When the folks at Casa Rosa say their guacamole is fresh, they mean it. This tasty avocado appetizer is made at your table, before your very eyes, and the quality is undeniable. Compared with the typical cooler-wilted guacamole you'll find at many other Mexican restaurants, Casa Rosa's version is superb. The fact that you get to choose your own ingredients also makes it the best in town.

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?"

Red Square McDonald's aside, we never expected to eat lunch with Lenin. And if we ever did, we expected it to be, of course, during some strange Bill and Ted-esque time-travel adventure. Yet, right in front of Goff's stands a life-size statue of Lenin, sternly glaring as you bite into a juicy Goffburger and ponder political economics. Or simply wonder if you should spring for a fried pie (we say go for it). If you buy him an Orangina, he might answer that pesky question you've had about The State and Revolution. Not that we suspect the hamburger joint of harboring Commies, because they know, as it proudly states on Lenin's pedestal, "AMERICA WON." Goff's burgers are made fresh, but, in true capitalist fashion, they only take cash.

Though it's written in French, the list at Jeroboam is one of the most intelligently organized and readable we've seen. The first eight pages serve as a table of contents, with wines categorized under regional headings along with bottle and by-the-glass prices. There is also a bin number that cross-references to pages in the list with regional descriptions, tasting notes, and wine specifications. Fifty-six pages of maps showing districts and villages help describe the wines' origins. The prices aren't bad either.

It's a little confusing, this heavy metal bandying about by Mico Rodriguez (The M Crowd, Restaurant Life) and company. The Mercury used to be a casual fine dining experience in a strip mall at Preston and Forest. But that shingle got changed to Mercury Grill. The new "The Mercury" (a tribute to Orson Welles' and John Houseman's Mercury Theatre in New York) was revamped and installed in the Shops of Willow Bend in Plano. And what an installation it is. It's a contemporary brush of soft hues and glimmering hard surfaces, the kind that relax instead of agitate. The Mercury isn't visually busy or fashionably annoying, rather it's so tastefully done in every area that it's hard not to marvel between bites. Tan booth enclosures and the green-blue frosted glass frame the clear glass viewing slits in front of the kitchen. Those slits reveal an avalanche of stainless steel. Good things go on in there, too. Every dish--no, every bite--is a near-flawless oral escapade. Simple afterthoughts--like the ubiquitous house salad--become attention-getting flourishes within its midst. Fried calamari, almost as ubiquitous as pretzel twists and peppermint candy in bars and restaurants, takes on new life. Who would have thought of parking battered little tentacle blossoms and tender body rings on a bed of creamy risotto rattled out of composure by a spicy tomato sauce? This is the kind of stuff that makes the best dining a bastion of perfect moments; when unexpected elements come together with such gentle seamlessness they seem genetically predisposed to couple. Yet with all this culture and pedigree, The Mercury omits Paul Masson from its wine list. Orson Welles would be so jealous.

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.

We're constantly amazed to discover how many of our so-called friends have yet to eat at this charming restaurant, located next to Texadelphia. It really is one of the best restaurants in town, and one of the most cozy; it's one of those converted old homes that's lost nothing in the translation. And the food is exceptional: We're always torn between the buttermilk-fried chicken and the macaroni and cheese, the latter of which is served in the skillet in which it's baked. The former is soft and tender, the latter is smooth and creamy, and combined, they made us wish Mom had learned how to do more than turn ground round into a ball of "meat loaf" when were kids--how much we missed out on. The sugar snap peas made for an exceptional side dish, the mashed potatoes are a dollop of southern-fried heaven, and we'll even take a side of wilted greens when the mood hits us. And there's always dessert: The crème brûlée is the best in town. Try it. It's all the proof you'll need.

We wanted to give this award to someone else; we really did. "Best Tortillas at Taco Cabana? Why not just give Best Hamburger to effin' McDonald's?" we think, angry with ourselves. But then we sigh, and our fists unclench as our thoughts turn to the pliable, pillowy flatbreads that are just 19 cents apiece at that familiar pink-and-green-stucco drive-thru. Plus, you can even see the tortilla-making machine right behind the counter, so you know they're going to be warm and fresh. And they pass the true tortilla test: They're great when filled with beans, cheese or rice but can also stand on their own. Cue the drool; we just can't help it.

What is it about a bowl of piping-hot red that enables it to create a culture all its own? Chili cook-offs, chili championships, chili parlors, chili with beans or without. What's the best chili, the hottest, the reddest, the meanest? Texas chauvinism aside, none of these is an easy question, and weighing into the great chili debate about what constitutes the best chili can be just plain foolish. But here goes, anyway. The chili served at Highland Park Pharmacy for at least the past 20 years, and probably longer, is our sentimental favorite. No, it's not hot; no, it's not spicy; and yes, it's full of beans. But it's mighty tasty, goes down smooth and is a welcome complement to just about any sandwich the old-fashioned soda fountain has to offer. Summer or winter, it just seems to work its magic, particularly when doused with a chocolate malt or a vanilla Coke.

It's hard to resist licking off the decadent half-inch of real butter cream icing before taking a bite of the dense, rich, cinnamon-infused pastry the size of a saucer. But resist you must to get the wicked, out-of-body experience when the icing fuses with the pastry in your mouth.