The Most Memorable Meals of 2012

Now that the best of 2012 lists have been dealt with, it's time to get to the more reflective part of year-end proceedings: Those special meals that struck a personal chord and lingered long after the last plate had been cleared. We asked a host of First We Feast contributors to share their most memorable repasts with us, and they came through with some tales that made us cry a couple times, laugh a few more, but mostly just get really, really hungry. From a hole-in-the-wall slinging beef patties in Kingston to a master chef's ode to British culinary history in London, these spots deserve a place on any eater's bucket list—if you tend to travel with your stomach in mind, you'll find plenty to dig into here. Read through our list of standout meals in 2012, then share your own with us in the comments. Written by Chris Schonberger (@cschonberger), Jordana Rothman (@jordanarothman), Hannah Norwick (@HannahNorwick), Shanté Cosme (@ShanteCosme), Nick Schonberger (@nschon), DJ Dieselboy (@DJDieselboy), Kristen Tauer (@ktauer), Ross Scarano (@RossScarano), Foster Kamer (@weareyourfek), Christine Chiao (@chrstnchiao), Bret Stetka (@BretStetka), and Elyse Inamine (@elyseinamine)

City: St-Benoît de Mirabel, Quebec Address and phone: 11382 Rang de la Fresnière (no phone) Website: cabaneasucreaupieddecochon.com Last April, I packed eight of my pals into a Tahoe and took off for a La Grande Bouffe-like jaunt to Quebec. For those not familiar with the 1973 Marco Ferreri flick, here’s the gist: A group of down-on-their-luck friends gather in a country house and plan to eat themselves to death. I can tell you that annihilation by gorging is a hell of a way to go. I can tell you this because during our debauched weekend in Montreal, my compatriots and I stared into the morbid abyss, faces slicked with butter, fingers sticky with maple syrup, minds hazy with drink, and heartbeats petering into irregular staccatos. Our destination: Au Pied de Cochon’s infamous cabane à sucre in St-Benoît de Mirabel, 45 minutes outside of the city. It’s a sugar shack—a place where the sap from maple trees is transformed into syrup, which is then served with good waist-thickening foods like meat pies and sausages. Martin Picard, the foie-gras–crazed chef of APDC, reclaimed this Quebecois tradition, setting up his cavernous dining room with giant Arthurian tables sturdy enough to uphold multiple courses of cheesy, meaty, syrupy extravagance. We ate pressed rice topped with fried sturgeon and curls of puffed pork skin, and silvery herring in a bath of oil and crème fraîche. We ate a flaky pastry vol-au-vent filled with cheese, béchamel, and lobes of foie gras. We ate an “omelette” of creamy eggs encasing a whole lobster and great wispy piles of smoked beef. There was a gorgeously lacquered duck stabbed with a serrated blade that was threaded with meaty onion rings. A pot of beans floated duck confit and cottage cheese. Duck fat-larded blinis were served with a terrine of sweetbread, tongue, and foie gras. For dessert there were pancakes fried in duck fat and a fishbowl of ice cream with popsicle sticks of frozen maple syrup. And of course, there was plenty to drink. Somewhere towards the end I found myself nodding off in the arms of a taxidermic grizzly bear, and we made the wise decision to return to la métropole. We fell asleep with swollen bellies and whiskey on our breath. It was as delicious a meal as it was distressingly grotesque. Which is to say, it was awfully memorable. — Jordana Rothman, columnist

City: Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina Address and phone: 6828 Beach Dr SW (910-579-6461) Website: no website Leaving Brooklyn to visit my childhood home of North Carolina means seeing family and catching up with old buddies—quality time spent swapping stories over heaping mounds of freshly made pimento cheese, plates of pulled pork, and biscuits and gravy. It means entering back into a food culture that I promote proudly as my own as I eat my way across New York. It was in N.C. that I learned to share food, stories, and friendship as one; a child born of a Sicilian-Jewish home in a small Southern railroad town. On my most recent trek down to Ocean Isle (a coastal town on the southern tip of the state), I was reminded that my love affair with food all started below the Mason Dixon. This year I had decided to cart down a half-willing Yankee city boy to the breezy coast for our annual family beach trip. I had plans of introducing the beau to my parents and giving him a taste of the local flavor. There were promises of Cheerwine, barbecue sandwiches, and hush puppies—all of which were delivered upon. On my quest to show off the grub of my youth, Big Nell’s Pit Stop—a small roadside diner nestled beneath the weeping trees on Beach Drive—appeared as a beacon of everything I wanted him to understand. To be fair, the digs aren’t much to look at; menus are plastered with ads for local businesses, and there’s a cardboard cut-out of Richard Petty (or maybe it was the late Mr. Earnhardt) smiling at you as you walk in from the salt air and sidle up to a small Formica lunch counter. The fare is simple and unpretentious—pulled pork is sweet and vinegary, served with N.C. super-fine chopped slaw on a Styrofoam plate or piled between a soft, white hamburger bun. Chili cheese dogs require two hands and extra napkins, while hush puppies come in baskets with sides of individually wrapped pats of butter for spreading across the cornbread fritters. Washed down with sweetly crisp Cheerwine, which came inside a gigantic cup filled to the brim with ball ice (a locally loved round ice), the meal provided everything I wanted to show my Northern counterpart of my original home: Simple, down-home food, a thing that is often sought after and mimicked, but rarely achieved. The waitress asked what a Brooklyn boy was doing at Big Nell’s, assuming it could be for no other reason than us getting hitched. I laughed and said, “We came for the barbecue.” Because we did. — Hannah Norwick, writer

City: New York, New York Address and phone: 57 Great Jones St (unlisted number) Website: playearth.jp A friend let me in on this New York food secret—the lush branzino roasted to perfection at this Japanese speakeasy, hidden away behind the meat counters of Japan Premium Beef in Noho. With an unlisted phone number and strict reservation-only policy, the place is shrouded in mystery, and not surprisingly they're just as secretive about the recipe for the signature sea bass. A foodie friend of a friend once tagged along with Bohemian’s kitchen crew on a deep-sea fishing excursion, hoping to extract the recipe after trying to figure out how to make it at home. No such luck. His efforts alone were enough for me to ensure that the branzino hit my table when I finally snagged a reservation (thanks to the same friend) for my boyfriend’s birthday this past fall. Past the meat shop storefront and down a sleek, white hall, we walked into the Mad Men-esque digs with loungey armchairs and low tables; the intrigue had us salivating before we even sat down. Sizzling in a cast-iron skillet, the whole fish—its flesh moist and luscious from melted bone cartilage—came nestled among softened fingerlings, cipollini onions, briny Kalamata olives, and rosemary. The fish lived up to the hype and we devoured it all, but I would be a bad friend to leave it at that. So, my advice: Come for the branzino, but don’t skip the equally awe-inspiring soba, crowned with a decadent slab of foie, and tender Wagyu sliders. You’ll thank me later. — Elyse Inamine, writer

City: London, England Address and phone: 66 Knightsbridge (+44 020 7201 3833) Website: dinnerbyheston.com What kind of douchebag notes such an obvious meal on a year-end list? Me—a known hater who looks down upon star chefs and the pompous clientele to which they pander; a man who regards small plates as yuppie fare, and anything that requires more than one waiter a complete over-indulgence. Yet so charming is Heston Blumenthal's newest restaurant in the Mandarin Oriental Hotel that all its glories must be dutifully celebrated. The staff is attentive and knowledgeable, and they will happily dismiss the eat-until-you-drop style of eating promoted by North American hotspots. The food, though conceptual (the whole place is based upon the idea of recreating popular menu items from British history), is delightfully contemporary. And as signature dishes go, Blumenthal's meat fruit is a true triumph, delightful for exactly the reason it was a crowd favorite in the 16th century—it’s a sort of trompe l'oeil item concealing chicken liver and foie gras parfait inside a mandarin-orange jelly. Saffron rice with calf tail (sold as "Rice and Flesh," as it was known in 1390) warms the soul in the way only the most decadent foods do, but with a lightness on the palate (and stomach) only a master chef can achieve. And then came the entrees: Brilliant plates of real meats and proper grains. No fancy new-school mousses or gasses. Just immaculately cooked proteins in responsible sizes. You leave having learned and having loved—Blumenthal's newest restaurant is the pinnacle of concept cuisine. Even the jelly-mold lighting fixtures lining the walls can’t be fucked with. — Nick Schonberger, founding editor

City: Chicago, Illinois Address and phone: 2419 W 14th St (312-226-8144) Website: elideas.com This restaurant, located deep in an unassuming and grungy area of Chicago, has somehow managed to fly under my radar. The BYOB and tasting menu-driven experience, where the guests are encouraged to enter the kitchen mid-meal to interact with the chefs, was unlike anything I have ever encountered. And the food? Modernist cuisine executed at the highest level. My favorite dish of the evening (among many) consisted of a french-fry shell filled with vanilla and potato ice cream, then served on top of a warm potato leek soup. The experience was incredible! And where else can you do shots of bourbon with the kitchen staff during service? I can't wait to go back. — DJ Dieselboy, columnist

City: Troy, New York Address and phone: 111 Congress St (518-272-948) Website: famouslunch.org The meal I had here—lunch, fittingly—was a perfect example of how the best food experiences are often the ones that are cheap and expectation-free. I was in a car full of food-media friends en route to Montreal, where we had planned a gastro-tour that was chock-full of hyped destination restaurants—Schwartz’s for smoked meat, Joe Beef, Au Pied de Cochon’s Sugar Shack—but the meal I ended up loving most was an impromptu stop at this vintage hot-dog joint along the way. Mini Helmbold hot dogs are a peculiar tradition endemic to this pocket of upstate New York, and at Famous Lunch, they grill them right in the window where you walk in. They’ve got all the snap and creamy interior you want from a hot dog, but the diminutive size means you can throw down about a dozen of them no problem—I reveled in the absurdity of walking up to the counter and ordering 50 hot dogs for our group. We also got fries slathered with Zippy sauce—a chunky, cumin-laced chili created by the Greek owners—as well as one of the best burgers I had all year, a thin griddled patty draped with a single slice of white American cheese and tucked into a soft white bun. That's the American fast-food burger as it was always meant to be. If we weren’t all snapping Instagram photos like assholes, we easily could have been in the 1950s and not much would be different. — Chris Schonberger, editor-in-chief

City: Brooklyn, New York Address and phone: 151 Union St (718-855-1545) Website: ferdinandosfocacceria.com A few days after Sandy, my girlfriend’s sister drove in from New England to check on us. Because the storm had struck just as she and I were moving into our new apartment (equipped with an electric oven that needed work and wonky outlets), we hadn’t eaten any non-bodega cuisine in days. Sister and her wheels were a welcome sight, as she could take care of us best by driving us to a good meal. We chose Ferdinando’s Focacceria, a Sicilian hole-in-the-wall near Cobble Hill, famous for its panelle sandwich. The hour was geriatric, just shy of 5 p.m., and we were the only patrons. The lone server watched coverage of the storm with two other employees, each speaking occasionally but not in a way that suggested a coherent conversation, just clucked exclamations of disbelief and sadness. Two cops stopped in for takeout. It’s that kind of place. We ordered three Panelle Specials, chickpea fritters smeared with ricotta and Parmesan between a split roll. Our server, middle-aged and with an accent you’d call affected coming from anyone less sturdy, brought the sandwiches from the kitchen in the back, setting them down on our table with a tight smile. Anytime I really attack a food, this line from Ray Carver’s “Cathedral” flashes in my head: “We dug in.” It’s a silly and plain and obvious line, and I like it because Carver knows it is too. As I smacked my way through the golden panelle and rich cheese without breathing, the line looped in my brain like I was daft. And I guess I was, stupefied by days of bodega snacks and unpacking while the wind did terrible things outside. All three of us came up for air at about the same time, nothing but smiles and half-finished sentences about how good the food was—half-finished because we were stepping on each others words and kept stopping to let one another speak. Finally, we tried nodding, and that worked pretty good. — Ross Scarano, Complex City Guide editor

City: Austin, Texas Address and phone: 900 E 11th St (512-653-1187) Website: franklinbarbecue.com  My best meal wasn't defined by novel flavors or a sleek setting. My best meal wasn't even a meal— it was an experience. It started with the whispers of locals, who warned of unbearably long lines, before conceding that Franklin had the best brisket in Texas. The notion they planted became a mission when I googled "Franklin, Austin" and read that Bon Appétit had crowned the place with the title of " best barbecue in America." Could Franklin ever live up to its stellar, almost mythical reputation? I was skeptical. As a New Yorker in Texas for the first time, the idea of waiting on line for anything made me itchy with impatience. But when I stepped onto that 100-deep line, snaking so far past the back of the restaurant that the door was no longer visible, I didn't feel anxious. I was expectant, the way you might be on a blind date. Would Franklin be as delicious as friends had said? The line buzzed with collective anticipation, while I buzzed with the help of two tallboys of Tecate. By the time I reached the front almost three hours later, I was wobbly and grinning. I also had a handful of new friends. Watching the pit master cut into that wonderful, quivering slice of brisket was the moment I knew I was going to get lucky with Franklin. And boy, did I score. This brisket was not tender; it was feeble. It effortlessly dissolved when it made contact with my tongue. The flavors, unlike something you'd encounter on a tasting menu, were not precise. They were all-encompassing. The salt-and-pepper–rubbed rib meat toppled off the bone, and the pulled pork was so moist and flavorful, I dared not touch it with a drop of barbecue sauce. And the setting was uniquely Texas—humble, and entirely stripped of pretension. The brisket, while intensely savory, was not complex. There was no service to speak of. But sitting at that picnic table, plastic fork in hand, I experienced a deep satisfaction I've never found in New York's exciting but overwrought dining scene. That pure simplicity was best thing I've ever tasted. — Shanté Cosme, Complex City Guide assistant editor

City: Charleston, South Carolina Address and phone: 76 Queen St (843-577-2500) Website: huskrestaurant.com My first trip to Charleston was full of good eating—biscuits and gravy at Hominy Grill, a Low Country oyster roast by the water, cakey donuts from the Diggity Doughnuts Truck—but Sean Brock’s critically acclaimed spot lived up to the hype and stood out as one of my favorite meals of the year. The place is just stunning to roll up on—a gorgeous Southern mansion on a genteel Charleston side street, with a big porch where we hung out wiling away the afternoon before and after. I was lucky enough to be the lone dude in a crew of five lovely ladies, so that didn’t hurt either—inspired by the surroundings, I felt like I had enough gentleman swag to keep them all entertained, though they’d probably tell you otherwise. At any rate, it turned out I didn’t need to call upon much charm as the food kept everyone way more interested than I ever could. Seated at a round table in the large, airy downstairs dining room, we passed around shrimp and grits (best I’ve ever had), crispy pig ears wrapped in Bibb lettuce, chicken wings licked with smoke from the wood fire, and a burger that delivers all the best parts of a cheffy sandwich—a blend of beef and bacon (yes, the bacon is in the burger), punchy mustard sauce, buttermilk bread bun—and none of the usual nonsense. At the end of the day, it’s a double patty with American cheese, inspired by In-N-Out. That’s why everyone loves Sean Brock—the food is thoughtful in its approach to ingredients and heritage, but never in-your-face about anything other than its undeniable deliciousness. — Chris Schonberger, editor-in-chief

City: Hoosick Falls, New York Address and phone:  4729 State Rte 67 (518-686-3258) Website: no website My aunt, Robin Button, has worked at Jean’s Place—a greasy-spoon truck-stop diner in Hoosick Falls, New York—for as long as I can remember. She helped get me a dishwashing job there during one youthful winter back in 1998. A recent visit provided not only my best meal of 2012, but a welcome trip down memory lane—the smell of breakfast sizzling on the grill, the long narrow dining room, and familiar faces at the counter showing a decade of aging. Kevin Salisbury, the chef/cook/co-owner, makes a BBQ sauce that puts any great southern BBQ-claims-to-fame to shame—it’s tangy, sweet, rich, and viscous, and you want to pour it on everything. I witnessed him make it once: Worcestershire, A1, vinegar, mustard, Catalina Dressing, light and dark Karo syrup, molasses, ketchup…and there’s more, but he’s not telling. It’s best smothered on the roast-beef sandwich with pickles and a side of crispy fries. Around the holidays, Kevin sometimes takes a break from the grill to sing a couple Italian arias—he has one of the best operatic tenor voices in upstate New York. Long live Jean’s Place, with its heart-attack inducing comfort food—for I will return again to have my fill.  — Jonathan Cristaldi, wine columnist 

City: Berlin, Germany Address and phone: Pücklerstraße 34 (+49 30 6175 ext. 502) Website: weltrestaurant-markthalle.de I wasn’t entirely sure what I had ordered when I sat down at this restaurant in Berlin. The menu was in German and I was limited to words I’d picked up from Volkswagen commercials. But after a few bites and some council from my translation app, I realized that my favorite meal of 2012 was in fact a carnal piece of pork. The chefs at this traditional but somewhat trendy Berlin dining hall slow-roast pork shoulder (schwinebraten) to gorgeous, fall-apart tenderness, braising along the way with porky pan juices which later find their way into an unctuous gravy. On the side, tart and tangy white wine–braised sauerkraut cuts the richness, and jus-soaked semmelknödel (bread dumplings) are hearty but far from leaden. And then there's the clincher: gooey, Gruyère-heavy spaetzle topped with crispy fried onions. — Bret Stetka, contributor

City: Denver, Colorado Address and phone: Denver International Airport, Concourse A, Mezzanine Website: no website Mesa Verde, situated on the mezzanine level of Denver Airport's Terminal A, is an admittedly unlikely location for a superb meal. The dining room itself functions as a smoker's lounge—one of the few places traveler's can light up near the Mile High city's runways—and unless you sit "outside," the atmosphere is nothing short of repellant. In stark contrast to the environment, the restaurant's take on Colorado-style Mexican fare is sublime. Really. The kitchen churns out nachos with startling depth of flavor—tongue-tingling cheese sauce, piquant chicken, and the type of chip coverage normally reserved for home-cooked platters. They were so good, I ate them twice—once as take-out, and the second time during a rushed layover on the way back to New York from Aspen. With no exaggeration, this odd little mecca, situated in a smoke-stained corner of Denver's airport, sells one of the finest plates of nachos anywhere in America. — Nick Schonberger, founding editor

City: Los Angeles, California Address and phone: 514 W 7th St (213-622-3744) Website: mo-chica.com Ricardo Zarate’s Mo-Chica on 7th Street embraces comfort food like its former iteration at the Mercado Paloma, but it also adds a polish inspired by its sister restaurant, Picca. Take his quinotto—a thoughtful riff on risotto made with quinoa instead of arborio rice. Whereas traditional risotto tends to clump up and become leaden under an onslaught of dairy, quinotto retains its grain profile after it's slow-cooked with wild mushrooms and Parmesan cheese, then punctuated by bursts of parsley-infused oil. Definitely one of the best singular dishes I ate all year. — Christine Chiao, writer

City: London, England Address and phone: 1 Newburgh St (+44 20 7287 5578) Website: pittcue.co.uk Great meals are often about great surprises. Pitt Cue, one of London's new crop of ultra-hyped, truck to brick-and-morter establishments, serves the type of food most Americans may rightfully seek to avoid in the U.K.: barbeque. Yet the minuscule spot succeeds in creating a vibe all its own. Sure, there are cans of PBR and attempts at Snickers-based desserts. But dig beneath these items, beneath a veneer of faux Americana, and what emerges is the most distinctly English take on BBQ I’ve encountered. The shining star of the menu isn't a plate of copycat ribs; instead, it’s a grilled "house sausage" coarsely ground and served in large patties. Paired with mashed potatoes drenched in bone-marrow gravy, the sausage makes for an unusually perfect meal—one that brought me back to Pitt Cue three times in the course of 24 hours. — Nick Schonberger, founding editor

City: Newport Beach, California Address and phone: 800 West Coast Highway (949-945-1126) Website: pizzeriamozza.com I've had pizza a million times in a million cities. Plus, I live in fucking New York City, which is pretty much the epicenter of pizza. My friend and business partner, Steve Gordon, is a fellow pizza obsessive and he had been ranting for a while about this new tomato pie with no cheese that he had at Pizzeria Mozza, which is a restaurant I almost always hit when I’m in L.A. So I tried it, and it instantly became my favorite pizza of all time. It is a simple pie made with Bianco DiNapoli canned tomatoes (from Chris Bianco of Pizzeria Bianco in Phoenix), oregano, salt, and olive oil. Hell, it is a vegan pizza! And yet in all its simplicity, it straight up captivated me. During the same meal we also enjoyed an amazing lasagna, a jalapeno/pineapple/speck pizza, and two of my favorite desserts—the caramel copetta with housemade marshallow fluff and Spanish peanuts, as well as the butterscotch budino with salted caramel. But that damn tomato di napoli pizza...I can't stop thinking about it! — DJ Dieselboy, columnist

City: Sullivan Island, South Carolina Address and phone: 2210 Middle St (843-883-0083) Website: poestavern.com One of my most memorable meals of this year was an afternoon lunch at Poe's Tavern, a neighborhood restaurant and burger joint situated on Sullivan's Island, just outside of Charleston. Following an afternoon spent at the beach, I travelled to Poe's and settled at the bar on the front porch in search of a substantial meal paired with a local Palmetto Pale Ale. I decided to go with the Annabelle Lee burger, a patty burger topped with a lump of Carolina-style crabcake and vegetable remoulade. On the side there was a heaping portion of fresh french fries and marinated-bacon blue cheese cole slaw. It was exactly what I wanted, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. — Liz Barclay, photographer

City: Louisville, Kentucky Address and phone: 702 W Main St (502-217-6360) Website: proofonmain.com I was on a trip with two coworkers in November, doing what any self-respecting Yankees do in Kentucky—hitting the bourbon trail. I’d been to this restaurant in the ultra-cool 21c Museum Hotel a couple years before, and I was eager to show my comrades that you could get an accomplished meal in Kentucky. We kicked things off at the bar, sitting next to a brass sculpture of a devil and shaking off the journey from New York with a couple of brown-and-stirred cocktails—an auspicious start. The bourbon followed us to the table and turned into tasting flights of neat hooch from around the state—Elmer T. Lee, Noah’s Mill, Eagle Rare Single Barrel...they kept coming until I lost track. Hard liquor doesn’t usually pair well with food, but chef Levon Wallace's bold, inventive cooking grabbed our attention time and again, even as a warm whiskey haze set in. That is to say, we got drunk and ate like animals. It was a reach-your-arm-across-the-table type of meal, with plates filling every inch of space—fork-tender short ribs, pan-seared diver scallops, fantastic pastas and charcuterie, and a bacon-topped bison burger that gives fancy burgers a good name. Soon, we were talking and laughing like friends, not coworkers, and I got to know the guys better than I ever would back in the office. Good food and drink will do that. We stumbled back to our rooms through the hotel lobby, which doubles as a contemporary art gallery, and shared whiskey-induced ramblings about the paintings on the wall. Turns out being drunk in a museum is every bit as awesome as you'd imagine. — Chris Schonberger, editor-in-chief

City: Los Angeles, California Address and phone: 8400 Wilshire Blvd (323-651-5500) Website: redmedicinela.com This is chef Jordan Kahn's gastronomic temple to modern Vietnamese food. I had two meals within a month amongst family and friends and managed to enjoy almost every item on the amazing menu. During dinner one night, I combined some of the "large format" brisket that was bathed in palm sugar with brown butter porridge from another dish and banana vinegar from yet another into one perfect bite. My brain almost exploded. I rounded both meals off with one of the best desserts I can ever recall enjoying—birch ice with vanilla cremieux, red-currant gelée, and orange-blossom water bubbles, served in a fish bowl topped with a thin almond and white chocolate nougatine disc. Out of this fucking world good. — DJ Dieselboy, columnist

City: New Orleans, Louisiana Address and phone: 777 Bienville St (504-553-2277) Website: revolutionnola.com It's everything a good restaurant in New Orleans shouldn't be: Shiny. Expensive. Built by a Rick Tramonto, a Chicago restaurateur known for his marked-up big box restaurants. Worst of all, it's right in the heart of the French Quarter, and it’s neither an institution nor a tested member of that area's rare high-quality new guard (Sylvain, et al). Yet, John Folse—who isn't a household name to anyone outside of New Orleans—may have his incredible legacy defined by this place. It wasn't my birthday dinner (Commander's Palace), and there wasn't any particular importance to the occasion other than being the first meal we had on my yearly pilgrimage to the Crescent City. But it was, handily, the most expectation-deifying dinner I could imagine. The food, drinks, and service were all some of the best I've ever had, anywhere. And the bill wasn't traumatizing, either—it was actually one of the cheaper meals on our trip. The most memorable part of the meal wasn't a particular course, nor the brilliant petit fours, nor the tour of the space-age kitchen and entire restaurant offered as a final treat, as if we were adored regular house guests. It was the moment we walked outside, which felt slightly akin to stepping out of a royal shrine to great New Orleans cuisine, hidden in plain sight, back into the heart of the Quarter, the most mystical metropolitan center in America. — Foster Kamer, Complex senior editor

City: San Francisco, California Address and phone: 432 Octavia St (415-863-1518) Website: smittenicecream.com Smitten Ice Cream could have easily tasted like a gimmick. But the truth is that Kelvin—the patented liquid nitrogen-powered ice cream machine developed by founder Robyn Sue Goldman—delivers exactly what it promises: The creamiest of all ice creams, made in less time than it takes to choose a flavor off the menu. In their Wonka-esque ice-cream lab, Goldman and pastry chef Robyn Lyn Lenzi figured out the right ratio of sweet to organic cream. By keeping the sweetness in check, the other ingredients can come through uninterrupted. Seasonal sweet corn ice cream with blackberry topping was unlike any cold treat I've ever had. — Christine Chiao, writer

City: South Londonderry, Vermont Address and phone: 95 Middletown Rd (802-824-6327) Website: solofarmandtable.com Sometimes the only problem with New York restaurants is that they’re in New York. The food can be great, the hospitality impeccable, but the ceaseless noise and energy of the city always seep in and  keeps you a little on edge. What I love about SoLo Farm & Table is that you get all the polish and technique of an ambitious NYC restaurant, but you’re in a beautiful house on a farm in southern Vermont, so you can actually relax. Chloe and Wesley Genovart, the husband-and-wife team who own the spot, are serious restaurant vets—she was a maître d’ at Per Se, and he cooked at Degustation—but they moved to Vermont to raise their son. What they deliver is real, honest farm-to-table fare (in this case, from a farm right out back) with little whispers of influences from Wesley's Mediterranean background (he's originally from Spain). House-cured and smoked Spanish mackerel with thin slivers of pickled watermelon was bright and refreshing on a late summer’s night, and the spicy lamb Bolognese was fantastic, elevated by thick homemade pasta and fresh mint plucked straight from the garden. I just hope I can get back to this place before it wins a James Beard Award. — Chris Schonberger, editor-in-chief

City: San Francisco, California Address and phone: 1517 Polk St (415-673-2757) Website: no website Any restaurant good enough to stop an argument with your girlfriend dead in its tracks has got to be memorable, right? We were in San Francisco for less than a day en route to a wedding, and our agendas weren’t quite in sync: She had old friends to see and wedding-related prep to deal with, while I was pushing an aggressive culinary tour that involved six meals in the space of as many hours. The wait outside of this Nob Hill institution (a permanent feature of the place, as far as I could tell) didn’t help matters, but as soon as we took our place at the long counter, the atmosphere just took over and neither of us could help but have a great time. The close quarters breed a convivial vibe, with easy conversation flowing between long-time regulars, tourists, and the white-jacketed men behind the counter, who you might recognize from a black-and-white photo on the wall. The seafood is a marvel to look at—immaculately fresh whole red snappers and spiky sea urchins resting on ice, big crabs still glistening with ocean water, all handled with sure hands. We tucked into a “salad” of shredded lettuce, prawns, shrimp, and crabmeat, served with tartar and cocktail sauce. Then, we slurped oysters as good as any I’ve ever had—vivid Kumamotos, briny Miyagos, and Bluepoints—washed down with cold mugs of Anchor Steam. We were only in there for about half the time we’d spent waiting on line, but we left feeling about 100 times happier. To me, that’s the power of a great restaurant. — Chris Schonberger, editor-in-chief

City: Kingston, Jamaica Location: Various locations Sometimes, experiencing the joy of authenticity is as simple as eating the locals' favorite fast food. Flying into Kingston, my girlfriend and I were driving straight up into the Jamaican Blue Mountains, to stay at the place that inspired Marley to write "Natural Mystic." It was Sunday—a big day for Jamaicans and eating, the most sacrosanct, and usually the most delicious—and we knew we'd eat up in the mountains as soon as we got there. But when we sheepishly asked the driver if he could make one teeny, tiny stop in Kingston before heading up into the mountains, we didn't expect him to laugh, and clap his hands at our weird little request with total delight. We wanted patties. We wanted some real, everyday, no-bullshit Jamaican beef patties. And yes, it was awkward in there. We stuck out like very sore and obvious thumbs, idiot tourists no doubt doing something ostensibly "cute" and possibly culturally patronizing, if only evidenced by the way I fumbled my Jamaican dollars at the register. Back in the van, scarfing down patties as we drove up the mountains, flakes of golden crust all over us, we had a feeling it wouldn't get much better than that. We were right: One week in Jamaica and plenty of cash spent later, the cheapest meal we had there was still the absolute best. — Foster Kamer, Complex senior editor

City: Honolulu, Hawaii Address and phone: 1344 Kona St (808-953-0007) Website: vloungehawaii.com Hawaiian pizza has singular connotations: Diced pineapple and pork, the choice of "adventurous" eaters across middle America. But follow some dudes that look like Polynesian gangsters (because, probably, they are) down an otherwise unoccupied strip of downtown Honolulu and perceptions immediately change. Inside an after-hours bar, V Lounge Pizzaiolo chef Alejandro "Aker" Briceno wood-fires pizza that would spin the head of any Roberta's-championing hipster. Not only has Briceno—who trained at Casserole du Chef in his hometown of Caracas and worked as a pastry chef at the Michelin-starred Nobu outpost in Vegas—given Hawaiians a reason to rethink pizza, he's also defined the state's late-night dining scene. The sopressatta and prosciutto rucola pies genuinely have few mainland competitors.  — Nick Schonberger, founding editor

City: Bloomington, Indiana Address and phone: 1724 W Walnut St (812-332-0500) Website: weewilliesbloomington.com There are two restaurants that I haven't been able to stop talking about this year. One earned two stars from the New York Times; the other is located in the middle of nowhere in the Midwest. Bloomington has the benefit—or curse, depending on your outlook—of being a large college town, and it’s got a good range of restaurant options as a result. When my friend, a thrifty banjo-player who had migrated there from Jamaica (Queens), suggested breakfast at a diner on the outskirts on town named Wee Willie's, I agreed mostly because it seemed like a good way to check out the local scene. The menu was typical of a diner anywhere, but the rustic, roadside townie establishment exceeded any possible expectations. The place doesn't offer much in the way of service, which was standoffish (to be fair, I had asked for soy milk). But what it does deliver is all-American food done well. Hash browns came out crisp and golden. French toast made with Texas Toast was fluffy, decadent, and spiced perfectly—so perfectly that I had order envy and asked for the dish as an encore even after finishing my grilled cheese. — Kristen Tauer, intern

City: Cleveland, Ohio Address and phone: 2038 East 4th St (216-443-051) Website: thegreenhousetavern.com A few months back I was in Cleveland on tour with some guys on my record label, Subhuman. I had been to Greenhouse Tavern in 2011, but this time around I was invited by chef Jonathan Sawyer and his wife to come and have a meal at the chef's counter downstairs. It was the first time I had met them and they were "rolling out the red carpet," because his wife used to go to raves I played at back in the day. Lucky me, because it turned out to be one of the best meals my friends and I had all year. My weak spot tends to be comfort food, and GT does it very well. Take for instance their riff on poutine, which combines duck-fat fries, poached eggs, bacon, gravy, cheese, and whole grain mustard—it’s basically sex in your mouth. And on this night we enjoyed not only the frites, but also a huge selection of food both fried and buttery, delicious and fattening, and stunningly prepared. We bought the cooks a few rounds of beer and ended the meal with five different desserts. On top of it all, I became good friends with chef Sawyer, who is a fucking awesome dude. Triple win. I think I gained 15 pounds that night. —DJ Dieselboy, columnist

City: Brooklyn, New York Address: An apartment in Crown Heights Website: E-mail unfamiliarsuppers@gmail.com I'm dubious of supper clubs and dinner parties. The food usually teeters a little too close to the “Fail” category, and if I cared only about the company, I'd go to brunch. But when a friend in the restaurant industry with actual cooking credentials sent me his menu for "Unfamiliar Suppers," I decided to make the trek out into the heart of Brooklyn. The idea was simple: Dining is about good food, interesting people, and the situations that arise when both factors are firing on all cylinders. The first course served—winter soup that had been pureed and seasoned the day before—showed the same care given to a similar dish ordered in a restaurant. Brussels sprouts with kimchi; lentils and mirepoix; portebello mushrooms sautéed with bacon; and beets roasted with almonds followed. By the time the dessert came out—pumpkin pie, a.k.a. "Brenda's Favorite"—enough wine and whiskey had been consumed that the dish soon became everyone's favorite. — Kristen Tauer, intern