At the Minneapolis Farmers' Market, Easter through November is hot dog season. That's when Dan Tollefson cranks up his griddle and sizzles hot dogs and brats in the crisp morning sun. His booth is on the northwest corner, right where there's room for the long lines that must form once the amazing smells of sizzling pork work their magic on the crowd. Served in soft, plump buns, these hot dogs are nicely charred and crackling, just like those Dan remembers growing up on his dad's farm. While his kids man the grills, Dan hawks his cuts of bacon, smoked hams, pork butts and tenderloin, chops, and ribs, selling from the portable freezer cases. He works the crowd like a master, cajoling, teasing, sharing recipes and cooking tips, and, generally, talking a blue streak. Three of Dan's five kids flipping dogs go to Gustavus (but can't make change as fast as their dad can). Tollefson raises around 1,300 pigs on his farm in Gaylord, Minnesota. His herd is a hearty, plump breed of Duroc that he feeds whole soy to so that the meat has more flavor and healthier fat—it's antibiotic and hormone free, naturally. Dan created his hot dogs and brats to taste like those he remembers eating when growing up on his family's farm. Business is brisk, so don't be put off by the lines, they are swift. For years, Dan sold his pork wholesale, but these days, the Farmers' Market is his only outlet. These hot dogs are only for those who can appreciate real flavor, and what it means to look your farmer in the eye.

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Big and broad, Whole Foods covers the whole gamut: organic produce; artisan cheese; wild and farm-raised fish; grass-fed, free-range, and organic meat; frozen vegan entrees; gluten-free baked goods; recycled paper towels and vitamins; cosmetics; yoga CDs; herbal sleep aids; and baby toys. With 183 stores throughout the U.S. and the U.K., Whole Foods is the largest grocery chain in the "whole" world of organics and affiliated concepts. A sure (if pricey) thing when it comes to sustainably grown and processed foods, Whole Foods has redefined the "health food" domain. Here you'll find small-batch cultured Irish butter; dry-aged organic, free-range steak; Gouda three years old; and hand-kneaded loaves of raisin whole wheat sour dough, along with packaged and bulk organics. Quite literally, they have it all, from soup to nuts. The olive and salad bar alongside the hot-food deli rivals any takeout in town. Try the fried chicken, "health salad" (a tangy slaw in rice vinaigrette), Thai rice noodles, charred eggplant, sesame salmon, orange-glazed ruby beets—finally, your carnivore brother and his vegan date and your gluten-free sister and her lactose-intolerant kids can all sit down together, family style. The cheese department's range of cow, sheep, and goat selections is among the best in town. Though it lacks the homespun sense of our beloved co-ops (and packs even less organic produce than some conventional competitors), Whole Foods gets high marks for service, selection, convenience, and style.

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For people living out in the 'burbs, it's not always easy to find grocery stores that cater to special dietary needs. Though most of the Cub Foods and Rainbows around town have natural or healthy-living sections quarantined off from the normal processed items and pesticide-sprayed produce, variety can be pretty grim, and unless you want to pay $8 for a tub of rBGH-free cottage cheese, you're out of luck. But really, why should you have to pay an arm and a leg for hormone-free dairy products? Or feel around a wilted organic produce section in search of a non-squishy avocado? Well, if you're lucky enough to live out in Minnetonka, Anoka, or Chanhassen you don't have to. Wander down the aisles, and you'll be treated to artisan cheeses (and cheese substitutes like almond, soy, and rice cheese), not one but several brands of organic fair-trade coffee, peanut-free peanut butter, grapes the size of meatballs, and a whole section dedicated to special varieties of pizzas made without things like dairy cheese or flour. In the deli you'll find things like store-made mango salsa, sun-dried tomato hummus, and tabouli salad. Or wander over to the seafood and meat section and on any given day (depending on availability and freshness), and you may find elk, venison, buffalo, or sea scallops along with free-range chicken and organic beef. And as many a natural-grocery shopper can attest, the quality and quantity of bulk items available is often a barometer of the quality of a natural-foods grocer as a whole. Rest assured, Lakewinds does not disappoint—flour, spreads, cleaning products, pet foods, and candy are just some of many bulk-item bins you'll find throughout the store. Some locations even offer online shopping (Chanhassen and Minnetonka), plus a variety of classes on food and health are available throughout the year.

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The place is tiny when you consider the wealth packed inside. Aisles too narrow for more than two carts snake past a pyramid of pale Colorado peaches, perilously stacked—knock them over and you'd set in motion a terrible domino effect of colorful catastrophe, as peaches would fall upon carrots, broccoli crowns, fat beets, broad red chard, mounds of woodsy mushrooms, and brimming bushels of avocados. Everything is crammed in, fighting for attention, humming with earthy energy: good, good, good vibrations. For over 30 years, the Wedge has been selling the Cities' best produce because its buyers take the time to get know their farmers, be they local, national, or international. The Wedge pays a fair-trade price for sustainable methods and builds this into their mark-ups so that consumers help bear the costs of keeping the water clean and the ecosystems diverse, wherever the fruits, vegetables, and herbs grow. Healthy soil and clean water are the keys to nutrients and flavor—the nectar-sweet heirloom Fuji apples from Jersey Boyz farm near Oregon's Columbia River; the world's sweetest corn from Gardens of Eagan, Lakeville; or carrots so delicious kids eat them like potato chips from nearby Riverbend farms. Labels affixed to the shelves name an item's farm, location, and method of growing—conventional (with petro-chemical pesticides, herbicides, fungicides, or fertilizers), transitional (the farmer is working through the three-year certification process and is currently farming organically), or organic (certified by an independent agency). The folks replenishing the fruits and veggies are so knowledgeable on the subject and accessibly talkative that they seem to hold dual degrees in agronomy and psychology. Buying produce from the Wedge is about as close to picking your own in the fields as many of us city folk may ever get.

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How much resemblance do you suppose there is between Tuscany and Woodbury? If there's any, Woodbury has the Kowalski family to thank—it's not the Italianate facade of their mega-grocery that makes the eastern suburb more Italian, it's the quality of the groceries, and, thus, the elevation of the daily meals. In the 23 years since the Kowalski family first got into the grocery business, taking over the old Red Owl on Grand, ripping out its scuffed linoleum and replacing most of the canned pie filling with upscale cheeses and fancy candles, the entire face of the grocery business hereabouts has been improved. It's not just their fancy imports we're talking about, it's the local fruit of our own soil, so to speak. Which is to say there's Pecorino Toscana, yes, but there's also a fabulous selection of regional artisan cheeses, and tres leches cake from St. Paul's El Burrito Mercado, Hope Creamery butter from Hope, Minnesota, Muddy Paws cheesecake from St. Paul, local Bramblewood Cottage pastries, and more. We're pretty sure those olives with wild fennel on the olive bar aren't local, but that's fine with us. We don't need olives to grow in Minnesota when we've got so much of our actual regional abundance represented, though we wonder if they're sad not to have Pepin Heights apples in Tuscany.

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All you have to do is bite into a Fischer's Sweet Sixteen apple to understand the Garden of Eden and Adam's dilemma. Nothing should taste so good nor evoke such childhood memory and desire—of climbing trees, blazing fires, warm pie, hot cider laced with rum, of temptation and both kinds of fall. Pick from more than 25 heirloom varieties at Fischer's Croix Farm Orchard in Hastings, just 20 minutes from downtown St. Paul. You'll find yourself munching on one of those crisp, slightly floral, tart, sweet apples while lugging a burgeoning burlap bag down those rows of trees, unable to stop picking—visions of tarts and fritters and baked apples with cinnamon drawing you on. Bring the kids (your own, or borrow the neighbors') and stay the whole day plucking fall raspberries and pumpkins, or just strolling around the perennial gardens. Before you leave, be sure to stock up on honey, maple syrup, and fresh cider; you're sure to dream of the good kind of fall all winter long.

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Forty-one percent. 58.5 percent. 73.5 percent. 85 percent. Does that .5 percent really matter? When you're talking cocoa content—and you're talking with Micheal Roberts—it does. Roberts started Legacy Chocolates, with locations in St. Paul and Menomonie, Wisconsin, four years ago. And he knows that, while cocoa content is king with chocolate lovers, more is not always better. His truffles encased in chocolate made with 41 percent cocoa are subtle and light. His 85-percenters pack a just slightly bitter punch. He wraps his carefully calibrated chocolate around truffle centers flavored with champagne, green tea, chipotle, cointreau, and whatever else strikes his fancy, but you'll have to stop by the store to see what's available on any given day. And, while you're there, pick up a bottle of concentrated cold-press coffee, available year round, to make an ethereally smooth cup of joe to go with your perfect truffle.

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Crema Café is a little oasis on busy Lyndale Avenue. The tidy building features leafy plants, wrought iron tables, elegant murals, stone floors, tawny-colored walls, a secluded patio—and a literal gallery of awards, all honoring the marvelous ice creams and sorbets that fill the glass display case in the center of all the tasteful decor. And such acclaim is richly deserved: The home of Sonny's ice cream offers many opportunities to tempt the senses with complex creations, like a recent triumph, blackberry cabernet sorbet—a deep red hue combined with a burst of berry sweetness and a mellow finish. All of these treats are handmade in small five-gallon batches, the flavors are seasonal, and fresh organic ingredients abound. Of course the basics are available, too—a velvety chocolate and a smooth vanilla bean—but it's always fun to try the more adventurous concoctions like red bean, fresh ginger, silky olive oil and even an ice cream made with Guinness beer. Load up on the quadruple scoop, spoon up a traditional root beer float, or, if you're feeling dietetic, simply sip a sorbet spritzer. If all this divine ice cream wasn't enough, Crema Café now offers breakfast, lunch, and dinner—with wine—plus an array of homemade baked treats including brownies and banana bread.

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Wake up and change the world. Put a little peace in your cup: Peace Coffee's French Roast, satiny dark, so rich and hefty you want to sip and savor it with a spoon. These premium beans are tenderly roasted in small batches, then delivered to stores not by gas-guzzling trucks but by fleece-and-flannel-clad peddlers on bikes (some toting 400-pound trailers 40 miles daily). Peace pays a fair price to the farmers to help cover their costs of growing organically as well as for the organic certification—almost twice what the other fair-trade competitors pay. Peace growers can farm sustainably and earn sustainable incomes, affording them a life on their land. Peace supports the birds and bugs who live in the glorious canopy of rain forest trees, unharmed by chemical fertilizers and pesticides. Peace employees earn median hourly wages well above minimum. Peace Coffee retails for a measly $9.95 a pound, for styles ranging from light bright Guatemalan to deepest, blackest espresso. Love Peace; Peace, love, one sip at a time.

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When last in Paris we got a chance to go to that mad temple of takeout luxury, La Grande Epicerie at the big department store Le Bon Marche. As we stood there, we were stunned by the salamis, floored by the smoked and fresh fishes, gobsmacked by the cheeses, and nearly brought to tears by the frais du bois, the sushi, and the savory skewers, the appetizers, the, the everything.... Well, the everything except the pastries, which we walked past with a breezy "We can get those at home." Later we realized: How lucky are we? We really can get them at home! At any of the three locations of Patrick and Azita Bernet's unspeakably marvelous Patrick's Bakeries, where Patrick, the former Cordon Bleu Paris pastry instructor, whips together sugar, eggs, butter, cream, chocolate, berries, and nuts into such glorious, artful configurations that they look like sculpture, and taste like heaven: The Feuillantine Pralinée is a chocolate-enrobed mousse concoction that absolutely thunders with chocolate intensity, and vibrates with pastry delicacy. The strawberry tarts are golden boats ferrying the finest strawberries across bouyant cream seas. The Opera cake chicly organizes rich coffee buttercream with stripes of ganache and tender layers of cake. (Most of the deluxe concoctions cost $4.95 for an individual-sized cake that serves one or two; $32 for a cake to serve 6 to 8 people; and $38 for one portioned for 10 to 12 lucky souls.) Which is to say nothing of Patrick's sturdy breads, tender quiches (available in small sizes for immediate munching, and in giant sizes for home entertaining), melting Danish, crisp and proper croissants, and special only-in-America glories, like a pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving that just happens to be made with pumpkin mousse and adorned with adorable chocolate pyramids. It's true what they say: Travel really does make you appreciate home!

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When Rustica Bakery opened in 2004, the denizens of the East Harriet Farmstead neighborhood could hardly believe their good fortune. One can now pick up a sturdy baguette wrapped in crisp brown paper, a hearty levain loaf that cries out for generous dollops of homemade blackberry jam, or a pillowy focaccia ready for soaking up olive oil. Special breads star on different weekdays, including the crackling pastry-like Canadas de Azucar and a delightfully dense rye. All of Rustica's artisan creations deliver a sensual experience—the baguette's crust, for example, is perfectly browned and crispy with a slightly buttery taste, while the insides are light as air. It's as good as any staple on a Parisian's dinner table. A bakery is almost always a neighborhood asset, but close proximity to the wondrous Rustica ovens may well increase property values—and most definitely waistlines. Thankfully, the walking paths of Lake Harriet are just a couple of blocks away. It's a good bet, however, that no one is sharing these breadcrumbs with the ducks.

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There is something reverent in the way Surdyk's staff offers slivers of cheese on squares of butcher paper, in their soft-spoken delight in describing a Gouda's four-year history, the buttery D'elice from near the Loire, a truffle-laced Sottoccenere from the Piedmont. No grab and go here; you stop, listen, and taste. Eureka! There is a hint of lavender in that chèvre from Wisconsin, that definitely is a mild bit of smoke in the Spanish San Simon. Serene, subtle, and efficient, Surdyk's was the first cheese purveyor in these parts to grasp the parallels between selling cheese and wine—the importance of place, process, and history—and of suggesting customers try it, and thus buy it. They'll suggest a Port for that Stilton, Merlot with the Montasio and, if wine isn't in your evening's plans, a Windmer four-year-old cheddar for a mac and cheese you can actually enjoy with your four-year-old niece. But don't stop with the cheese. The deli sells roasted chicken, homemade soups, pot roast, and fancy salamis and real Seranno ham, as well as breads, croissants, and muffins. Stop in for a wedge of brie and come home with pork and black mushroom pâté, oak-aged sherry wine vinegar, a sourdough boule, fancy pickles, imported pasta, and an oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-chip cookie to nibble as you head home to a world greatly enriched with dairy's noblest form.

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Let's talk tuna, the talisman of a real fish market, the kind of market you might find on an ocean coast. Coastal is often the only Twin Cities source for sushi-grade tuna. Honest, authentic sushi-grade tuna that hasn't been blasted with carbon dioxide to make it look red. Every day, for the past 25-odd years, Coastal Seafoods, the source for area restaurants, cooking schools, and home cooks, has been offering a dizzying selection of fresh fish from the world's lakes, oceans, rivers, and streams: West Coast Red King Salmon, Dungeness crab, Maryland shedders, blue fish, flounder, skate, East Coast littleneck clams, dry sea scallops, Hawaiian tombo, lake trout and walleye and even smelt. Offering an array of caviars, smoked salmon, and trout, plus pickled herring, the store is a wide wet world. Don't feel like cooking? Coastal will poach a salmon or stew up a bouillabaisse ($5.99 a pint) to pass off as your own.

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The Lent tradition of the Friday fish fry doesn't water every mouth in town—this is Minnesota after all, not Milwaukee—but even without any real competition, St. Albert's fish fry sets a standard that would be hard to beat in any state. First of all, there's the gambling: raffle drawings every 10 minutes, plus bingo every other week. Then there's the food itself, a steal at eight bucks. It's all about the options (a funny thing to say about a Catholic church, but we digress): two kinds of fish, fried and baked. Hash browns or French fries. Free seconds. A tableful of desserts at no extra charge, courtesy of the parish's tireless grandmothers (by the look of the crowd, there's a lot of 'em). And for the pesca-phobes of the group, the as-godly meatless spaghetti is served in heaps. The only downside is that it all ends at Easter. Forty days just isn't enough time for this much cod.

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Not much has changed at Cecils these past 50 years. Thank God. Serving St. Paul's Highland Park neighborhood, Cecils has established itself as the classic purveyor of good things from the Kosher deli tradition—real corned beef and pastrami (not too salty and nicely marbled), soft and hard salami (shipped in from Chicago), knishes, latkes, kugel. All breads are made fresh on the premises—dark and tangy black Russian rye, chewy pumpernickel, rich and eggy challah, bagels, soft onion buns, and seeded rolls. You know the chicken matzo ball soup is made from scratch by the size and cut of those carrots; the lovely, light matzo balls; the shreds of chicken. The handmade blintzes and knishes are lovingly lopsided. Do try the borscht, of earthy beets, cabbage, and beef, nicely tart with a splash of vinegar. Oh, and don't get us started on chopped liver—it's silken, there's enough onion, it is very, very good. You can dine in at Cecils and sit down to a two-fisted sandwich, giant Reuben, or omelettes, pancakes, potatoes, and eggs. But there's also a grocery store and deli component of Cecils, so you can gather all those old-fashioned favorites—the potato salad and coleslaw, the sliced meats and cheeses, the homemade breads, the strudel—and then head home to make your own nosh.

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The northeast corner of University Avenue and Dale Street is now officially the epicenter of soul in the Twin Cities, thanks to the magical kitchen that lies within Jackie Williams's Abundant Bistro. The fall-away tender fried catfish sports a zesty batter and can be ordered with a side of bite-size hush puppies that will surely remind transplanted East Coasters of home. The mac and cheese is creamy, with just the right sticky consistency, and the collard greens are tangy but not too salty. The fried chicken wings are perfectly crispy and barely greasy, and the smothered baked chicken is comfort food in its highest form. Whatever you order, make sure to enjoy a side of candied yams. Bright orange and spiked with cinnamon and other spices, these little beauties are a rare find indeed, and sharing, even with those you love most, might become an issue. The menu also includes barbecue rib tips, mouthwatering hot-water cornbread, and desserts ranging from silky sweet potato pie to a fresh peach cobbler with ice cream. When you're finished wowing your taste buds with this ambrosia, take a look at the wall featuring catering requests from the stars, as filled with Williams, with clients including Rob Zombie, Ozzy Osbourne, and KISS. It seems that the fire-breathing heavy metal gods enjoy a nice side of candied yams just like the rest of us. Abundant Bistro also serves breakfast and lunch.

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It takes a tough guy to make tender fried chicken. Just ask Leonard Lowe of Nardie's Café. He is very serious about wings—plump, meaty, significant, wholly satisfying fried chicken wings. Dark golden with a crackly coating, moist and tender, sizzled within moments of your order, they'll transport you into the celestial; let the devil deal with the rest of the bird. This is not finger food, but the stuff you're meant to eat with your whole hands, sometimes in the car on the way home. (Tell the carwash guy it was an act of God.) Order them by the dozen or for dinner with selections of soulful sides: red beans and rice, macaroni and cheese, candied yams, collard greens, coleslaw, potato salad, and, of course, fries. Don't skip the New Orleans hot sauce, or the tiny squares of tender corn bread. You can eat in at one of the tiny, tippy tables near the TV on its tilted stand, but better to hang at the counter and watch the buses on Nicollet go by. At $10 per dozen (great for a party) these wings are fried chicken the way it was meant to be: real, and really memorable.

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It's a wonder Barbette's wildly popular fries aren't regulated by the state; serving them from 8:00 a.m. to 1:00 a.m. seems a bit much for the public morals. These darling hand-cut irregulars are fried in small batches to crispy caramel perfection; tender and fluffy within, they taste like potatoes that went to Paris and came back with advanced degrees in art and style. They are served with a ramekin of luscious golden saffron aioli, that addictively smooth, garlic mayonnaise that you'd better not eat alone—though to judge by the number of other diners eating the fries, you never will. Of course, Barbette does serve other temptations: a fine plate of mussels, lovely cheeses, adorable French toast, and even full chef-made dinners, but skipping the fries would be like going to Paris and never glancing up to catch sight of the Eiffel Tower.

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Don't let the chic Euro-decor, the semi-circular bar, the soft, kind lighting and clean lines fool you: The new kid on Uptown's block knows pizza. Here you'll find serious hand-tossed crusts wood-fired to ever-so-slightly charred perfection. You can always judge a pizza place by its simplest pies, and the classic Margherita ($7) suggests good things will follow on Pizza Nea's long menu. For it, the toothy hand-thrown crust is topped with San Marzano tomatoes and fresh, pale, springy mozzarella, and finished with freshly chopped basil and coarse sea salt: It's simply delicious, and deliciously simple. More elaborate pizzas balance colors and flavors; for instance, the Salsicce ($9.50) with its zesty sausage, roasted red pepper, cracked red pepper, and fresh mozzarella; or the Quattro Stagione ($11.50)—porcini mushrooms, prosciutto, roasted artichoke, salami, and fresh mozzarella, all judiciously arranged (not dumped) on top. Pizza Biancos play to single ingredients, such roasted porcini mushrooms. Pizza Nea's full bar and intriguing appetizers, salads, and focaccia sandwiches make for a lovely cheap date. Or, if takeout is more your style, pick up a bottle of Chianti at Hennepin-Lake Liquors across the street, and Pizza Nea is good to go.

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Just sitting at the sushi bar in Origami is a lesson in grace and courtesy, as well as in how to taste the most delicate and sublime gifts from our seas. Each of these classically trained, articulate chefs understands that his duty is not merely to prepare and serve elegant traditional Nigiri sushi and whimsical rolls, but to illuminate his art. Ask and they will tell you why ground daikon and chili paste complement halibut or why gizzard shad is marinated; true masters, the chefs love to improvise, playing with the freshest flavors and colors in town. Origami Downtown, in the lovely Old Market Hotel, is as elegant, spare, and enlightened as haiku. Occupying two floors, with sushi bar and dining tables downstairs, full bar and service upstairs, the place can get crowded and the lines frustratingly long on a weekend night. Reservations are granted only for parties of 10 or more (otherwise, first come, first served). But the service is brisk and warm, and the bar, with its list of Scotches and sake, requires a little extra time to explore. The suburban location features bolder rolls and easier seating, and the fish is just as fine.

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Sometimes we come here just to listen to the confluence of languages—Vietnamese, Hmong, Chinese, Japanese, Spanish, Portuguese. Sometimes it's for the smells—overripe bananas, musty dried shrimp, fresh meat, Lysol. The variety of smells and sounds reminds us that there's a whole world worth exploring beyond the conventional bright and efficient grocery chains. Enter Shuang Hur, where you'll find produce such as pale mounds of bitter melon, dark bundles of long beans, and ungainly, sweet-smelling stalks of bundled lemongrass. Move on to the meat counter and you'll see fresh pork ears, all kinds of finely cut beef for soup, and tripe; beside that is the barbecued meat area, with crisp laquered ducks, dark soy-sauce chickens, and rich red pork hanging on hooks. In the back of the store, tanks hold live crabs and lobsters which scuttle lazily on their hard feet; in the dry goods aisles, piles of pungent black mushrooms and gnarled dried radishes cry out to be made into winter soups. In the front of the store, you'll find bags of Jasmine and other long-grain rice, but not just any bags, bags the size of people. What else? Somehow we forgot to mention the Japanese pepper blends for livening up soups, the fresh noodles in the refrigerator case, the occasional tray of almost-hatching quail eggs, and the soup bowls, spoons, cups, and assorted cookware in the hard-goods aisle. The place is a treasure trove of the interesting, exotic, and hard to find. Best of all, in our experience, the entire staff speaks several different languages, translating the rest of the world in all its vibrant colors and flavors.

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We wince to think of it, but a trillion years ago when culottes were first in and we were dinner-party novices, we stood in an aisle in a local mega-mart trying to decide which was the packet of coconut called for in the curry we planned, the one whose contents were, as the label inexplicably boasted, desiccated, or the one that was moist but so sugary it wasn't even fit to make macaroons. What poseurs we were, and how lucky that our friends were too Lutheran and poorly traveled to guess the errors of our ways. Fast-forward a number of prosperous years and we now know that spice packets really are a pale imitation of a homemade masala, and that jarred chutney is never as good as fresh. More importantly, we learned that the Twin Cities are overflowing with great ethnic markets bursting with the spices and ingredients you need to make masala, chutney, biryani, and more. Our current favorite Indian market happens to be Patel, on Central in Nordeast, which we enjoy for its wide aisles—laid out in a manner mostly comprehensible even to the neophyte shopper. Karhi, fenugreek, and other fresh herbs, produce, and an extensive array of prepared snacks and delicacies, including unadulterated grated coconut frozen in convenient zip-top bags—it's all here, but if for some reason it isn't, there's another well-stocked Indian grocery just across the street.

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Not long ago we got dragged to that most tired of south Minneapolis institutions: the block-club potluck. There was potato salad. There were brownies. There was even a cheese and fruit board that must have cost a week's paycheck and an entire morning of indecision at Surdyk's. But you know what really flew out of its casserole? A chicken tinga—chicken braised in a sweet and savory red chili broth until it was falling apart, served with some soft, pliable corn tortillas made minutes before. Turns out the neighbor that would later proudly tote home his empty Dutch oven had made peace with the Latino grocery that, in 2006, in nearly every neighborhood in south Minneapolis, serves as the corner store. So much peace that he figured out which chilies promise a tinga that's zippy but not too blistering for a block party; so much peace that he doesn't see toasting, soaking, and grinding said chilies as any more trouble than making pasta salad. We like Marissa's southern outpost because of its homemade tortillas—they make pretty much anything taste like your abuelita slaved over it—but your corner Latino grocery might hold the makings of a killer feast, too.

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There's an old adage about taquerias—the worse the joint looks, the better the food must be. Pineda Tacos 1 and Pineda Tacos 3 (#2 closed to universal howls of protest in mid-March) don't offer a white-tablecloth experience, but they do provide the best excuse for a food coma this side of the McDonald's-owned Chipotle behemoth. The tortillas are soft and chewy and actually taste of something other than whiteness (stale tortillas taste like white, the way Subway tastes like yellow, don't you think?) Those good tortillas are wrapped around a hearty mound of your choice of wonderful: chicken tinga, all smoky, complicated, and full of the dusk of spice; chicken or pork in salsa verde, green and tart; beef all kinds of ways, including well married with onions or soaked in a smoky blend of deep chile splendor; rich roast pork carnitas; the only-for-those-right-with-God double-fried pork skin of chicharron, and much, much more. Don't be fooled by the menu's small/large distinction—small isn't going to get you something kid-sized; in fact, the $5 small gets you a regular-sized burrito, while the $7 large scores a double-tortilla, double-stuffed sleeping pill.

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Some things never ever change, and they never ever should. Matt's Bar, "home of the Jucy Lucy," looks no different than it did 30 years ago, except nowadays you don't have to squint through your neighbor's cigarette smoke to see the game on TV. Same oval, red plastic baskets loaded with skinless fries, same Jucy Lucys—two thin beef patties squeezed around a layer of gooey American cheese, grilled till the beef is crisply charred and the cheese is molten, the bursting oval served on a squishy white bun. Be sure to request either a mound of minced, browned onions, or a pile of raw, thinly sliced ones. Sit down and let the beef, char, molten cheese, and onion work their magic. If you want wine or foie gras, look elsewhere, it's a burger joint in the lawns-and-chores heart of south Minneapolis, okay? (It does offer a pretty good grilled cheese and a chicken sandwich, but no salad, thank you very much). There's nothing fancy about the slightly gristly, moist but not too greasy, two-handed bombs they serve here—but you don't need fancy when you got great. For $4.50 a go, Matt's Jucy Lucys are so great, you might need two.

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You think you can't improve on a good old American quarterpounder with cheese? You don't know how wrong you are. You could marinate the beef as if it were spicy Korean bulgogi and top it with a mild kimchee ($10). You could start with ground pork or yellowfin tuna and add Japanese sparks like ginger and wasabi ($12). You could finally give the much-maligned turkey burger what it deserves: flavors made to complement the fowl of the air, not the beast of the earth, like a garlicky basil pesto ($10). You could go all Mediterranean with ground lamb, olives, and feta. If you did all those things—and did them right, so that the turkey was not dry and the lamb was not gamey and all the Asian flavors still felt comfortable on a homey white bun—well, then you'd be at Joe's Garage. And if you put Joe's fat, crispy fries or creamy whipped potatoes on the plate next to those burgers, well, then your customers would be eating the best gourmet burgers in the Twin Cities.

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The flavors of a good barbecue march over your taste buds in stages of subtle intensity. Ted Cook's superb barbecue sauce leads with a bang of tang that's sweet, sour, and salty simultaneously. Now your buds are tingling but not scorched, ready for that succulent sauce-meat meld, where the pork ribs or the beef ribs (you can't lose, so choose what you like) are juicy from the long, slow marinade, not from a surfeit of squiggly fat. Then, if you can resist a headlong chow-down, feel the aftertaste linger after you've swallowed your first big bite and the seasonings are changing emphasis, like the colors of a sunset, as they slowly fade away. Cleanse your palate with some of co-owner Priscilla Davis's sweet coleslaw, a crispy jo-jo potato slice, or, if you aren't set in your Minnesota ways, some greens or black-eyed peas. Ted Cook's is takeout only, a 30-plus-year-old hole-in-the-wall in south Minneapolis where nothing is fancy except the food, including the prices ($20 for a full-rack dinner with jo-jos, slaw, and two pieces of bread for sopping; $13 for the half-rack version), which either certify gluttony or guarantee leftovers.

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Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet temptation. Remember catching Swedish fish in your mouth, or picking candy dots off their paper strip hiding behind your math book, or sucking a Fire Ball slowly and examining how its coating changed as the searing cinnamon mellowed? (Maybe you're one of the unlucky ones the teacher made stick a wad of Bazooka on your nose and keep it there until lunch—what a waste of gum!) If you are one of those naughty, greedy, sugar-crazed kids, welcome to Candyland, a bright haven of sticky memories and childhood fantasies. In this caramel-scented, cheery, upbeat place, you can ogle towers of gumballs, stare into vats of fudge, and goggle at barrels of taffy all day long. It's like being in Willy Wonka's factory, no golden ticket required—your ticket in is your yen for almond bark, peanut brittle jujus, gumdrops, white chocolate Oreos, and chocolate cherries. What to choose? Go on, let loose, get everything! Bring along a ten-year-old boy or two and buy what they point to. Then, make sure they pack it in their lunch boxes to take to school to show those mean old teachers. Revenge has never been so simple, or so very sweet.

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Eleven-hundred bottles of beer, on the wall (and in the cooler, and stacked on the shelves), 220 different kinds of single malt Scotch—seriously, Blue Max is nothing if not dizzying. They stock a huge selection of specialty hooch—"winter beers," "highland" and "lowland" Scotch, rare mead, aged maple bourbon, rum, tequila, gin, brandy, and more oddities, rarities, and fascinations than any other store in town. Some bottles have vintages well before many of our readers were out of diapers (what a great 30th birthday present). Jim McEwan's 1967 Celtic Heartland Scotch, for example, comes in decantor number 220 of 722 for $395.50. The place runs narrow and deep, but rest assured there are sales people and wall charts to help guide buyers: Consider the Scottish Scotch. Some, we are told, taste of ripe peach finished with charcoal, others of newly cut grass and golden wheat. (Who needs golf?) There are too many exotic European beers to count, though be sure to gawk at Etter Suisse Framboise, which comes in handmade bottles, one with a hand-blown cherry and the other an apple, for $176. The store specializes in vintage ales and often stocks extras when other shops are out. If Asia's more your thing, try the Hitichino 2004, a Japanese vintage ale. A Framboise beer—Cantillon Lou Pepe vintage 2001—is intriguing as much for the flavor as for the beautiful label. About 25 minutes south of Minneapolis, on Highway 42, near both 35W and 35E, Blue Max is not located near much of anything (except Buck Hill), but the place is abuzz even on a Tuesday night. Hmm, it's gotta be good.

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Some people only sip from Riedel's $40 hand-blown stems, while others buy the new Riedel line at Target. Some people see Bordeaux futures as a financial vehicle with which to amplify their cellars, while others use the term to signify that we hope for a future in which we drink more Bordeaux. Or, actually, any Bordeaux. For those of us with more taste than disposable income, for those of us who'd rather drink our bounty than display it, we love Hennepin-Lake Liquors. The prices, in our experience, are the best in the region. The selection is vast, decently organized, and, thanks to recently expanded Spanish and Italian sections, as global as it gets. And if you ask for help, you're more likely to be steered to a $6 Grenache or a $7 dry rosé than you are to find yourself on the receiving end of a fetishistic line of gobbledygook about this week's cult Cab. Taking home a pizza? There's an $8 Corbera Nero d'Avola from Sicily we're particularly fond of. A couple of greenbacks more gets you a Thai takeout-friendly Geisen Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand. Yes, the aisles are Lilliputian and the parking lot a compelling argument against conceal-and-carry, but shopping here affords you a real wine education, one bottle at a time.

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