On the northwest side of a nondescript corner in Allapattah, there is a sandwich shop with exactly zero signage. Set back 200 feet from the road and buffered from traffic by a small asphalt field, the place looks like a postapocalyptic bunker. It's easy to drive past, and even if you do see it, you wouldn't assume delicious lunch foods are hawked from this spot. Simple, uncomplicated pan con lechón doesn't fit the profile. Nevertheless, Papo Llega y Pon serves one king-hell $5 pork sandwich. Drippingly delicious and spicy cleaver-chopped roast pig is piled onto soft white bread and then finished with onion, mayo, or piquant sauce. It's huge. But you came here to eat, right? So double-fist it, go around the corner, and enter the little dining dungeon. It's about the size of a holding cell; there are iron bars on the windows and nothing but a single exit. So a tip: Don't let any of your fellow sandwich eaters get behind you. These people are very hungry. Then again, so are you.

One could easily make a meal of the hearty bar menu at Bourbon Steak's swanky temple of upscale comfort food, but risking arterial blockage is worth it for just one thing: the platter of fried chicken and waffles that's offered only Wednesday nights, when the restaurant hosts a live blues band and bourbon drink specials. The heaping plate is piled high with expertly fried cornflake-battered white and dark meat drizzled with maple syrup and accompanied by bacon-studded waffles and cilantro crème fraîche. Gluttony doesn't come cheap — the dish of fried chicken costs $19. And forget the utensils; despite the posh surroundings, you're encouraged to do finger-licking justice to this golden delicacy.

The low point in American French fry history came when members of Congress humiliated spuds by spuriously renaming them freedom fries (seems so long ago, no?). But the fry has also had its share of historical highs, one of which occurred when the first Five Guys opened 23 years ago in Arlington, Virginia. Sacks of Idaho potatoes are piled in the store to form aisles and to let patrons know how serious these guys are about their fries. (Last year, the chain's 300-plus locations went through 38,409,200 pounds of potatoes.) The fries are hand-cut with skins on and cooked to order in pure, cholesterol-free peanut oil. They're served hot, crisp, and in such abundant portions that one regular $2.89 order can feed three, and a $3.99 large can feed three sumo wrestlers (the fries also come with Cajun seasonings, but let's not go there). Five Guys will be coming soon to Aventura and South Beach as part of its continuing quest to restore dignity and integrity to this most iconic American food.

Axiom No. 1: If it's delicious, it's ten times more delicious rolled in breading and deep-fried.

Axiom No. 2: If it's seafood, it's ten times better when you're sitting on the waterfront.

Conclusion: Conch fritters at Monty's are 100 times better than any other kind of conch anywhere else.

Don't believe in science? Just add it up yourself. There aren't too many joints left in South Florida with Monty's vibe — a thatched roof covering a huge outdoor deck, right on the yacht-choked Coconut Grove dockside, with front-row seats for the evening light fading over Key Biscayne and a regatta of sailboats. You literally cannot get your food any closer to the ocean unless you're on D-Wade's yacht. Throw in some of the freshest conch in the metro area deep-fried into a crunchy, greasy golden nugget. Just for good measure, add in a liberal happy hour and a live reggae band in the evenings.

Fact: You're going to enjoy it.

In a far-off land called Little Havana, there is a humble abode called La Palma Restaurant. Inside, past twisted blue wrought-iron railing and through an enchanted forest of characters that range from Cuban princesses to chain-smoking serfs, is a window above a granite counter — a ventanilla, if you will — staffed by women who transform into witches if you don't speak their native tongue and guard, with troll-like glares, three croquetas.

The first, filled with fish, is perhaps a tad strong, evoking the smell of Papa Bear's trout breath in just a single bite. The second, chock full of chicken, is too weak, like a girl with blond locks who's about to receive a major beatdown from a family of violated grizzlies. Yet the third, stuffed with ham, is just right, making a possibly long wait and awkward conversation with La Palma's pleasant waitstaff well worth it.

And although the croquetas at this Calle Ocho joint lack centers filled with flecks of parsley, wild mushrooms, or Manchego cheese, like at other (and pricier) local spots, they're still the most magical in all the land. Silky and smoky with a crisp fried crust, these scrumptious golden brown nubs allow your taste buds to live happily ever after. Plus, at 86 cents each, one or even ten of them is no hair off of your chinny, chin, chin.

Juan Zavala Jr. and his wife Pilar would sometimes sit around with friends in their native Argentina and ponder dinner-by-delivery choices. Inevitably it would come down to pizza or empanadas, and just as inevitably, they'd choose the latter. It occurred to Juan that maybe some of the 40 million Hispanics living in the United States might be thinking along the same lines. Long story short: Light bulb goes off, and some time later, the couple opens Half Moon Empanadas on Washington Avenue. "The first and only in Miami Beach," Pilar claims, "that makes the empanadas entirely from scratch, in house." Patrons can observe workers carefully crafting the turnovers through an open window in the back of the clean, contemporary venue. The empanadas come baked or fried, their flaky crusts filled with all manner of ingredients that are both traditional (beef, chicken, or ham and cheese) and nontraditional (smoked pancetta with mozzarella and plum sauce). Price is $1.99 each, six for $9.99, and a dozen for $17.99. Half Moon is open most days 11 to 11 and Thursday through Saturday from 10 a.m. to 6 a.m. — and yes, they deliver.

Go Go's flaky pastry pockets are the stuff of local legend. Located in an unassuming strip mall on Alton Road, the cheery, mod café belies its humble location. Though the empanada spot boasts dozens of varieties of the Argentine treat, it's the reasonably priced banana-Nutella variety that takes the savory-sweet dichotomy to a new and satisfying level. Filled with slightly ripened banana and oozing hazelnut cream, the dessert pastry is like a French crêpe gone South American. Fusion at its best. Empanadas are a recession-friendly $2.25 each.

Sure, Sang's might be located on a dodgy strip of NE 163rd Street, and yes, the waitstaff is more efficient and gruff than friendly and welcoming, but if you're looking for authentic Cantonese and regional Chinese eats, this is the place. The no-frills interior has the requisite red and gold accents, but focus on the plate where dim sum delicacies such as stuffed eggplant, pork dumplings, and curry octopus are served daily 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. Dim sum and dumpling selections set you back about $1 to $3 apiece.

There's no "bamboo," "lotus," "moon," or "panda" necessary in the name of this beloved Kendall institution. And you won't find lizard kebabs, barbecue scorpions, or any kind of weird Beijing street food on the menu. The only thing this take-out restaurant, nestled in the Crossings shopping center, serves up is simple American Chinese carry-out classics that come hot and plentiful. Years of doing it right have earned this spot a small, suburban cult following. Try the honey chicken, egg roll, and spare ribs combination dinner that comes with pork-fried rice and your choice of won ton or egg drop soup for just $10.50 plus tax. Or sample one of their recession-friendly (all under $7) lunch specials that range from tender shrimp in a creamy lobster sauce to moo goo gai pan. An abundance of lo mein, foo yung, chop suey, and vegetarian dishes is also available. But be forewarned: Like the Seinfeld episode that shares this eatery's name, it's difficult to pop in for a quick bite before a movie; placing an order in person can be a timely ordeal. So don't wait — order your chow now.

In the Year of the Ox, we were shocked when a mystical dragon flew through the door of our lobby, singed our receptionist's hair, and dropped a box full of fortune cookies that amazingly described (in broken English, of course) our favorite Chinese carry-out joint, China Palace. In fact, the fortunes were so accurate we decided to share some of them with you:

• Your greatest fortune is the large number of items on the menu that span like wing of crane. China Palace has all the basics from a rainbow of lo meins to kung po frogs' legs ($10.95).

• There is a true and sincere friendship between you and your stomach. This is why you should want China Palace's standout items and you should order creamy crab Rangoon (8 for $4.95), crispy roast duck ($10.95), and fluffy, never soggy, well-spiced honey-garlic chicken ($9.95).

• Plan for many large pieces of pork, beef, crab, and shrimp in your future by ordering fried rice. All portions also very giant. Your winning lottery numbers are 6, 8, 13, 32, 29, 41.

• You will inherit some money or a small piece of land. But you may still take advantage of special dinner platters served with soup and fried rice that are never more than 8 American dollars.

• A quiet evening with friends is the best tonic for a long day. So is food put quickly in the body. This is why it is good that China Palace never takes more than 45 minutes to deliver tasty meals to the mouth.

• You will step on the soil of many countries when eating here because our Cantonese and Szechuan cuisines are authentic here too.

• In the end, there are three things that last: faith, hope, and satisfied hunger; and the greatest of these is satisfied hunger, which you will get after eating at China Palace. LEARN CHINESE: Pot sticker = Guo-tie (also very good and cheap too!).