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.

It's just a fact: You cannot buy really fresh lima beans or speckled butter beans in a supermarket. Fresh, they have no shelf life. That's why we buy them here, from Pat Sherlock, a farmer/dealer who trucks fresh-picked beans by the bushel from his fields in Canton and sells them by the pint to grateful city folk. His beans are a taste of natural abundance.

Nothing fancy here, just basic ocean livestock. It's fast, simple, and indelicate. But it's the best fast, simple, and indelicate you'll find. The oysters--at just $6.95 a dozen--are clean and firm. Servers whip up a sauce right at your table with ketchup, horseradish, Tabasco, Worcestershire sauce, and a squeeze of lemon. If we tried that, we'd end up with a batch of Braveheart special effects. Peel-and-eat shrimp are succulently lush. Broiled fish is extraordinary: fresh, moist, and well seasoned. Plus, they have gumbo and oyster loaf sandwiches. Tip: Mix in a little tartar sauce and Tabasco with that oyster loaf, and you've got a swell hair gel.

Opened in 1981 in a 1927 Texaco station, this fried-chicken sibling to the Babe's Chicken Dinner Houses in Garland and Roanoke is a no-frills art-deco temple to biddy crunch. And it's like no other. The chicken is juicy, firm, well-seasoned (but not too much) and greaseless (damn near, anyway). Each piece of Arkansas chicken is marinated for 24 hours. It comes tethered to killer mashed potatoes, juicy sweet corn on the cob and moist, tasty rolls (like angel food cake). There's no better way in Dallas to convert pullet to paunch.

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 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.

Considering that they named their restaurant for their hot dog, it had better be good, right? Well, it is good. Split in half and served open-face with mustard and piled high with chili, cooked onions and a heap of American cheese, the Angry Dog's Angry Dog is actually something that you'd order at a ballpark if it were served there. For $5.25 you get the Angry Dog and seasoned fries and a pickle, which is probably cheaper than what you could take back with you to the cheap seats, anyway. The best part is that it's actually sold outside the ballpark, which means you don't have to watch another abysmal performance by the Rangers.

The best thing about a wrap is that they are healthy (or so goes the perception). Bread has somehow become the enemy for dieters, and the flour or spinach wrap has taken its place as the vehicle for sandwiches. No one makes wraps as tasty (and, if you like, unhealthy) as Wall Street Deli, which boasts a dozen stores in the metroplex. Some staffers call the wraps "belly-busters," and with good reason. The chicken caesar features meaty chunks of processed fowl cubes resting in a soupy bed of ranch dressing and feta and mozzarella cheeses. A roasted veggie wrap is a healthier, but not smaller, option. Of course, Mexican food has dominated the wrap world for centuries. Fajitas and burritos cornered the gastronomical market until people renamed tortillas "wraps." But why complain? Since when has wrap been limited to one language?

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.

It's not hard to get good cheeseburgers or cheddar fries around here (Snuffer's is terrific on both of those fronts, but they employ a service system that tends to screw up your order and try your patience). Still, Fat Daddy's has about the best combination. Their half-pound cheeseburgers are as good as they come (they also have a full 1-pound burger for the especially hungry), and the cheese fries are loaded with artery-clogging cheddar. Plus, when you walk in, the staff screams, "Welcome to Fat Daddy's." A good burger, good cheese fries and a cheery welcome. That's service.