The Most Memorable Meals of 2013

City: Pocantico Hills, NY Address and phone: 630 Bedford Rd (914 366 9600) Website: bluehillfarm.com 2013 was good to me. There was the once-in-a-lifetime Thanksgiving-themed meal at New York’s Empellon Cocina, a blockbuster collaboration between Alex Stupak and Alinea’s Grant Achatz. There was the day I spent underfoot at Louie Mueller barbecue in Texas, sticking my nose into the smokers and breathing deeply, pulling apart a mammoth beef rib with my fingers. There was that meal at Toups’ Meatery in New Orleans—all cracklins and gouda beignets and flawless pork chops, thick as a Tolstoy novel. I ate luscious ricotta dumplings buried in shaved raw mushrooms at Estela in New York. I ate blood fettucini and clams steamed with foie gras at the exceptional Greenhouse Tavern in Cleveland. And I ate disgusting pancakes at a strip club with First We Feast editor-in-chief Chris Schonberger (memorable for different reasons entirely). Outside of restaurants, there was the late-summer clambake I hosted with a dear friend on the sand behind a 1930s beach bungalow—unable to find enough seaweed, we cooked the lobsters, quahogs, and mussels in a pit filled with smoldering hay. That was pretty good. Pretty, pretty good. But if I have to pick just one year-making meal I think I’d give it to Dan Barber’s Blue Hill at Stone Barns—a world-class restaurant located on a working farm in Pocantico Hills, NY. My dinner there was as much a gastronomic experience as it was an educational one. Servers placed raw ingredients in the middle of the table for us to behold while we ate. There was a whole, swollen kohlrabi bulb to look at, and on our plates there were mandoline-thin rounds of the vegetable with sweet shrimp and spiced yogurt to eat like a taco. An iPad with footage of Stone Barn’s free-roaming chickens appeared on the table during our poultry course—a cheeky nod to a Portlandia sketch, maybe, but delicious all the same. The meal balanced restrained flavors against rich ones in a way that bordered on tantric. Would that arrangement of pork loin, chop, and belly have seemed so opulent had it not been preceded by those immaculate vegetable courses? That chaste frond of raw fennel? It was just a gentle smack with a riding crop. A friend speaking of Blue Hill at Stone Barns once told me “the best restaurant in New York City isn’t in New York City.” It stings a bit to admit it, but floating home down the Henry Hudson, belly warmed and mind fuzzy with cognac, it’s hard to disagree.—Jordana Rothman, contributor

City: Yokohama, Japan Address and phone: 2-14-21 Shinyokohama, Kohoku Ward, Yokohama, Kanagawa Prefecture (+81 45-471-0503) Website: raumen.co.jp The lion's share of my most memorable meals in 2013 were experienced outside of New York, though that's not supposed to be any sneak-diss on the NYC restaurant scene. The city's been as good to me as ever this year. I had the best sushi of my life, bar-none, at Sushi Nakazawa, strapped into the high-chairs at the counter with a good friend and a procession of excellent sakes I can't spell. Perla solidified itself as my favorite place to celebrate life's small, Pyrrhic victories. I also had some hilarious Tex-Mex meals at El Cantinero, where any anxiety you harbor instantly evaporates in a puff of fajita steam. Ultimately, though, nothing compares to eating a great meal far from home—I used to pick up jerseys of local soccer teams wherever I traveled, but now I remember my journeys based on the things I ate. In Oregon, I had oysters shucked fresh off the boat at the Pacific Oyster Company on the Tillamook Bay, as well as an awesome meal in front of the blazing wood-fired oven at Ox in Portland. Solo Farm + Table, in southern Vermont, was even better this year when I got to enjoy it with loved ones instead of on my own. And digging into a properly British pot pie at the Old Mill in South Egremont, MA was the closest I reckon I'll come to time-warping back to colonial New England. But since I got to go to Japan this year, nothing else ever really stood a chance. All the cliches are true—eating in Japan is one of those experiences that makes you realize why your notion of "great" might just be considered middling to other people. The convenience stores had better food than most American restaurants, and a chef named Mirakumon Takano, working solo out of a tiny kitchen near Harajuku, cooked and served me the best single bite of the year (Japanese Wagyu...it's for real). But the single most memorable meal wasn't at a restaurant, but rather a museum that is devoted entirely to celebrating the history and regional diversity of ramen. The fact that this place even exists is a testament to what makes Japanese food culture so incredible; all of the mini ramen-ya inside the theme-park-like food court aren't just there for some marketing gimmick. They bring their A-game, representing the country's most celebrated shops with pride and a strict adherence to quality. We waited an hour for the tonkotsu from the Tokyo-based Toride, standing behind a small child playing a handheld videogame that will probably come out here in 2020. The broth was rich and complex without being overly creamy; the noodles impossibly firm for how thin they were; the spring onions on top fresh and crunchy, and grown specially for this particular ramen (there was a section of the menu devoted to explaining the horticulture). It's a meal that I'll think of every time a hyped-up new ramen joint sets up shop in NYC, which these days, is practically every week. Long story short: Ramen museums rule, as if there was ever any doubt.—Chris Schonberger

Neighborhood: West Hollywood Address and phone: 9041 W Sunset Blvd (310-275-9724) Website: nightmarketla.com Since I can remember, in-the-know Los Angelenos have headed straight to Jitlada for always exceptional, sometimes challenging, fiercely fiery regional Thai dishes. But now, there's a new kid on the block. When I was home this spring, my brother suggested we try out an upstart on the L.A. Thai food scene. Thirty-year-old chef Kris Yenbamroong opened Night+Market a couple years back next to his parent’s aging Thai restaurant on Sunset Boulevard. My brother, myself, and our dining compadres walked into the northern Thai street-food emporium and sat amongst good-looking Hollywood types clamoring over snacks like perfectly fatty grilled pork collar with a dried chili dipping sauce. We settled in, ordered a few specials, including beef tendon Panang curry thickened with coconut cream and served with flaky fried roti. Then we ordered the chili-laden crispy rice and sour pork salad, which sent me into an awesome, chili-fueled delirium. But once I got past the vision-blurring heat of the dish, I discovered it was a masterpiece of contrasting flavor and texture. Whenever I return to L.A., I am now prepared to repeatedly chug my Singha, wipe my brow, and be taken aback by the balance and complexity of Yenbamroong’s uncompromising dishes. This whole year, I've been telling friends in NYC that Andy Ricker better watch his back.—Erin Mosbaugh, assistant editor

City: Stockbridge, MA Address and phone: 30 Main St (413-298-5545) Website: redlioninn.com Norman Rockwell moved to Stockbridge, MA in 1953, and his paintings of the local area—specifically Main Street at Christmas—cemented mid-century opinion of idyllic New England. Appearing in the December 1967 issue of McCall's, Rockwell's portrait of the town includes a darkened Red Lion Inn. Since revived, the rambling hotel evokes a bygone era with its credible details, from antique furnishes right down to chef Brian Alberg's locally sourced menus. On two consecutive snowy evenings in early December, I ate at the bar of the Red Lion Inn's Widow Bingham's Tavern. It's a small space, tucked beside a service hallway and separated from the reception area by a heavy curtain. Attempts to pull off a full colonial vibe are offset by late-'70s lunch boxes hanging from the ceiling. Pewter tankards enjoy life beside an image of Alf, and in that weird juxtaposition the true spirit of the Red Lion Inn reveals itself: This is not a time capsule, but a living, breathing place not wholly immune to trends, yet not completely receptive to change either. For the past nine years, it has quietly championed local food under Alberg's watchful eye. The cooking doesn't challenge—mains included Scottish salmon served with roasted cauliflower, and native turkey accompanied by all the Thanksgiving fixings. Instead, the dishes comfort and inspire. This is, after all, Rockwell's America. The restaurant concerns itself with the classics, and provides just the slightest tweaks to meet the needs of a contemporary palate. For my second meal, I ate a prime-rib sandwich, popover for bun, accompanied by four large fried potatoes. Each forkful was dunked in au jus. After the final bite, the plate was wiped clean with a potato onion roll from Berkshire Mountain Bakery. Outside, large flakes lingered in lamp light. In a year filled with long waits for hyped pastries and bowls of ramen, the meal provided grounding and reminded me exactly why food has power in the first place. Food is about place and time. It is also about whom you share it with and how it marks occasion. Winter in Stockbridge remains something of a fantasy. Farm to table is a matter of practicality rather than ideology, and the meals stir the very same emotions as Rockwell's scenes. All the dick-swinging, belt-notching, Instagram-worthy meals—everything I'd thought, whilst eating, that I'd write about at year's end—faded in memory. What sticks, what really hits home, is an evening that delighted in its simplicity and rekindled proper engagement with environment and ingredients.—Nick Schonberger, founder

City: Seattle, WA Address and phone: 2401 2nd Ave (206-443-9844) Website: shiros.com Way back in May, when Sushi Nakazawa’s four New York Times stars were just a glint in Pete Wells’s eye, Daisuke Nakazawa was that tamago guy from Jiro Dreams of Sushi and the presumptive heir to the throne of Shiro Kashiba, the man who allegedly brought sushi to the Pacific Northwest 40 years ago. Now in his '70s, Shiro snapped up Nakazawa in 2012 to work at his eponymous restaurant in Seattle’s tony Belltown neighborhood, where two-plus-hour waits are the rule no matter who's wielding the knife. On a short trip there this year, we made Shiro’s our one really good, balls-to-the-wall sushi meal. Apparently the universe approved, and we had the extreme luck to be seated at the bar in the two seats directly in front of Nakazawa—the only two seats he was serving. Our 20-piece omakase played a lot of the same notes he's brought here to New York: He presented the prawns destined for our plates still alive and kicking, naming them, to his own great amusement; we ate versions of the same fish handled in a kaleidoscope of ways (live sea scallop was followed, several courses later, by blowtorch-seared scallop topped with raw geoduck); he took great care to season each piece of fish in subtly novel ways that highlighted its unique qualities. At one point we caught the people in the seats next to us watching forlornly—while they were getting the same fish, the additional prep that was blowing us away was entirely the product of Nakazawa's imagination. I almost never take photos of my food, but this was the first meal where I've been moved to take reaction shots; the faces we were making with each new bite ranged from absurd to obscene. Even then, before he was the focus of the intense glare of the New York City spotlight, Nakazawa's confident good humor and warmth were palpable, the way I imagine the kind of star quality people like Julia Roberts have in person feels. He straight-up dazzled us, making us feel like the only two people in the world that mattered. When he found out we were from New York, he acted as if we were the movie stars, not him, and when we took visible pleasure in our food, he crowed with delight. When he opened his restaurant here and we were at the counter in that first week, part of me really did expect him to recognize us. He didn’t, but I couldn’t hold it against him—he was just too damn charming.—Regan Hofmann, contributor

City: Pittsburgh, PA Address and phone: 4412 Liberty Ave (412-682-8611) Website: bloomfieldbridgetavern.com We were in the South Side of Pittsburgh on East Carson Street, a hodgepodge, bohemian row lined with bars. At one point I remember clasping a goblet of beer in my hand. Yuengling, of course. I watched a Yinzerita fly by and stared, dumbfounded. There happened to be a STD spelling bee at the bar, too. Chlamydia. Can you repeat that one more time, please? With an h! I cursed softly as I slunk back into my seat. My buzz was gradually rising, and so was my appetite. Which led me to a brief moment of clarity: Polish food. I owed it to my dad’s Slavic side of the family, who grew up an hour northwest from here. My friends and I headed across town to Bloomfield Bridge Tavern, a bare-bones, family-owned joint referred to as The Polish Party House. A large Polish flag hung above the dimly-lit bar, but my eyes quickly darted to an illuminated, framed picture of Pope John Paul III. We moved to the outdoor patio and ordered the Polish Platter Red. A heaping plate arrived on the table. There were plump pierogies the size of hockey pucks, lightly fried and filled with cottage cheese and sautéed onions. The golabki’s translucent cabbage skin was smothered in a tomato puree, providing a splash of color in an otherwise beige noodle sea of haluski and kluski. It was Eastern Bloc soul food, and even its visual appearance was reminiscent of my ancestors. Pallid. Doughy. Starchy. Regardless, I loved it like I loved my family, unconditionally. But this meal was all about a singular item: the kielbasa, its skin accented with beautiful striped char marks as black as a soot-stained steelworker, exposing the sausage’s bursting rosy-pink, garlicky flesh. Its sweetness was balanced by a seductive, faint perfume of smoke, and it had the elastic snap of a great, spurting Texas link. I took another bite. It was soft like velvet, coating my mouth with grease and porky heft and crispy skin shrapnel. In Austin, TX I had swooned over Franklin’s beef-heart sausage. It was fittingly bold for the Lone Star State. But this BBT link was different; it encased my identity. I flagged over the waiter. “We’ll take another.” The first one was to honor my trip, the second my heritage. And to that, I’ll say it like they do in the old country: Na Zdrowie!—Justin Bolois, contributor

City: Stockholm, Sweden Address and phone: Blekingegatan 40 (+46 8 556 090 )90 Website: pelikan.se We had traditional Swedish meatballs in mind when we showed up on an icy winter night at Restaurant Pelikan, a cavernous beer hall on Stockholm’s south island (Södermalm). Serving up Viking-worthy dishes, the restaurant has been in existence since the 1660s, and in its current location since 1960. Jugend-style (German art nouveau) murals adorn the walls, and Art Deco chandeliers shed dim light over the hall’s communal wooden tables and weathered wooden banquettes. After ordering a few pints of local pilsner, we naturally turned to the meatballs on the menu, assuming that these were the essence of the Swedish home-style fare in which Pelikan specializes. And indeed they were—dense, onion-infused, coated in creamy gravy, and accompanied by tangy lingonberries. But our waitress also steered us in the direction of a dish that turned out to be the night’s real showstopper—the veal burger. Its ingredient list alone was heart attack-inducing: ground veal, egg yolks, double cream, butter. But mysteriously, the burger had a pillow-y texture and an inexplicable lightness. Compared to the density of the meatballs, it felt like a rich, butter-drenched cloud in my mouth. We couldn’t quite figure out the chemistry of it, but that didn’t stop anyone from licking up every last crumb. At the end of it all, only a few forgotten meatballs remained.—Tory Hoen, contributor

City:Ann Arbor, MI Address and phone: 341 E Liberty St (734-769-6700) Website: maniosteria.com In my average-size town, filled with average-size houses, eating out meant restaurants that were, well, average. Chains were the name of the game, and as H.A.M as I can go on the breadsticks at Olive Garden, I can microwave better meals. Upon moving to NYC before my 18th birthday, I was convinced that Michigan's food scene was just a landscape of shitty, cookie-cutter chains and greasy family spots. One especially brisk fall, I found myself back home visiting my family, and convinced them to drive 45 minutes to Mani Osteria in Ann Arbor, based solely off of a recommendation that Mario Batali once tweeted off-handedly. I still think of the tangy pickled tomatoes and airy whipped ricotta bruschetta whenever I have a craving for something crunchy, creamy, and flavor-packed—which is everyday, really. Even better was the wood-fired pizza, with a slightly charred crust, topped with thinly shaved red onion and plenty of pistachios. Best of all was seeing my family—a group of seriously picky and very vegetarian eaters—have their minds and tastebuds blown away, as if breaking free from years of greasy chain residue. While my parents will always prefer I go to medical school than spend my days writing about food, for a brief evening, they actually understood why I can be so obsessed. Other lessons learned that day: Pistachios are stellar on pizza, and always trust Mario Batali Twitter recommendations.—Khushbu Shah, contributor

City: Hawley, PA Address and phone: 2495 Route 6 (570-226-1500) Website: greshamschophouse.com I spend a lot of time in the combination backwoods-vacation resort region of the Poconos in northeastern Pennsylvania; my fiancé’s parents have a vacation house there in a community that surrounds a manmade lake, amid small towns that are home to hill people and Pittsburgh retirees. Meals out there are either at roadside burger stands or German-American diners. On a trip up this summer, desperate for a change, we found Gresham's, the date-night hotspot of Hawley, PA. Gresham’s is a steakhouse, but it’s not the 40-day-old dry-aged, bone marrow-topped, whale-bait steakhouse—it’s the kind of place where everyone’s meal begins with an iceberg salad with Thousand Island dressing, and there’s a foil-wrapped baked potato plunked next to your steak. The other reason it’s a local destination is the live music, featuring local musicians who don’t have a lot of options for nearby gigs. On the night we were there, that meant the vocal stylings of Gary Dillon, a graying man who had set up a keyboard and a CD of backing tracks in a corner of the bar and did his best Paul Simon, Don Henley, and Neil Young impressions all night long. For us, who operate within New York City’s sliver of the tiny world of food obsessives, the night was a crucial reminder there are millions of people who don't give a shit about the hottest new chef or the toughest tables, and yet they still manage to eat well and enjoy dining out. These are the same people who look forward to the Olive Garden coming to town or order molten chocolate cake for dessert without irony, and they are legion. They are not dumb or naive; they are more powerful than us and they are, for the most part, making some pretty solid life decisions. After we finished eating and the last vestiges of our New York City pretension had died away, we retreated to the bar to drink Rusty Nails with the retirees and sway along to Gary's version of “Only Love Can Break Your Heart.” And the steak? It was almost certainly seasoned with McCormick's Montreal Steak seasoning, and it was delicious.—Regan Hofmann, contributor

City: Nashville, TN Address and phone: 123 Ewing Dr #3 (615-226-9442) Website: Facebook In Nashville, we had been tailing a car in front of us for five minutes before my friend revved his engine and jetted past the vehicle. “Must be from Kentucky, the poor sucker,” he said impatiently as I tried to catch a glimpse of the license plate. We had places to get to. The pride of East Nashville, Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack, was on our agenda. Prince’s is considered the birthplace of a scarlet-hued fried chicken, infused with an unabashed amount of cayenne pepper and a spice blend that gives it a tongue-searing kick. Determining the recipe, though, is like locating a hen’s teeth—it just ain’t gonna happen. “We can tell you what’s not in it,” said niece Kim Prince. “We don’t use buttermilk,” contrary to popular belief. And she left it at that. We entered a strip mall and opened the door to a room with white wooden seats reminiscent of church pews. The TV was tuned into the Steve Harvey Show, and the kitchen was blocked from visibility, sealed off by a wall. The chicken finally arrived, speared by a couple of toothpicks to a slice of white bread, with a few butter pickles thrown on top. I knew Prince’s heat scale was deceptive so I ordered mine mild, but it still had a glaring molten-orange color, blotched with some burgundy patches. Its aroma was sharp, slightly dusty even, from the chili-pepper coating. I lifted the chicken and sank my teeth into it, noticing the depth of flavor above and below the skin. A subtle rich, smoky quality (possibly from paprika?) not only enhanced its crispy top layer, but also penetrated every square inch of the tender bird itself, which had benefited from a marinade beforehand. The blistering, dry heat hit me, and even if unbearable at times, it still added dimension to the bird. This wasn’t just a tongue-burning gimmick. It didn’t need a waffle, like at Roscoe’s in Los Angeles. Nor did it need a menacing, battered sheath, like at Willie Mae’s Scotch House in New Orleans. It was peerless, plain and simple. My lips were numb, red and vibrating, but I understood why people knocked on the windows of Prince's at its 4am closing time, begging for scraps, or what they call crumb sandwiches sans meat. That night, I felt the stomps of a river dancer in my stomach, but the next morning it was decided without much thought: We’d go back to Prince’s for round two, with an upgrade to medium heat. I was on my way to Memphis later that day, and boy was I in for a ride.—Justin Bolois, contributor

City: Mexico City, Mexico Address and phone: Durango 200, Roma, Cuauhtémoc (+52 55 5514 3169) Website: -- I now understand that the world is divided into two kinds of people: those who have experienced the tuna tostadas (tostadas de atun) at Mexico City’s Contramar, and those who (tragically) have not. The dish has a fierce cult following among both travelers and the local power players who dine at Contramar, a sceney lunch spot that reaches its fever pitch around three or four in the afternoon and closes by 7pm. On any given day, you’ll see international art dealers, financiers, and any number of Mexican moguls convening for multi-hour meals that almost inevitably include the famed tostadas. Their allure is so powerful that, when a friend and I had 24 hours to spend in Mexico City last winter, we planned our entire agenda around lunch at Contramar—or, more specifically, around getting our little paws on those tostadas. When they arrived at our table, they looked elegant but unassuming: a few thin slices of pink raw tuna on a three-inch crunchy corn tortilla, topped with crispy fried leeks and a few buttery slices of avocado. But as with many masterpieces, these beauties don’t fully reveal themselves until you look closer. The tuna, it turns out, is lightly marinated in soy to give it a salty kick. And binding it to the tostada is chef Gabriela Camara’s signature chipotle mayo—a spicy, smoky, lemony concoction that gives the dish its moisture and its delicate but deep flavor. A final spritz of lime on top provides a hit of freshness, and then it’s game on. The experience is electrifying—crunchy corn tortilla, smooth fresh tuna, velvety avocados, peppery mayo, sour leeks, and a splash of citrus to brighten it all. Each order includes two tostadas, but trust me, you’ll end up ordering at least three, and then calling for another, just for good measure. On the tail end of our trip, we passed through Mexico City for another 18 hours. And because cult members don’t ask questions, we marched directly over to Contramar and ordered another round of tostadas with the unwavering zeal of the newly converted.—Tory Hoen, contributor

City: Lyon, France Address and phone: Montée du Chemin Neuf (+33 4 78 29 40 10) Website: tetedoie.com This past October, with glasses of Champagne in hand, my wife Amanda and I marveled at the red glow of France’s gastronomical capital, Lyon, basked in a setting sun. We were on the rooftop of one-Michelin-starred Tête Doie, nibbling a series of amuse-bouche—exquisite bites of braised beef, foie-gras and agrumes. Once seated in the downstairs dining room, a young sommelier, well-versed in English, helped us select a 2001 Cornas from Paul Jaboulet Aîné—we might have attempted our French, but the wine list was a veritable tomb, hundreds up pages thick, and we didn’t want to disappoint ourselves. The Jaboulet was all Syrah, produced a mere hour and a half south of Lyon, and was the perfect accompaniment to a barrage of marvelous Mediterranean-inspired courses, which combined to form one of the most memorable in our young lives. There was speck and sliced melon dotted with citrus purées, and wheels of rich foie gras. I devoured the tête de veau (calf’s head), chef Christian Têtedoie’s signature dish, which tasted of finely braised jerky, but of a soft consistency. Richly flavored foams, marinated legumes, butter-poached lobster, divine mushrooms all preceded generous portions of local cow, sheep, and goat’s milk cheeses before three courses of chocolate and fruity desserts sent us blissfully out into the brisk Lyon evening. One food runner left quite an impression on us with a gaffe that would have had a Michelin reviewer up in arms: she presented to us our neighbors’ dessert. Unaware, I was busy photographing all angles of the glossy, frosted chocolate cake, and just as I was reaching for my fork the plate was unceremoniously removed and given to our neighbors—a couple rather entwined in themselves. Exchanging glances, and at a loss for French witticism, we shared a good bout of laughter—that old universal language.—Jonathan Cristaldi, wine columnist

City: Inglewood, CA Address and phone: 543 W Arbor Vitae St (310-412-3903) Website: -- Turning 30 can do strange things to a person. This year, three of my childhood friends and I decided to Thelma & Louise it down to Palm Springs: rent a car, roll the top down, and blast out into the desert to find ourselves. We met at LAX, the three of them coming from our hometown of Vancouver, I from New York, and hit the road—but not before grabbing some dinner first. It’s physically impossible to be in Los Angeles for more than 30 minutes without making a beeline for tacos. I’ve got no beef with New York City’s contribution to the genre, but there’s something in the geography of that sprawling, heat-baked city that demands cilantro and lime juice and freshly made tortillas and nearly any version you can find there will do. I didn’t mess around trying to find the best of the best; all I did was search for the nearest taco stand to the airport, and we were off. While I go back to Vancouver from time to time to visit, it took seeing my friends from there in an American context to see just how Canadian they are—and how much I’m not any more. Ten years in New York City have given me a decent grasp of food Spanish and the art of cross-cultural communication, and as I steered them through the menu, explaining the difference between sopes and sopas and proselytizing about barbacoa, I felt a chasm between us opening up as they wondered exactly who I’d become, and I wondered if the whole week would feel this awkward. Then the food came, and with a plastic basket of al pastor and a Styrofoam cup of horchata, the chasm vanished. It was messy and spicy and delicious, and it didn’t matter if you could pronounce it or not. We all enjoyed it in the exact same way, and then we got on the freeway and headed off toward one of the best vacations of my life.—Regan Hofmann, contributor

City:Boston, MA Address and phone: 17 Beach St (617-423-3934) Website: phohoa.com I grew up in a strict vegetarian household—so strict, in fact, that my friends were not allowed to bring any meat over to my house. While I no longer adhere to same dietary restrictions as I did in my childhood, I still consider myself to be someone with incredibly strong vegetarian leanings, and I ultimately prefer to eat that way. Unfortunately, this means it is difficult to find one of my favorite types of food—Asian, soup-y noodles, whether ramen or pho or laksa—that are not based on broths made from rich pork, beef, chicken, or fish. Often in the vegetarian version of a dish, flavor is sacrificed, so I find myself perpetually on the hunt for proper and satisfying bowl. And I found one at Pho Hoa, located on the edge of Boston's Chinatown. Things were looking good when we entered at three in the afternoon and found the place full of Vietnamese patrons. My best friend and I were sat in the back, under a large, un-ironic painting of a galloping horse. We found ourselves thankful for the last-second decision to split a bowl of the best damn veggie pho, which was brought to us in what was more a vat than a bowl, steaming and fragrant. The broth was light and clean with just a hint of star anise, floating florets of fresh broccoli, swirled bundles of rice noodles, carrots, and plenty of fresh bean sprouts for crunch. No other version has managed to live up to the standards set at Pho Hoa—they have far too much star anise, or soggy vegetables, or too few noodles. It's likely that none ever will. And to think we forked over only four dollars each at the end of the meal.—Khushbu Shah, contributor

City: Los Angeles, CA Address and phone: 108 W 2nd St #104 (213-221-7466) Website: badmaashla.com Nakul and Arjun Mahendro, two Canadian-born brothers, are duo behind Badmaash, the best Indian restaurant in America (in my most humble opinion), located in Downtown Los Angeles. But seriously, it really is the best. These bros pour all passions for life into their food. Desperate for good Indian cuisine since leaving New York I was first tipped off to Badmaash by my former editor at Time Out LA, Katherine Kims. Each meal is like a spiritual pilgrimage to a place where only the best of everything is yours for the taking, anytime, anywhere. From tamarind-glazed pork belly, to slow-cooked short-rib Samosas, the Mahendros aim only to please. This is evident in their chicken-tikka poutine, one of the greatest combinations of two cultures on one plate—succulent gravy, melted cheese curds, and chicken tikka pieces. Then there is chili-cheese Naan and the beverage selection. In addition to the curry-house standard Kingfisher lager, the list is full of local craft brews and a very fine by-the-glass selection of juicy reds and crisp whites. The few experiences I’ve had at Badmaash have left me with a euphoric feeling, not unlike an MSG high, but much better—it's as if someone sprinkled ecstasy powder on my naan, or laced the pork belly with cocaine. Should I ever find myself on death row (heaven forbid), I’m calling on Nakul and Arjun for my last meal.—Jonathan Cristaldi, wine columnist