Mirabelle isn't exactly new. It was forged from the leftovers of Francois and Catherine Fotre's La Mirabelle. Though the name is a retread as is largely the interior, the food is not. Gone is La Mirabelle's French fare, and in its place is a New American hybrid (and what New American sortie isn't a mongrel?) cobbled together from an odd assortment of influences, from French to South American to Nordic. From his shunning the use of olive oil (he prefers the neutrality of grapeseed oil) to his creation of ambidextrous fish ensembles that flirt equally well with red and white wines (Mediterranean branzini in a red wine emulsion), chef/owner Joseph Maher treads an odd culinary path, one governed by color swipes. Like olive oil, he eschews butter and cream because he says the inherent fats blunt and obscure the intrinsic flavors he seeks to draw out. In their place he employs fruit, a substitution he insists heightens freshness. Yet unlike the color in his art collection that splashes the walls of the restaurant, Maher's food is not drenched in bracingly intense fruit tones. Rather, his sauces are pervious cloaks that embrace rather than drape. Mirabelle is a pretty good squeeze.

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.

Jesse Moreno and his family are among the few proprietors still producing truly handmade tamales in Dallas. They roast the pork, grind the corn, spread the masa harina de maiz (corn flour) by hand in the husks and cook the tamales themselves. The Morenos use all the best-quality ingredients, no lard, all vegetable oil. During the holiday season, La Popular is so popular, you have to call in your orders several hours in advance, maybe even a day. There's always lots of chitchat along the front counter: Jesse Moreno Sr. is an avid community volunteer with long service to the Dallas school system, and Jesse Jr. will probably show up on the city council some day. So in addition to selling great tamales, La Popular is an interesting place to visit.

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.

If only we had a placid lake or high mountain setting to linger over in Dallas, this category might be flooded with possibilities. But most outdoor dining here overlooks a parking lot or busy intersection, and oppressive heat and smog alerts cure even the most incurable romantics among us. One restaurant that is really trying to alter the landscape is Celebration, which has several outdoor seating areas, friendly to lovers and families alike. In the summer, its outdoor patio sprinkles a cooling spray from its several mist machines. In the winter, well-placed electric heaters and an outdoor fireplace conjure up feelings of a ski chalet. The traditional home-cooking fare is consistently competent and abundant, much like it has been through its 31 years in service. And between the fountains, the mist machines, the fireplace, fans and food, you might not even notice the cars racing down Lovers Lane.

The pasta is firm and tender. The sauce is tangy and rich. The meatball, shaped like a downed sparrow, is bulging with flavor. When you eat it your face gets messy, as messy as it does when you spill too much Chianti down your throat.

JD's cookies are big, crisp on the outside, chewy on the inside, and warm from the oven. One of these suckers can keep you going on a sugar rush for an impressive stretch. Then, in the throes of a nasty jones, you'll come back and buy another one. The snickerdoodles aren't bad, either.

The Great Harvest Bread Co. gets our nod for "best" because of their huge cookie size that's bursting with chocolate. It makes other cookies paltry by comparison. This is a chocolate chip cookie specially designed for chocolate lovers.

Like Mom's cooking, Babe's doesn't mess with frills. If it doesn't fix gut plumbing like J-B Weld (Drill it! Grind it! Machine it!), then fry, boil or roast it until it does. In addition to fried chicken that could scare a body-fat scale into weather service, Babe's has sinfully rich pot roast, bitchin' big chicken-fried steak with killer gravy, chewy pork ribs with a swift spice prick and delicious moist smoked chicken. You can load that down with lush velvety mashed potatoes, green beans pimpled with bacon bits, creamed corn and biscuits hefty enough to choke off a Senate floor speech. Dump some honey on those. You'll want to memorialize them on your girth.

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.

Lots of eateries in Dallas capture the cuisine tucked between the near and far of East. But only Café Izmir does it with a dazzling display of poise. The wine list is broad but simple, with a handful of Greek and Lebanese wines included. Dolmas are fresh and supple. Salads are cheek-slap fresh. Tabouli is dazzlingly brisk. Lamb roll is juicy and broad. Kabobs are tender, with a tasty char coat. And while we can't vouch for the Café Izmir claim that it makes the best hummus on the planet (even pulverized and lemon-freshened, passing that many chickpeas can create distressing microclimates), we can say that it's smoother than cold cream. It tastes better, too.