean just coffee. Starbucks is fine for that, though with all its iced drinks, the chain lately seems more like an ice cream stand. (Hint: If it has lots of ice, sugar and milk and is whipped in a blender, it ain’t coffee. It’s a milk shake.) Krispy Kreme’s brew, taken in the right combination, hits on a more primitive level. Picture this: Your soul is screaming, as it’s up early for another miserable day working for the man. Gotta have something to brace the mind, and only that pitch-perfect blend of chemicals will do. First, start with hot grease and sugar from a doughnut. Add caffeine from the joe, then pitch in some sweet, sweet nicotine from the morning’s first cigarette, balanced delicately between two fingertips to keep you from singeing your eyebrows as you sip the steaming brew. Does the coffee taste the best? Who cares? What’s important is that deep inside your psyche, a primal, raging beast rolls over and purrs. It’s the best combo since some long-forgotten stoner said, “Hey, I know! Let’s put the hash in the brownies.”

It’s a given that a competent service staff has a deft grip on the menu, and Perry’s is no exception. Yet steak generally doesn’t cause a strain on the culinary memory banks. What does tax servers are the vagaries of people. Perry’s staff knows people. They know how to make them feel at ease, how to serve without being a pest (never interrupt a conversation to ask if everything is OK), how to anticipate needs, how to meet them without calling attention to the service protocol. Skillful service is being in the forefront while loitering in the background.

Readers pick

Perry’s serves only prime beef, and while prime may at times seem interchangeable with flame-proof saddle padding on the city’s menus, Perry’s has the real thing both on paper and between the lips. It’s juicy, rich and infiltrated with lusty silk that successfully straddles the razor-thin line between feminine refinement and masculine rusticity, never delving too far into either pocket. Each bite is a fresh adventure in the annals of beef-witted delight. Yet these gnaws are plump with exquisitely balanced flavor, and therefore rife with intelligence–the kind that fills your mind with two-fisted poetry.

Readers pick

Sooner or later, things become too complicated. This is true no matter the arena or walk of life. When our knowledge of the human body extended no further than the four humors, any barber could apply medicinal leeches or perform annual bleedings. Now we need specialists to assist the specialists referring us to other specialists who deny our medical insurance. Such is the case in the world of viniculture as well. In the old days, there was good wine (meaning French) or Thunderbird. Today, more than a million drinkable wines from vineyards in New Zealand and Argentina and South Africa and so on gather dust on shelves around the world. Todd Lincicome can discourse for hours on everything from soil types and rainfall amounts in wine-producing regions to storage conditions of individual vintages. Yet he lacks the snootiness we seem to expect from wine experts. Ask him for a decent, inexpensive wine (he doesn’t even mind if you use the word “cheap”) and he’ll launch into a discussion of bargain bottles. Even tricky orders–“I’m having beef and like a dry red; she’s having fish and enjoys a sweet white”–never throw him.

First, let’s put a few things on the table. This is not New York. Bagels here are not New York bagels. They are like us: They are not kneaded; they are whipped. Bagels here are machine-made and have lots of air in them. They’re soft. That doesn’t mean they have to taste like doughnuts, but they can. You have to be careful. So for the best compromise between bagel reality and what we wish bagel reality could be, it’s the Central Market salt bagel. This bagel offers generous size–a mittful. It’s got a skin with a good amount of resistance, a body with some heft and big chunks of salt on the surface. If we can’t have character, we’ll make do with saltiness.

Sometimes, one dish done perfectly is enough to bring you back to a restaurant time and again. Such is the case with Jade Garden’s orange chicken. While the restaurant itself is a dingy little place with ancient seating, cracked mirrors and limited parking, the chicken (extra crispy, with cashews, please) is almost painfully good. Covered in a sweet and salty sauce with pieces of orange peel, this dish is a delight not to be undertaken lightly: Please be sure to watch for drool and try not to burn yourself as you partake of this succulent poultry fare.

Often, big muffs are overrated. What you want is a muff that is just the right size. You ever try to eat a muff that was too big to fit in your mouth? Not fun. Quality, not quantity, is the way to go when searching out a tasty muff. Which is why our favorite muffuletta, when we’re not wanting to stuff ourselves, is the authentic one found at Gulf Coast. Served with Cajun fries and (if you’re smart) topped off with a $2 Stoli Bloody Mary, this bite of heaven takes us back to New Orleans’ Central Grocery, the originator of the muff. And if you can’t pay homage to the muff’s home, then don’t put one in your mouth.

Crescent City Cafe
Isn’t Louisiana considered one of the fattest states? Judging by the Louisiana cooking replicated in the Crescent City Cafe’s muffuletta, it’s no wonder. For the uninitiated, the muffuletta is a delectable sandwich with unusual flavor from a combination of ham and cheese and olives on a toasted loaf of sesame-seed-topped bread. The cafe sells the quarter muffuletta. Or you can get a half muffuletta, which is filling enough that you can skip meals for the next several days. Throw us some beads.

The Mozzarella Company is an amazing hole-in-the-wall Dallas success that produces specialty cheeses. We’re talking real whole-milk mozzarella that could make any self-respecting Italian smack his lips. It’s smooth and creamy and just flat-out good. Get out of the supermarket. Drive to the Mozzarella Company and see for yourself. You will agree. Molto buon.

Named after the sprawling ranch in the 1950s epic flick Giant, Reata is a Cowtown narrative of Texas cuisine. It skillfully merges diverse Southwestern influences with Texas staples. Tenderloin tamale with pecan mash is just one such species. It’s a supple meshing of flaky masa, beef, chopped pecan and cream wrapped in a shuck. The balance is impeccable; the textures are sublime, with only a bit of spice to dislodge it from potential doldrums–a tamale for the epic set.

Fungus is mostly a bore, except when it’s between your toes. Yet this same sort of urgency can be coaxed out of a mushroom every now and again. Avanti’s stuffed portobello Florentine with glazed chablis béchamel and Parmesan cheese is a lusty fungus treatment. Centered on a fleshy portobello cap complemented–but not in any way smothered–by the rich flavors of the clean, smooth sauce, this dish is a masterpiece of understated richness; of hearty meatiness that can only come from a toadstool relentlessly pestered with dairy products.

Raw beef in Texas is generally good for just one thing: grills. But what do you get when you slap raw beef with French rigor? One thing you don’t get is freedom flanks. Another thing you don’t get is modesty. Café C’s menu, created by Frenchman and “C” owner Francois Fotre, boasts that its steak tartare is “simply the best.” And its home of Little Elm, a mere mattress dimple in the stretch of bedroom communities hugging Lewisville Lake, is not a destination by any stretch. But 48 minutes of drive time seems a reasonable price for this mound of raw meat. It’s not so much the rich meat–urged into sublime flavors with a spicy dressing of egg yolk, mustard, cayenne, chopped capers, paprika, red wine vinegar and a little lemon–that draws. It’s the substitution of traditional toast points with house-made pommes frites (otherwise known as freedom fries). Why spread raw meat on toast when it’s much easier and tastier to gouge a pinch of ground carnality with a fry tip?

There’s cinnamon roll French toast, French toast sticks, even stuffed French toast. All these things are great (usually “for a limited time”) at some 24-hour breakfast joint, but the best French toast has no gimmick. It’s thick, soaked instead of battered and thick, thick, thick. What better way to achieve such qualities than to use fresh challah (Jewish egg bread) instead of skinny little pieces of white bread? That’s what the Bronx offers on its Sunday brunch menu, and we’re sure Mom would be embarrassed to serve that skimpy Wonder Bread version after having a gander at this one. Two slices of thick, flavorful toast lie temptingly bordered by a pitcher of warm syrup, real whipped cream, strawberries and butter for use at the diner’s discretion. One bite and the firm crusty edges give way to the tender heart of the challah, and Sunday morning magically fills with tasty bliss.

Dad says the best hangover cure is to take an aspirin before bed and another upon waking up, washed down with a Coca-Cola. That works for the headache and drunken-injury aches, but what about that pit inside screaming for sustenance? Enter the Angry Dog and eat away at the post-intox hunger with an Angry Dog cheeseburger, nachos or even The Natural if you’re not real keen on the meat. This may sound like a bad thing, but the sodium content of a burger here is enough to force you into healthy hydration for the remainder of the day, and that’s a good thing when the only liquid in your system is the kind others can smell emitting from the pores on your contaminated body. The waitstaff is helpful and deft at refilling drinks and maneuvering through the close tables and our burger-eating asses. Plus, if you subscribe to the “hair of the dog” system, the full bar can knock you out of hangover and into next week.

It’s Sunday evening, the lawn’s mowed, laundry’s done, the kitchen’s clean and, frankly, why dirty it again? Pick up the phone and call the friendly man who remembers every customer (and we’re convinced he’s the super-nice delivery guy, too) and won’t complain if you want a fountain drink instead of a canned one. While the Mongolian beef, fried rice and chicken lo mein are sure bets, there’s a dish that’s truly worth the caloric intake and financial splurge on takeout: General Tso’s chicken. It’s nothing short of delectable, with crispy bits surrounding tender chicken pieces in a sweet and spicy sauce (mind the demonic red peppers). There’s nothing “general” about this chicken; it’s so good we can’t believe it arrives in Styrofoam.

Part of the experience of the Izmir order is the personality of the husband-and-wife team (Mehdi and Faye Nazari, an uncle and aunt of the owners Beau and Ali) that usually answers the phone. Mehdi’s got an amazingly accented voice that is welcoming and calming (for those of us who hate phoning in an order). And both he and Faye are fantastic at helping the undecided choose what to order. The chicken and arugula sandwich on marble rye bread is amazingly bold. Chicken schnitzel is a true specialty, and the cold mozzarella sandwich with basil and tomatoes is crisp, light and makes a perfect meal with the addition of a side Greek salad (the dressing, oh, the dressing). The Mediterranean fare is a top-notch delivery option, but plan to order before 9 p.m. As Mehdi always says, they’ll have it there “in about 40 minutes, hopefully sooner.” It’s always sooner, and in the world of delivery, punctuality and ordering assistance along with spectacular food make Izmir Market and Deli truly the best. Don’t forget to order a brownie; they’re delicious and about as big as your face.

This is Texas, so it’s understood that there are quite a few margaritas to be had out there. And before we went on this quest we were pretty accepting of whatever ‘rita goodness was served to us. Then we walked into Sol’s. To be honest, we weren’t thinking Best of Dallas. We were just having some Mexican food with a friend and decided to imbibe. Our patient waiter discussed with us the merits of the top shelf and urged us to choose that over the basic version. A little suspicious of a possible up-sell, we went ahead. Bless that man! Sauza Conmemorativo and Gran Marnier provided an outstanding base for what our bartender concocted for us. It was light, not too tart, not too sweet, didn’t burn the hair off our chest, and yet it sure as hell hit us about 10 minutes later. This top shelf schooled us in the finely prepared margarita.

The qualities of perfect cheesecake are really oxymorons if you think about it. Each bite should be saturated with flavor but fluffy and rich, while also being light. The Xango has all those characteristics, plus a surprising one: It’s wrapped in pastry dough and flash-fried. Sign us up. Understand, though, we’re not supporters of all things fried. We don’t dig the fried Twinkie, and frankly, a battered Snickers is way too much to deal with. The Xango, however, is so different from all the greasy, too-much-batter treats that are dunked in funnel cake mix. And while we do love a good funnel cake, in this instance, lighter is better. The pastry shell is crisp and thin, makes a nice crackle when attacked by a fork and, oddly enough, isn’t greasy in the slightest. Topped only with cinnamon sugar, the Xango stands on its own (no unnecessary drizzle) and rewards the taste buds.

Harry’s has had it going on since 1996. Truth be told, his mom had it before that, since it’s her stellar recipe that makes possible the creamiest frozen custard ever to pass our lips. The shop makes custard daily, changing up flavors while keeping favorites like chocolate, strawberry, etc. It’s probably safe to claim that if they’ve made it, we’ve tried it, and rarely have we been disappointed. Don’t worry if a particular flavor doesn’t appear on the day’s list. Almost all flavors Harry’s makes are available in pints and quarts. While in the shop, don’t let a good dog down. Harry’s is also famous for hot dogs (the best in the city), and there’s nothing boring about them (the dog comes in various clothing from Texas chili to sauerkraut).

Appetizers are nice friendly little things, like shrimp cocktails and fried crab cakes that look like powder puffs. But fried jumbo asparagus? What a freak. Served on a bed of field greens and roasted corn relish with an addictive, smooth mango-serrano chili cream sauce, these battered and fried asparagus stalks look like battle-hardened insect legs. Yet you must never judge asparagus by its duds. The stalks are delicious, with a brittle, crisp coating and a snappy stem that didn’t dry out or go mushy after a trip to the fry bath. Don’t try this with a carrot.

The title Best Hamburger is not limited to the burger alone. It encompasses the atmosphere and the options as well as flavor. When we want a burger, chances are we want a drink, too. (Hey, we’re going for the full-blown unhealthy beef and brew combo.) Enter the Landing, as we neighborhood dwellers are prone to call it, and they’ve got the atmosphere and the options for our dietary delinquency. It’s dark, cool and no one’s easily identifiable should our running partner happen to saunter by. Plus, there’s a selection of cheeses (go with provolone) to heighten the caloric content of our edible sin. The taste is slightly charred, not too salty and fresh with all the veggies piled on. And the bun…the bun is sheer toasty goodness. Fries abound, and there’s even a veggie burger for the meat-free. Order a beer and burger, hit one of the best jukeboxes in town and choose a well-worn seat for a real red-meat treat.

You may think you need to live near this White Rock eatery to order its pizza, but we would argue that the trip is worth it unless you live in Wylie or Red Oak–and even then, it may be a good idea to give it a go. Alfonso’s is a small Italian restaurant that serves pretty good pasta, but it’s the pizza that distinguishes this place. Generous portions, fresh vegetables, enough (but not too much) tomato sauce, sausage to die for…oh, sweet Mama, we’re gettin’ hungry. Our fave? Difficult to say, but it’s hard to go wrong with a large sausage, onion and mushroom.

Even people who aren’t fans of pizza will surreptitiously try to sneak a slice of Scalini’s. It’s thin, not too delicate and the options for topping allow creative license for personal pizza heaven. For dining in, delivery or carryout, the family folks at Scalini’s serve up the best thin-crust pie we’ve ever masticated. Although incredible when direct from the oven, the cheesy goodness is never compromised by a quick car ride. A favorite with us is one with sausage, fresh basil and fresh tomatoes (for veggie-lovers, eighty-six the sausage and add pine nuts). The flavor is robust, and the aroma is divine. Order up; just don’t forget a side Greek salad.

It’s the kind of neighborhood family spot you find all over the outer boroughs of New York: bright, bustling and filled with good smells and foreign, friendly waiters. In fact, Sal Jakova brought his family and recipes to this location (inevitably, a second Sal’s is opening in Plano) from Queens 21 years ago. Some of the best pizza around, Neapolitan and Sicilian, bubbles in Sal’s ovens to be sold by the slice as well as in pies of four sizes. The heroes are heroic, the calzones flaky and tongue-searing, the pastas more than passable, and the stromboli has, in previous years, been recognized in these pages as the city’s best. The menu is rounded out by an ample selection of veal, chicken and seafood dishes. Sal’s is also probably one of the safest places in town, because you’ll almost always find cops eating here, testimony to the large portions and working-guy prices. Go on a Sunday night, when Sal’s is presided over by colorful son Kenny, and you’ll find a cross section of the community chowing down like straphangers.

There’s just something about ordering a small pizza the size of a large child that gets us hot and bothered; better still if we’re eating it alone (and we usually are, wah). This venerable establishment, which has been facing Bachman Lake since it was a puddle, feels like a slice of Manhattan in the middle of Northwest Dallas. The pies are enormous and juicy (dare not say greasy), served so hot and sloppy you need 10 napkins for just a slice–and a fork, too, unless you’ve brought a change of clothes, which we highly recommend. The pizza’s available by the slice, but like the commercial says, you can’t have just one. Close runners-up: Marco’s in Preston Royal, various Campisi’s locations and Sal’s on Wycliff Avenue. Close, that is, but no calzone.

Gone are the days when fast-food fare was simply the likes of Burger King and Sonic. Right alongside them are restaurants that fall into the “quick casual” genre and whip out dishes with the same attention to speed offered by their more downscale culinary cousins. Enter Tin Star and Baja Fresh and Masala Wok, and you will find food that hurries as well as tastes good. Pei Wei Asian Diner, the P.F. Chang spin-off, gets our vote in this category. They do up rice bowls and noodle dishes right, offering them at modest prices and with enough haste to make dinner and a movie a reality instead of an ideal. Orange slices accompanying green iced tea, napkins thick enough to withstand the strain of a meal, an open kitchen and a sleek décor are the kinds of touches that make the capacity crowds here willing to slow down and actually chew their food.

This category makes us hearken to our own salad days when Mom made the best damn chicken salad this side of the Ukraine. That is why we set the bar so high for this category and why we sampled way too much chicken salad. But in our quest for the best, we have come to one unalterable conclusion: It ain’t just chicken and mayo no more. There’s a whole bunch of stuff going on. The chicken is chunky as well as smooth, and it is mixed with apples, apricots, grapes, nuts, mushrooms, honey, eggs, tarragon, curry–more spices than you can pull off a rack. And although Two Sisters Catering Company gave Whole Foods a serious run for its money (yes, we also sampled Central Market), the simplicity and overall good taste of Whole Foods’ “classic chicken salad” just hit too close to home for us to pass up.

How bagels lost their Jewish ethnicity and became the breakfast bread of Americans from Mississippi to Maine has less to do with assimilation than it does with marketing. But we suggest that it’s time for another Jewish bread to become the next crossover cuisine, even though it is more ceremonial in nature (part of the blessing before Jewish feasts) than its distant cousin, the bagel. Clearly, you don’t have to be Jewish to enjoy challah: The multi-ethnic appeal of challah is obvious during any Jewish celebration (weddings, bar mitzvahs) where gentiles are in attendance. And why not? The egg bread is sweet, fluffy, great plain or with butter. And no one makes it better than Empire Baking Company, which understands that good challah needs just the right consistency–not so airy that it’s all crust and no dough, and not so doughy that it can double as a doorstop. Empire’s crust and dough are in perfect harmony.

We hesitate to point this out because Desperados, the longtime Tex-Mex hideaway on Upper Greenville Avenue, is one of our favorite weekend haunts. We hesitate because part of the reason we love it so much is that it never seems too crowded. Sure, it gets full, but it’s not like one of those trendy Dallas spots where you know you’ll wait an hour and a half every Friday evening. You may have trouble parking, as the lot is fairly small, but after that it’s smooth sailing. The service is fantastic, the food is top-notch (everything from the “awesome nachos” to the puffy, crunchy Desperado tacos to the more expensive specialty dinners is worth putting in your mouth) and the desserts are sumptuous (the flan is worth the trip). Top-shelf ‘ritas ain’t too shabby, either. Desperados has fine North Dallas and Garland locations as well, but if you want to stay close to the Friday-night action without too much hassle, start your weekend here.

Not mushy, not crunchy, just right–even Goldilocks would be satisfied (if she were into french fries). These golden beauties are always warm and crisp, like great fries should be, but the real secret is in the seasoning. The spicy, salty blend has made Burger House fries famous since 1951, and with good reason. Even the thought of their aromatic deliciousness makes us salivate. If you’re wavering in your Atkins diet conviction, this is the place to cheat. Do it up right, too: Don’t forget the ketchup.

For all but the heartiest eaters, $7 goes someplace at Sal’s, someplace good. For $7, you can get a massive slice of Neapolitan (thin crust) pizza with one topping and a nice garden salad, or a bowl of ziti with fresh tomato sauce, or that old standby, a big plate of spaghetti. No wonder in these difficult times business seems as good as ever.

Café Izmir has all the staples: briskly fresh tabbouleh, velvety-smooth and nutty hummus (among the best you’ll find anywhere), warm, thick pita bread and deliciously juicy lamb, beef and chicken. But the best part of Café Izmir is the tapas offerings, little plates of mixed olives, dolmas, grilled asparagus and beef and chicken kabobs, among other nibbles. On Tuesdays the tapas plates are just two bucks, along with $14 bottles of wine from an eclectic list that includes offerings from Greece, Lebanon, Spain and France. This is a noteworthy weekly event, especially in light of the news over the summer that the feds are thinking of bringing back the $2 bill after a seven-year hiatus. According to the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, as of February 28, 1999, there was some $1.2 billion in $2 bills pumping through the economy. Hell, let’s launch a campaign. Collect $2 bills and energize the currency every tapas Tuesday. Encourage other restaurants to have $2 bill specials. Without a strong $2 bill, the terrorists win.

We’ve been known to watch Sunday morning turn to Sunday evening at this McKinney Avenue eatery, where our cups of awesome coffee always manage to turn into tall mojitos; somehow the thought that Monday’s around the corner goes down better with a gulp of rum poured over crushed ice, sugar and lime. Against our better judgment, we always start with the basket of exotic breads–carbs schmarbs, and just look at what happened to Dr. Atkins, anyhoo. Then it’s on to the dishes of eggs and ham and cheese and sauce so rich you’d swear the whole plate could buy Mark Cuban. When the weather’s nice we sit outside, though parking-lot fumes are a bit hard to choke down unless you’re on your third caipirinha. Which we are right now, as a matter of fact.

Maxim’s
Got a couple of hours to kill on a Sunday morning? (Or any other day of the week, for that matter?) Try this Chinatown wonderland off Greenville Avenue and Main Street in Richardson, where the waitstaff strolls through this gargantuan restaurant with wagons full of goodies familiar (shrimp-and-scallion dumplings, fried rice, sautéed Chinese broccoli) and mysterious (soup with “1,000-year-old eggs,” we kid you not) and always delicious. Maxim’s, so named for a legendary Hong Kong eatery, offers the best dim sum experience in town: Eat till you can’t talk, and wash it all down with the pur tea that seems to make room in your tummy for more of the pork barbecue-stuffed buns or the steamed shrimp balls (yeah, yeah–who knew they had ’em, got it). Arrive early, before the 11 a.m. rush, and stay late or just move in; you’ll be back next weekend, anyway.

If all else fails and you’d rather hang among tourists than Dallasites, go to the West End. Let’s rephrase: If there’s a cool joint in the West End, then it’s Spiatza’s Italian Grill and Bar. Tucked between a shack full of crabs and the infamous neon rainbow walkway, it’s a bit hard to find, but the ample-sized servings along with a down-to-earth bar atmosphere make it worth the search. Rumor is that in the near future, the walls will evolve from heroin-chic paintings to flat-screen TVs, and the waitresses will begin wearing baby tees bearing a Nick’s Sport City logo. But in the meantime, what’s so cool about this West End secret? They accept DART Pass coupons, Southwestern alligator pasta is on the menu and the kitchen stays open until at least 1 a.m. on the weekends. Whether the name changes, it gets the big thumbs up: It’s the most convenient spot to hit before or after an American Airlines Center event.

The criteria here are a restaurant where you are comfortable taking the kids and where you actually like the food. Not an easy order, at least until you find the pasta pleasures offered at this reasonably priced Park Cities eatery. Sharply designed–it was the old Café A–with a nice sidewalk patio, Penne Pomodoro serves some of the best hearty pasta dishes in town. Given the liberal smattering of tykes around every time we’ve been there, it’s obvious that the word is out: This is a family place. If you think your mother could make lasagna, you’ll stop boasting after you try the massive, sizzling, subtly flavored square served here. For those looking for a little less calorie loading, there’s a nice selection of fish specials, led by the spicy fisherman’s stew.

No, Frito pie wasn’t invented in a double-wide disposal. Daisy Dean Doolin, mother of Elmer Doolin, the Frito Company founder, concocted the recipe in the kitchen of her San Antonio home way back in 1932 in the depth of the Great Depression. At Sonny Bryan’s downtown tunnel location, they substitute chopped brisket for ground beef in the $4.99 Thursday Frito pie special, and it makes for a monster dish. The beef is mixed with Fritos corn chips, barbecue sauce, beans, chives and cheese. You also get a small drink. Dave “The Baron of Beef” Rummel, the store’s manager, says Thursdays have become the shop’s biggest day of the week partly because of the rising popularity of this down-home dish. Ham, sausage, chicken and the very tasty pulled pork are featured the other days of the week. In these lean times, Mrs. Doolin’s hearty invention should keep you feeling fat until dinner, if not into the middle of next week.

Be honest, most salsas that restaurants bring out with the premeal basket of chips taste pretty much the same. The only difference is whether they’re mild, hot or nuclear. Unless, that is, you’re dipping into Ozona’s unique blend of fire-roasted tomatoes, jalapeños and lots of fresh garlic that make up a West Texas-style salsa that will have you returning for more. Served warm, it’ll get the sweat beading but won’t leave blisters on the roof of your mouth. And it’s a bonus to be able to dip it or spread it over your entrée while seated in the recently remodeled tree-covered patio.

Ask Americans about their heritage and almost invariably they will mention some distant Irish or Italian ancestor who fled the old country during a famine or riot or depressing film festival. Reconnecting with our Irish roots is a simple matter involving buckets of whiskey and a bloody brawl. Finding the inner Italian, on the other hand, requires more authenticity. Arcodoro & Pomodoro prepares true Sardinian cuisine in a space designed to mimic the rustic elegance of an Italian street-side cafe. More important, they serve grappa–more than 12 varieties–and other traditional liqueurs. Nothing says “I’m Italian” better than a day spent sipping the vicious remnants of the grapevine, bottled neatly and served in a deceptively narrow glass. Grappa packs enough wallop to put hair on a woman’s upper lip.

We suspect Peggy Sue’s gets ignored by Texas Monthly and other established barbecue-rating agencies because it’s in the Park Cities–and what-inna-world would those stiffs know about ‘cue? We are here to assure you that the barbecue world is a classless society, and besides, Peggy Sue’s wagon-wheel décor and early-’60s house music will make you feel right at home. Anyway, why fret over prissy details? Barbecue is about meat, and if you can find a sweeter, meltier, crunchy-on-the-outsidier example of a baby back rib, by all means, ship us a box of them right away. We also like Peggy Sue’s big selection of sides, starting with the tangy vinegar-based coleslaw and the old-fashioned fries.

Dining vegetarian frequently involves ordering a salad (hold the ham cubes), second-guessing whether the soup may have been cooked with chicken stock or leaving hungry. None of these applies at Cosmic Café. It’s all vegetarian, much of it is vegan and we still haven’t found a dish we don’t like. Though it’s Indian-inspired, there are also enchiladas, beans and rice, salads, sandwiches, a burger (meatless, of course) and a personal pizza in addition to samosas, dahl, curried vegetables, nan and pappadam. The desserts are even vegan. You won’t miss the meat, we promise. C’mon, even our mom likes it.

We used to think that our old college roommate’s homemade piña coladas were the best possible use for pineapple juice. They were so good we almost didn’t mind the brain freeze we got trying to hide the evidence from our dorm monitor. But, you see, we had yet to discover The Scza. While the name (pronounced skee-za) sounds like something you might hear on Doggy Fizzle Televizzle, and, in fact, it is off da hizzle fo’ shizzle, there’s nothing ghetto about this Meridian Room original. A combination of vanilla vodka, coconut rum and pineapple juice, The Scza is the perfect beverage for summer or spring or any other season. Admittedly, the drink is pretty girly, and the cherry that tops it off doesn’t help matters, but take this opportunity to get in touch with your feminine side. And if you’re able, do it on the first Monday of the month, when The Meridian Room hooks up with Good Records for Good Music Monday. You’ll have the chance to listen to new releases, win prizes and sip on half-price draft beers. Definitely worth a trip to Exposition Park.

Well, Dallas finally got The Bird. First it was College Station (in 1990), then Austin (in 1999) and Houston (in 2001), but it seemed Big D might get lost in the shuffle. So when Freebirds World Burrito opened this spring in the Old Town shopping center, the lines that formed outside made it clear that this grand opening was a long time coming. Freebirds makes the best burrito this side of the border, any border, ever. But the customer has a lot to do with that, considering all the options The Bird offers for its burritos. Sizes range from a half to a super monster, and there are four types of tortillas, six kinds of sauces and ingredients too numerous to mention. Let’s just say there’s a bunch of ’em, and they’re mighty tasty. If you opt for the monster or super monster, though, be prepared for leftovers.

Jerry Jeff Walker immortalized it in song. Chain restaurants often lace their margaritas with it. Even Boone’s Farm has a version of the concoction. In spite of all that, we love that sangria wine. And at Spanish tapas bar Cafe Madrid, we really love it. Their sangria is a mixture of red wine and…well, we can’t tell you the rest, something about a “trade secret.” But whatever, the stuff is good, and in the summer months, you can opt for a white sangria that’s made with cava, a Spanish sparkling wine, and some other stuff we can’t tell you about. It’s cool and refreshing and yummy, and the mystery just makes it all the more exciting. And if you like to do a little snacking with your drinking, the eatery’s tapas selection offers some excellent complements to the fruity beverage. Just a note, though: If, like us, you’ve never been accused of being the brightest crayon in the box, and you can’t figure out why the menu doesn’t make sense, look to your right; the other side is in English. Yeah. Have some more sangria.

Even if Dawat didn’t serve the exotic and sensually complex cuisine emanating from India, it would be an absorbing experience. Couched in a former General Cinema multiplex theater, Dawat is the creation of a pair of Richardson businessmen, one Pakistani, the other of Indian descent. They cobbled together 47 investors and $6 million to turn the place into FunAsiA, a complex featuring banquet rooms, a concession stand, an ice cream parlor, a fast-food outlet, an arcade, an advertising business, a theater that shows Bollywood films and an office where a free monthly magazine (FunAsiA) is published. The food is exquisite, even when left to the horrifying tortures of the buffet table, a ubiquitous staple in Indian restaurants that may in fact be a requirement under Texas state restaurant statutes. Chicken boti is moist (as are the lamb and beef dishes) with an army of flavors–lemon, coriander, garlic, ginger, cumin, garam masala (spice blend)–that seem to line up for dazzling choreography instead of a fighting formation on the tongue. Rice even has its 15 minutes–plain or adulterated–with firm, distinct and separate grains. Palak paneer, a spinach slurry blended with planks of white cheese, is sublime. Not bad for a place with ornate banquet rooms set up in traditional festive Indian wedding garb around the corner from an immense air hockey table.

Nana has always had a spectacular view of Dallas from its 27th-floor perch, but it was blunted by burgundy brothel décor that included acoustic ceiling tiles, brass railings and sagging velvet curtains that cramped the windows. Now more than a year old, Nana’s understated makeover has settled in. Alterations include Asian art installations from the Trammell Crow family collection, unobtrusive sage green curtains, rich gold carpeting, newly installed banquettes and ribbed, sandblasted glass panels around the raised open kitchen, subduing the severe visual thrust this culinary cockpit had when it was wrapped in clear glass. The food in this stunning room is virtually flawless, crafted as it is by David McMillan, easily among the top handful of chefs in Dallas. McMillan performs unparalleled wizardry that manifests itself in grilled Texas quail (with armagnac-poached prunes), silky grilled prime fillet in a black shallot sauce and sublime veal Rossini in a brew of Madeira and truffles, among other classics with shrewdly imaginative twists. Service is superb, and the wine portfolio is well-endowed. Plus, there is Nana herself: a 6-foot-by-9-foot portrait of a reclining, Rubenesque nude painted by Russian-Polish artist Gospodin Marcel Gavriel Suchorowsky in 1881. Tasty.

Progeny of longtime Dallas restaurateur Charlie Venetis, Charlie’s Opa! Grille is a rich cacophony of Greek grub, sprawling the gamut from deliciously tender lamb chops to flaky spanakopita (a savory pie), juicy grilled chicken, gyros that are lean, rich moussaka (Greek lasagna) and saganaki, thick pie sections of lightly breaded Romano cheese that are deep-fried, placed on a hot metal plate, doused with a shot of vodka that hisses and steams, and then set ablaze. The waiter shouts “Opa!,” which is Greek for, “What the hell happened to your eyebrows?”

You can’t drive through, and they won’t serve it to you in a cardboard box, but for flavor and crispness, Ed Lowe’s restaurant, which has been on the Dallas scene for 32 years, is head and shoulders above all others. All day Sunday (11 a.m. to 9:30 p.m.) and on Monday and Tuesday nights, the $10.50 fried chicken plate is on the menu. You can get two large pieces of white, dark or mixed. And there are fresh vegetables, salad, soup or fruit. And, hey, you can ask for seconds with no additional charge. Their secret? It’s the marinade the chicken is soaked in for 12 hours. “Can’t tell you what’s in it,” says Lowe, “but our cook got the recipe from his mother.”

Few car hawkers are as passionate about wine as Van Roberts (Point West Volvo) and his Lola. The restaurant is his vino playground. Roberts is a diligent and tireless wine-taster and list-tweaker, and his roster shows it. Lola’s selection of Italian wines rivals that of just about any Italian restaurant in Dallas, and his group of Alsatian wines (more than 30) is unheard of in these parts. German and Austrian bottles, too. Half-bottles and magnums round out size options, and 25 wines are offered by the glass. There is also a collection of Roberts’ favorite bottles from around the world. But the best thing about Lola’s wine list is the prices, and not just the generous list of “twentysomethings” in the $20-$29 range. Roberts keeps his markups low, which means you can get a bottle of Krug Grand Cuvee for $170 (hard to find on lists for less than $200) or a ’97 Diamond Creek “Volcanic Hill” cab for $180. This puts that special-occasion sip within reach with wines that most people will never taste in their lifetimes.

OK. Glen Rose isn’t Podunk. It’s a swell little quaint town with lots of rejuvenating hospitality and giant fiberglass dinosaurs. But the restaurant in Rough Creek Lodge, an executive retreat with activities ranging from bird-watching to hunting wild boars, has a profoundly delicious menu–so delicious, it would do any haughty metropolis proud. Sherry-maple-glazed Texas quail is the best version of this bird (Nosh it or shoot it? You get to pick!) you’re likely to find. Likewise, the porcini mushroom-crusted salmon elevates this stately fish to new levels. Peppercorn-crusted fillet of beef is pure silk. Pack your spyglasses or your Remington. But don’t forget your refined sensibilities.

It’s truly weird when a bit of hog can outflank a steer in an upper-crust steak house. It’s even weirder when that pork piece is not a loin or a chop, but a shank. It looks like a battered, partially deflated deep-fried soccer ball: in other words, butt ugly (which is no way meant to denigrate pork butts). But Smith & Wollensky’s crackling pork shank is a beautiful thing in the mouth. Sitting in a rat’s nest of sauerkraut studded with poppy seeds, this crusted, crunchy brown ball is a hive of lusty rich flavor delivered by moist, tender pork flesh. And its preparation is just as ugly as its appearance. The shank is scored, cured in salt and sugar for a day or two, braised in beef lard and deep-fried in oil. The deep-frying sheathes it in crisp crust (leaking fat with every chew–yum) that seals in the juices, allowing the pork to come off like silk. You can feel your arteries quaking in fear as your tongue waters in anticipation. Get in there and get one quick, before the National Institutes of Health sends in a SWAT team and puts a stop to this vicious health crime.

Wine flights, even in rooms posing as wine bars, are often a rarity. When they are offered, they arrive as laser-printer sheets of paper with little circles so servers can bull’s-eye the glass bases in proper flight formation. But at Mercy, flights are delivered in 6-ounce crystal carafes dangling from custom-hewn loops of iron with little hooks fastened inside the carafe handle. Tasters can pour wine from the carafe to the glass at their leisure. Looking is half the pleasure of wine tasting–at least until your vision blurs–and this contraption is stunning. And far be it from us to suggest anything illegal, but they can also be used to hang tiny little pots, thus making swell windowsill herb gardens.

Veal piccata, a thin veal escalope that’s dredged in flour, seasoned, sautéed and sauced in lemon, takes on many forms in Dallas. Sometimes it’s pasty, sometimes thick. Sometimes it’s drowning in lemon to the pucker point. But Ernie’s, a supper club with dancing and avocado crab salads, gets it right. Pounded into a skinny scaloppine and drenched with a bracing butter, wine and lemon sauce seriously studded with capers, the meat is tender and juicy. Plus, the flour dredge on the veal never congeals into that slimy Lake Ray Hubbard mucus that is so common in many Dallas preparations.

Back in the ’90s, when Seinfeld dominated prime time, one of the things Elaine really wanted was a big salad. Sounds easy enough, but apparently it’s more difficult than one might think, and Elaine’s not the only one who’s come up short. Dallas menus are laden with subpar salads–limp lettuce, bland dressings and sparse ingredients abound. But not at Baker Bros. These guys do it right, and they do it big. All five offerings on the deli’s salad menu are excellent, but the Santa Fe chicken salad is a standout. A mix of greens sown with roasted chicken, cheddar cheese, tomato, red onion, green onion, black olives, cilantro and spiced pecans, the Santa Fe is a meal within a meal. Just when you think you’ve picked out all the good stuff, a quick flick of the fork reveals another layer of once-hidden heaven. And topped with Baker Bros.’ Southwestern honey mustard, well, it’s just too hard to talk about.

Nikita is a hash of Soviet Bloc funk twisted and sanitized into Red hip, which means it serves caviar and James Bond flicks. But it also has one swell innovation crafted with a lowly proletariat root–the beet, progenitor of borscht. Nikita’s golden beet and goat-cheese salad, feathered with arugula and planked with petite green beans, is a masterpiece. Slightly sweet and tangy pink beets loiter on the edges of a plate puffed with greens and doused in horseradish vinaigrette. Add a flight of vodkas, and it will send you into orbit like Laika the Sputnik 2 space dog.

La Dolce Vita
Take a break from overpowering, burnt-cheese-laden, tomato paste-centric Italian food with a light dish from La Dolce Vita. While they do serve classic pastas and pizzas, we often opt for the salads. The caprese, one of our favorites, is flavorful with juicy tomatoes, red onions and fresh, delicate mozzarella mixed with field greens and the house vinaigrette. We adore the arugula salad–crisp, peppery arugula and shaved lettuce drizzled with lemongrass olive oil. The fact that you can dine here without feeling like you ate a bread truck makes it a great lunch spot.

Dragonfly’s white bean soup is as beautiful as it is tasty. It’s assembled at the table with bowls of ingredients–tomato, tiny crouton cubes, smoked bacon and white beans–ceremoniously transferred to a serving dish. This soup is a smooth, piping-hot blend with a creamy texture and a delicate racy aroma from pureed fennel, while the rough bean grip is pleasantly pronounced. It’s as nourishing to the paunch as it is captivating to the noodle, which is pretty good for a bean.