The story behind Michael's Genuine Home Brew (22-ounce bottle, $12) does not begin with Cicerones sniffing pours and pinpointing the optimal colors for a brew. It starts, rather, with local ingredients, crop rotations, and farmers. In his first homebrew, James Beard Award-winning chef and restaurateur Michael Schwartz uses Seminole Chief (Sem-Chi) brown rice — a crop that Florida Crystals uses to replenish soil after cane fields are harvested. The locally grown rice is shipped to Gadsden, Alabama. There, craft brewery Back Forty Beer Co. produces a light-bodied American ale with hints of floral hops and sweet citrus. It's among the first time Sunshine State ingredients have been used for the grain bill of a beer. That explains why it pairs so wonderfully with Schwartz's farm-fresh fare. Find Michael's Genuine Home Brew at all of Schwartz's restaurants — Michael's Genuine Food & Drink, Harry's Pizzeria, the Cypress Room, and Restaurant Michael Schwartz — plus World of Beer, Total Wine, Shake Shack, the Room, Pubbelly, the Broken Shaker, Wood Tavern, and a ton of other places.

Somewhere, in an alternate universe, there's a land called Beeradise. There, IPAs flow from golden taps. Rivers run with red-hued ales. Skies rain refreshing lagers. And everyone is happily buzzed, from sunup to sundown. Sadly, we don't live there. But in our own little piece of creation, World of Beer Dadeland is as close as it comes to a brew-based Shangri-la. This shiny, laid-back beer-only bar stocks a whopping 500-plus brews. From Blue Point Toasted Lager to Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA, and from Woodchuck Raspberry Cider to Delirium Tremens, it's all there — cold, delicious, and awaiting your thirsty tongue. Plus, WOB now carries its own draft, C'est la Vie!, a Belgian tripel brewed exclusively for WOB by Belgium's Bavik Brewing Company. And if you're into sampling new brews (who isn't?), for $15 you can join WOB's loyalty club, score a sweet T-shirt, and earn points for every different beer you consume. A place where being a boozer finally pays off.

Barton G. is to desserts what Dolly Parton is to country music. Dolly is big, fabulous, and over-the-top — and so are the Miami Beach restaurant's golden funnel cakes ($36). To make this carnival treat, eight enormous pieces of crisp, deep-fried swirls are paired with rich chocolate, caramel, and strawberry dipping sauces. Barton G. also offers a sweet named the Sabrina sundae ($43) — which, by the way, is served in a colossal martini glass that's practically the size of Parton's hair. The bowl is filled to the brim with Valrhona chocolate brownies and more than two and a half pints of house-made ice cream. The whole thing is crowned with Chantilly cream, sprinkles, sculpted chocolate, and maraschino cherries. Some evenings, Barton G.'s dessert service even involves props, gizmos, and sparklers. Sounds like the perfect treat to eat after workin' 9 to 5.

Cue the swaying palm trees, cafecitos, and intro beats to Joe Arroyo's "Rebelión," because Azucar Ice Cream Company embodies Calle Ocho in sugar, cream, and waffle cones. Staffers wear shirts stamped with Cuban sayings: "Que arroz con mango," "¡El golpe avisa!" and "¡Dale!" Outside, a live band plays salsa and son directly below a huge sculpture of a loaded ice-cream cone. The shop proffers flavors such as mamey, passionfruit, plátano maduro (sweet plantain), and a trademarked Abuela María — delicious, sweet vanilla ice cream with ripe guava, chunks of cream cheese, and crushed Maria cookies ($3.50 small, $4.50 large). Azucar satisfies cravings for dancing, desserts, and ice cream varieties such as double turrón. So next time you're in Little Havana, ya tu sabes exactly where to go.

Got a fever? Traditional remedies may include ibuprofen and ice baths, but there's certainly something better (and sweeter) out there. Feverish Pops, a brand of vegan-friendly frozen treats owned by ice-cream enthusiast Felecia Hatcher, began as a small-batch pops operation selling from the back of a neon-green Scion xB. Soon, vintage carts started shooting up around town. Now, Hatcher owns a boutique in midtown, where pops are sweetened with organic evaporated cane juice or agave nectar and are prepared with organic fruits. Flavors are fun: There's orange-cilantro, peanut butter and jelly, and chocolate-banana-sea salt ($3). Some are spiked with beer or booze ($4). Fighting a high body temperature? Take a bite outta Hatcher's blueberry and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer pop. That'll make the pain go away any day.

There are many ways to eat a cupcake from Buttercream Cupcakes & Coffee in Coral Gables. You can peel away the chocolate Oreo's baking cup ($2.75 each, $33 per baker's dozen) and then devour its butter-filled frosting one nibble at a time. You can tear off the top of an orange cupcake and then lick the orange-zest-speckled buttercream bit by bit. You could try a myriad of methods with the shop's 18 other flavors, which include chocolate-peanut butter, lime, mocha, and red velvet. Those are all very good trials. But after sampling all of Buttercream's moist, fluffy cakes, you should really try this: Remove the cupcake's wrapping, pull off its spongy bottom, plop it atop the frosting, and eat. Enjoy the beauty of a self-made, sweet Buttercream cupcake sandwich.

There's a warm feeling you get when something reaches your palate and nostalgia strikes. Sometimes it makes you smirk about your childhood or laugh about all the mischief you got into. Like a familiar smell, memories come flooding in from the past. Suddenly, you're 9 years old again, sitting on your grandma's counter, salivating over a bowl of fresh peach slices dusted with brown sugar and cinnamon. The homemade crumble nearby just came out of the oven, and now it and the peaches will go back into the oven until Grandma can spoon it steaming-hot into a bowl with a cold scoop of ice cream. That's the feeling — the memory — evoked by Pride & Joy's cobbler. A piping-hot peach cobbler arrives in the bowl it was baked in — fresh from the oven — with a creamy scoop of Blue Bell vanilla ice cream ($6.95). This sweet treat almost seems like trickery. Who at this Wynwood barbecue joint stole Gram's recipe book? But after about a half-dozen visits (just for the cobbler), you begin to accept that it's simply a coincidence. And a damn great one.

El Tío Loco walks around aimlessly during family gatherings. He's always mumbling something about the old days in Havana, taking deep drags off his "legal" cigarros, and carrying that aluminum flask of amazing mystery rum in his pocket. See, El Tío Loco might stumble when he walks and slur his speech when he talks, but the man knows what he's slurring about. Tío Loco takes us to only one place in Miami-Dade for flan. It's the only place he says makes a better flan than he. It's not anywhere on Calle Ocho or in Little Havana. It's not in Hialeah or in Westchester (pronounced WEH-cheh-tehr). The original Cuban Guys location stands adjacent to a Sedano's Supermarket and a Payless Shoesource in a Hialeah Gardens shopping center. "M'ija," Tío Loco says, "Los Cuban Guys tienen el mejor flan. ¿Oiste? ¡El mejor!" Consider the velvety-smooth Cuban custard a French crème caramel with an identity crisis — a damn good identity crisis. It's the creamiest flan in town, and its almíbar — dark caramel syrup — makes you wish you grew up with Tío Loco taking you on flan runs every Saturday. At $2.99 a pop, the price is unbeatable. And because this is Miami, where one option is simply unthinkable, there are also other varieties: cappuccino, guava with cheese, and dulce de leche. But nothing beats the original. Unlike wobbly Tío Loco — who probably loves it so much because it embodies everything he aspires to be — Cuban Guys' flan is smooth, creamy, and supple. Go see what you've been missing.

Antonio Arminio barely speaks English. Growing up in a town near Naples, Italy, there really wasn't a need to learn it. But now he's in Miami, and along with two buddies, Alessandro Alvino and Domenico D'Addio, he's opened a gelateria on Ocean Drive. Gee, that's exciting: a gelateria. Miami has only a thousand of them. Perhaps that's the case, but Gelato-Go implores you to understand how Italians enjoy gelato — the way it's meant to be enjoyed. None of that powdered product and franchise crap. Small business. Small batches. Big difference. Because Arminio has an actual degree from a gelato-making school in Italy (yes, those exist), you can be sure he knows what he's doing. The gelato machine in the backroom is tiny, which can mean only one thing: Everything must be made in small batches. The brains behind the South Beach establishment are not trying to be trendy by saying their stuff is "artisanal" or "handcrafted." Arminio argues that French is the best kind of vanilla to use for gelato, and that's why he doesn't employ the Mexican or Madagascan stuff. Don't argue. Pistachio gelato here is made with pistachios from a specific farm in Sicily — because those are the best and purest and certified by Italy. It's safest not to argue about that either. A small cup with two flavors costs $4.40. Medium and large increase by just a buck per size (but you can fit more flavors in). Ultimately, the quality of Gelato-Go's flavors are topnotch, but there are also funky twists on the menu, including strawberry spaghetti (spaghetti-shaped vanilla gelato served with fresh strawberries). That's unlike anything Miami has ever seen. Go get acquainted.

Icebox Café, which recently relocated a short distance from its space off Lincoln Road to the new restaurant mecca of Sunset Harbour, offers a creamy, tart, deep-dish beauty of a key lime pie. Made with a robust and sturdy graham-cracker crust, this Conch Republic treat is made with a rich custard-like filling that strikes the right balance between sweet and tart. The bakers at Icebox also put in a considerable amount of time to get this key lime pie right: 40 minutes of prep, 12 to 14 minutes in the oven, followed by three hours in the fridge. To make this delicious confection, Icebox uses eight whole graham crackers, two tablespoons of sugar, five tablespoons of melted unsalted butter, a half cup of sugar, one tablespoon of grated lime zest, eight ounces of softened cream cheese, a 14-ounce can of sweetened condensed milk, a third cup of vanilla instant pudding mix, one and a quarter teaspoons of unflavored gelatin, one cup of fresh lime juice from six to eight limes, and one teaspoon of vanilla extract. At $7.50 a slice, it's a sinful steal.