when life gives you leftovers.

We don't like Thanksgiving dinner as much as we pretend. If dry turkey, weird stuffing, lumpy mashed potatoes and canned cranberry is so good, why do we only eat it once a year? Why aren't there crowded, expensive restaurants that specialize in turkey dinners? Because it's not that good. Because it's tradition to eat this stuff, but no one really enjoys it that much. Your own personal experiences with the holiday, with your family and this food will determine how true this harsh statement is. But you have to admit it's a valid point, which is why the friend who offered this enlightenment days before the big weekend roasted a prime rib for his family this year. I hope it turned out tasty.

In my world, Thanksgiving is an odd occasion. Yes, there is food, too much of it, some delicious. Turkey is quite dry and bland by nature, which is why I prefer the moist, fatty dark meat of the bird. Never been a fan of stuffing/dressing, which presented an interesting challenge when I was assigned to make it for this year's rather large family gathering. It was okay; I found a pretty standard recipe and twisted it to include garlic-rosemary bread, slab bacon and apples. The texture was very un-stuffing like, light and approachable instead of the congealed slop people inexplicably rave about. And it tasted like bacon. So it deserved to be universally loved. Also never enjoyed the strange green bean casserole that involves crispy onions and cream of mushroom soup, yet there it was, on the table again, once per year. Mom says she has to make it, people want it, but I'm not convinced. So there is good and bad. Thanksgiving also is the gateway to the wildly emotional, unnecessarily stressful holiday season, and peering into a long December with a tryptophan hangover is not the most pleasant thing.

Perhaps that's why, in my family, we have another Thanksgiving tradition, and it's called turkitos. Years ago, my father decided the best thing to do with the leftover bird is to tear it apart, roll it up in corn tortillas and deep fry to your heart's content, serving up refried beans, grated cheese, fresh salsa and guacamole alongside. It's simple. Anyone can do it. I can't think of anything that provides a more satisfying bite after minimal effort than a fried tortilla. In my world, Turkito Day has replaced Thanksgiving in the pantheon of food holidays. (I have more: The New Year's Meatdown, Borracho Day, the annual Fall-B-Que, etc. Trademarks are pending so think up your own stupid names, please.) This year's event was long in crunchy goodness but short in attendance. Final output: approximately 75 turkey taquitos on Friday, none left standing by Monday. The backyard barbecue was transformed into a factory. You've got your shredded meat station, your cast iron skillet warming tortillas, your rolling station, your deep-fry station of vegetable and canola oil bubbling away on the grill's sideburner, and finally the paper towel-covered paydirt, the last stop for turkitos before munchdown. Freshly mixed guacamole with a jalapeno influence was waiting. A huge block of colby jack was shredded and resting in an orange bowl. We bought the good, drizzly Mexican sour cream. Several salsas, refrieds spiced with habanero hot sauce, and a head of shredded iceberg upon which to rest your bounty. I raced the clock of booze, speeding to roll and fry the last one before many early cocktails would have made me unfit to handle hot oil. I made it. All was good.

A successful Turkito Day, less than 24 hours after one of the better tasting Thanksgiving meals I can remember, will stand out in a long weekend of good eating. (Saturday, there was pizza, and Sunday, a visit to a solid Vegas steakhouse, Envy.) Definitely got the food part down. Then there's the family. These are the two splitting branches of the holiday stress tree. Both can be great fun, both can make you insane. One of them, you can always order takeout. Me, I spent an hour tearing apart turkey meat in my kitchen Friday morning, hand shredding it piece by piece, my dog begging uncontrollably just inches away. Grab a drumstick, rip it up, good meat in the bowl, bones and yuck in the garbage. Hands shiny with fat, tiny bits of bird clinging to fingers, just like I watched my dad do years back. I remember trips home from college for Thanksgiving, waking up on the couch, seeing him sitting at the dining room table doing this. Getting ready for the fry. This is our collective holiday experience, traditions we carry out whether we love them or not because they are laced with memories. We take the bitter for the sweet.

pho little saigon.

Is all pho the same? Restaurants that specialize in the traditional beef broth noodle soup are most common when it comes to Vietnamese cuisine in Las Vegas. There's even a pho joint on the Strip, in the Treasure Island hotel casino, and that's not a bad thing.

The dish may be similar from one restaurant to the next, but there are many differences, big and small, that set each eatery apart. Pho Little Saigon, for example, is a relatively large, family-friendly spot on the corner of Spring Mountain Road and Valley View Boulevard. Long, numbered tables line the dining room, lending an authentic feel. This is not unusual decor for a pho spot, but the size of the place and speedy service offer a little more comfort than many of the smaller mom-and-pops that serve similar cuisine.

The satisfying soup itself is just fine, the broth soothing with a clean taste if not overwhelmingly rich or salty. There are plenty of extra ingredients to choose from to customize your pho, chili sauce or fresh basil, bean sprouts or sriracha, along with your choice of meats. The beef served at Pho Little Saigon appears to be of a higher quality than we've experienced elsewhere, but overall, the pho is not as flavorful as it could be. That's just fine, because there are plenty of other tasty items on the menu. Sure, they'll serve up fresh rice-paper wrapped spring rolls, but the crispy Cha Gio, densely packed ground pork with shrimp and carrot, are even better. Unfortunately the kitchen was out of the Vietnamese pancake Banh Xeo on our recent visit. Pho is far from the only soup option available; you can sample porridge of beef, shrimp, fish, chicken, pork blood or pork innards. Rice plates and noodle bowls round out the menu, and some of the specialty dishes strike some Chinese notes. There's marinated beef with lemon grass grilled tableside, fried rice noodles with meat, seafood or vegetables, and finally, the titanic Seven Courses of Beef. At $24.99, it's hard to avoid. You'll get Goi Bo, or beef salad, beef in sour sauce, beef wrapped in Hawaiian lot leaf, grilled beef sausage, that grilled lemon grass stuff (Bo Nuong Xa), steamed beef and beef porridge. That's a lot of cow.

Of course, we were stuffed after the delicious Cha Gio and about a third of a huge bowl of pho. You have to be serious to try that magnificent seven.

saturdazed at spago.

You don't need a seat out on the "patio" to enoy the parade at Spago. The Forum Shops at Caesars Palace is one of the best people-watching spots in Vegas, which is evident when you pass by Spago. The people munching California-style pizzas and Thai chicken salads are looking right back at you, and maybe even bothering you. We saw a drunken hipster, proud of his perch, getting playful with female passersby on our way out of the mall on Saturday, after we had consumed a quick lunch in Spago's main dining room not far from a booth occupied by Robin Leach.

The Spago experience lived up to the hype, but the food ... not so much. It was solid if unspectacular grub, and we should know better than to be surprised by an $80 check for one drink, two salads and two lunch entrees. But Leach and other fine dining pundits maintain the cuisine at this iconic Wolfgang Puck outpost is still worthy of the attention it receives. It is, after all, a cornerstone of Las Vegas dining, the first celebrity chef restaurant to come to the desert. So it was time to return to Spago, once a blend of tourist trap and power lunch destination, to see how things are holding up. The service was very good. So were the salads, one of butter lettuce and the other a bright, fresh take on the chopped salad. It was full of sweet corn, fresh peas and snappy green beans. The Greek pizza was forgettable and the meatloaf (pictured), decorated with a bit of pancetta and a semi-rich mushroom glaze, was ... just meatloaf.

Spago has been sitting here since 1992, and it seems like you're still getting what you expect when you come here to eat. But eating isn't really why you come here, is it?

getting heavy at hedary's.

The closing of an unsung local Lebanese restaurant by the name of Byblos Cafe created something unacceptable to me: a kibbi void.

A mixture of ground beef and lamb, spices, bulgar wheat and pine nuts, then rolled into spheres and baked like meatloaf or deep fried, kibbi is one of my favorite family dishes and one of the best meat preparations in the world of Mediterranean cuisine. When Byblos died, we lost our favorite kibbi joint. In search of satisfaction, we recently made our first and second visits to Hedary's, a longtime local favorite operated by the same family behind the similar Khoury's restaurant. Here at Hedary's, the kibbi balls are massive, moist inside and well spiced, with a little more kick than we're used to. But we welcome the change. Piled on top of tender rice with yogurt sauce, this is a truly filling meal, but not as filling as the Meat Combination. This monster includes one kibbi ball along with Lebanese pork and beef sausages, a grilled beef shish kabob and a dense log of kafta, ground sirloin with spices and onions. This plate could feed a family.

Although the meat dishes center the menu, there is lighter fare at Hedary's, including decent hummus and babaganoosh, lentil soup, brick oven pizza and large salads chock full of fresh veggies, ripe tomatoes and cucumbers and herb/oil dressings. Hedary's version of falafil is one of the more delicate tastes on a generally overpowering menu, moist and flavorful and appropriate inside the chewy, fluffy pita bread that's made fresh every day. The odd flaming cheese appetizer, halloume, was like a Mediterranean version of fried mozzarella sticks, matching up nicely with a cold Almaza beer.

Affordable, friendly, and serving generous proportions, Hedary's isn't the most refined restaurant in its genre. But the family is sticking to its recipes and that's a move that has paid off. Until something better comes along, this is my new Vegas kibbi.

frank & fina's cocina.

My pick for best Mexican restaurant off the Strip goes to Frank & Fina's Cocina, a charming neighborhood joint unfortunately located way, way out west, beyond the 215 Beltway off Flamingo Road. Okay, perhaps the location isn't that bad. It's planted in one of the largest retail centers I've ever seen (even if there are plenty of open spots these days), near a Chuck E. Cheese and a Fuddrucker's. But F&F is a family-owned restaurant with about 15 years of history; until a few years ago it was located on Charleston Boulevard, much closer to the city's center. It's thriving out in the 'burbs, having taken over the space next door and expanded into a very comfortable, full-on restaurant with a menu long on tasty, light cuisine and decent drinks.

The standards are available, but F&F excels at crafting delicious vegetarian dishes with perfect spice (try the crispy, addictive veggie taquitos or perhaps some sweet potato enchiladas) and home-style, slow cooked favorites like chile verde, ropa vieja, mole, carnitas and more. On our most recent visit, we were served by Frank himself, who quickly ran down the many specials of the night and made some recommendations. Grilled tilapia tacos were tough to pass on, but I decided to try the simple grilled chicken meal, two juicy pieces with rice and beans. It could have been a little spicier but the loving preparation would shame El Pollo Loco. We also sampled panuchos (pictured), a Yucatan hybrid of tacos and tostadas. Lightly cooked corn tortillas are covered in black beans, tender chicken, smooth avocado, pickled red onion and salty Cotija cheese. The texture of the tortilla is both crispy and chewy, paving the way for each fresh flavor to shine. This simple, bright dish is the perfect example of F&F food, which always seem to rest lighter than the goods at your average Mexican kitchen. I'm not sure how they do it, but I'm grateful.

strong to the finish.

Rarely will you read anything positive about any big franchise or fast food outlet on these digital pages. I mean, I love In-N-Out Burger. But I think we can all agree that place is an oddity. If there's a silver lining in the mass production of food, it could only be consistency.

But consistency is key in certain dishes. Take for example, fried chicken. It's simple, yet complex. Easy to get, hard to make ... well, hard to make perfectly. We've all had some wonderful fried chicken at soul food joints, diners and small town family restaurants, crunchy on the outside and juicy, tender goodness inside. I have, too, and then forked open the second piece on the same plate to find a greasy, soggy, frighteningly under cooked mess. There's a science to fried chicken, a formula that must be executed to absolute precision every time. The Colonel has a formula, but ... come on, it tastes bad.

Which brings us to Popeye's. This is the best fried chicken I've had in Las Vegas. Yes, it is a massive chain, growing even larger with about 10 restaurants scattered about the area. But it's perfect every time. That skin is crispy, crunchy, unhealthy greatness. To see what it is that sets Popeye's apart, you must order it spicy, full of peppery heat embedded in those crunchy outer bits. A mouthful of tender meat with a crust of this stuff is the best bite of bird. Complement it by cramming buttery biscuits into your face, and finish it off with the most anti-fast food side dish available at any fast food joint in the history of fast food: thick, spicy, stomach-expanding red beans and rice.

This is the real. This is why KFC is called KFC instead of its original, politically-incorrect moniker, and this is why the Colonel is trying to sell you grilled chicken now. Not Popeye's. They are emphasizing Louisiana roots, hyping recipes passed down through generations, and proudly cholesterizing me whenever they want. Fried chicken. This is it.

pizzathon.

Note: An edited version of this post appears in Las Vegas Weekly.

DAY ONE: IT BEGINS

We can do this. It’ll be a breeze. Technically, we’ve done it before. I worked at a Godfather’s in Reno during the college days. For an entire summer, I made the wrong pizza just before my kitchen shift was over. Oops, guess I have to take that one home. And Maria’s father is crazy. He once put the entire family on an all-pizza diet and used it as an excuse to perfect his homemade recipes. After two months of pizza she was relieved to eat other things, but her dad still craved it as much on day 60 as he did on day one. Suffice to say, we love pizza, at least as much if not more than the general population. The fact that we refuse to eat Pizza Hut, Domino's, etc., is reason enough for me to believe we love it more than the average American. So here we are, enjoying some great pizza at Streets of New York in northwest Vegas, deciding this is the beginning of a week-long pizzathon. For seven days our only meals will be pizza, and we will enjoy every melty, spicy bite. This is a good place to start, because not only is the crust crispy and delicious and the tomato sauce slightly sweet, but we’re washing these two pizzas down with huge, frosty Shock Top Belgian White brews. Draft beer with pizza is an important factor. I'd say you can't have a proper pizza parlor without it, and you need to be able to order it by the pitcher. It may be a chain operation, but Streets of New York obviously respects the beer and an old fashioned experience. Plus, it's located in the Village of Centennial Springs, a near-empty retail walk built to look like Main Street USA, so the nostalgia cometh.

But the pizza is the important thing and this place does it right. There are some weird toppings to choose from, and plenty of other goodies on the menu like sandwiches, salads and calzone. If you're looking for a classic pizza experience in Vegas, I'd say there's good old Metro Pizza and then there are these guys ... flat-out good food.

DAY TWO: TACO PIZZA?
This Sunday morning finds me working in my brother’s backyard, shoveling rocks to augment his landscaping. It sucks, but luckily there’s fuel: leftover pizza in his fridge. I inhale a couple pieces, still cold. The cheese and sauce has congealed into spongy mush. It's gone before I think to ask where he got it from: Rosati's.

Diversification is going to keep this thing rolling. It can’t be all pepperoni. Enter the taco pizza, one of Maria’s favorites. She’s a longtime fan of this oddball delight, thanks to her Midwestern roots and a place called Happy Joe’s. This place actually serves a variety of Mexican pizzas, but the Taco Joe has a sauce of marinara mixed with refried beans, taco seasoned beef, sausage and white and yellow cheese, and then after the oven, shredded lettuce, tomato and crumbled tortilla chips. Our Vegas version is from Red Rock Pizza, which also boasts a variety of specialty pies. Its Taco Nacho pizza has seasoned ground beef, jalapenos, tomatoes, crunchy corn chips and two cheeses, so Maria says it’s close to home. “Interestingly, the tomatoes and lettuce are cooked on the pizza, under the cheese. I imagined this would be a huge mistake, but somehow it’s not,” she says. It’s seriously heavy, too, leaving plenty of leftovers for dinner. “It re-warms magnificently,” she says, and I agree. “After a few minutes in the oven it was fully restored to its tasty glory.”

DAY THREE: DOWNTOWN, THEN DEEP DISH
I work downtown. I have a few minutes for lunch and a five-dollar bill. That’s the exact cost of two slices of cheese and a can of Coke at Uncle Joe’s on Fremont Street. The paper plate isn’t big enough to accommodate these thin, greasy-in-a-good-way, New York-style beauties. A dash of crushed red pepper and they’ve disappeared.

Later, an impromptu celebration with friends is the perfect excuse to order way too much pizza. Rosati’s takes a while but eventually delivers a Chicago-style veggie and two thin-crust pies cut into square pieces (one pepperoni, green pepper and black olive, one Bianco with olive oil, tomato, garlic and spinach). The deep-dish is a beast and draws comparisons to lasagna from the uninitiated. The thick crust is filled with mushrooms, onions, green peppers and tomatoes, then covered in mozzarella and topped with pomodoro tomatoes. It’s got to weigh at least five pounds and I can barely take down a whole slice. I don't know how I feel about this Chicago business ... Maria loves it but I have a hard time comparing it to New York-style or Neapolitan-style pizza. It really is a different breed, one that hurts for a few days.

DAY FOUR: LEFTOVERS
Pizza is the best kind of leftovers. I know this for a few reasons, including: It’s great cold and it’s great reheated. (But only in the oven. The microwave is powerless here.) More importantly, it’s the only leftover Maria willingly consumes. This is ridiculous. Even if I bring home half a $50 steak, I have to cook it into something new to trick her into eating. But not pizza. Straight out of the fridge is just fine. So today is spent picking and munching at various pieces from the previous night’s feast. The deep dish holds up better the next day. “I’ll tell you why,” she says. “Because the little pizzas have to go in the oven to make them crispy and good again, but the big pizza is delicious even from the microwave.” Blasphemous.

But when dinnertime rolls around, I’m craving something fresh, so I stop at a tiny takeout joint on the way home and order the first thing that catches my eye. It’s got plenty of mozzarella and cheddar cheese, pepperoni and sausage, but it’s too ordinary and the white garlic sauce is … off. “It tastes tangy and weird,” Maria says. Still, I ate the whole thing. Maybe this is my second wind.

DAY FIVE: FROZEN IN TIME
We still have enough leftovers for breakfast and lunch, but by the afternoon we’re in need of something new. An attempt at frugality leads to the frozen section at Whole Foods. We leave with two Frontera brand pizzas, one roasted vegetable, Monterey jack cheese and poblano, the other a four cheese blend with tomato and cilantro. They crisp up nicely, but there’s no trace of poblano, cilantro or anything that tastes remotely fresh or Mexican. It’s still frozen pizza. We’re not sure if we should be mad at super chef Rick Bayless or not for these bland creations.

DAY SIX: LOST
I think I’m hitting the pizza wall. Everything is starting to blur together. Another couple of cold slices for breakfast, another couple of greasy, cheesy slices at noon. Maria switches it up with a pizza Hot Pocket for lunch. “The little cardboard thing didn’t really crunch it up, but I was really hungry,” she says. I stop at Albertson’s on the way home from work and the supermarket has never been more confusing. In the frozen aisle, some weirdo talks to me: “Wow, Freschetta for $4.99, that’s off the chain, huh?” I want to punch him. I end up at home baking a California Pizza Kitchen “Sicilian” thing and piling some microwaved barbecue brisket on top. This is going bad, real fast.

DAY SEVEN: FINISHING STRONG

I’m having problems, but Maria seems relatively unfazed. I’m hungry, but I can only eat pizza. No matter how creative we get, it’s still pizza. And I’ve learned that great pizza can be as satisfying as any gourmet meal, while bad pizza is truly terrible. So to wrap it up, we’re going to a sure-fire winner, Grimaldi’s in Henderson. I keep it simple with extra mozzarella and meatball, and like she always does, Maria out-orders me with pesto, tomato and roasted red pepper perfection (pictured). The sweet peppers with Grimaldi’s signature homemade mozzarella are pure bliss. I've written it before but it rings true every time I'm out in Henderson ... this is the pizza capital of the valley. Grimaldi's may not do true Italian the way Settebello does, and the crust may not be perfect every time, but it's so close. And the cheese is so unique and fresh, it almost makes a Summerlin dweller wanna move across town.

Thanks to reliably great pizza, we are rejuvenated. We could keep this marathon going if we wanted to, just as long as we stick to certain spots ... and stay out of the frozen food section.

locals don't go to the strip.

This is flank steak, fried eggs and oyster mushrooms on a roll from 'Wichcraft in MGM Grand. It's pretty awesome. This is the same luscious beef they're dishing up at Craftsteak just a few steps away, and it's not even the best sandwich at 'Wichcraft. But it is further proof that the best friendly little neighborhood gourmet sandwich shop in town just happens to be on the Strip.

Let's extrapolate that last sentence.

I'm asked often, by those new to Las Vegas, just visiting or contemplating the city from afar, how much time I spend on the Strip. The answer is: not as much as I'd like. Living in Vegas and keeping to the suburban cityscape is an interesting concept to outsiders, especially when they learn how common it is. You can have a perfectly normal life here. I don't have to go to the Strip if I don't want to. Locals say things like this all the time, with an odd amount of pride. Not me.

Don't misunderstand. There are great benefits here that have nothing to do with tourism and the wondrous amenities the industry provides, with convenience at or near the top of the list. But if you take the Strip out of Vegas, where does that leave us? Phoenix? That glimmering four miles on Las Vegas Boulevard contains some of the best hotels, entertainment, food and shopping in the world. Why wouldn't you go there as much as you can?

For my part, I can't get enough of the Strip and its insane restaurant offerings. It's more difficult to find great food sprinkled around the Vegas Valley because everything is so spread out, and rarely do you find a true jewel in the neighborhood. The impossibly dense concentration of fantastic dining on the Strip can't be replicated anywhere else in the world, and even the majority of older or lesser known restaurants are above average at worst. Any local who doesn't take advantage of these offerings is simply missing the point. Come on ... it's not that far. It's not cheap but there's something for every wallet, and these days there is tremendous value to be found. Just walk through one of the big casinos and marvel at all the affordable, limited-time prix fixe menus. If it all feels too fancy for you, hit a mid-level joint like TI or New York-New York; the food and fun is still better than the Chili's around the corner from your house. Get in your car, valet it, and act like someone who's in Vegas, for fuck's sake.

I've lived here for years, but I still understand that for those of you who don't, Vegas is a dream. For most of the people who call this place home, it's unrealistic, overwhelming or just too strange to attempt to live in that dream. But for others, it's too powerful to ignore. What a waste, to have total access to an experience so many others clamor for, travel for, save their shrinking paychecks for, an experience you can customize to your own personal perfection, but you just let that experience pass you by on a daily basis. Why fight gravity?

I'd like to point out that this blog entry was once about a sandwich.

parma pastavino and deli.

I know it's hard to believe, but I fucked up.

In June I wrote a review for Las Vegas Weekly on Mezzo Bistro in northwest Vegas. I've had dinner at this fine Italian restaurant several times since it opened in the spring of 2008, and I have known chef Marc Sgrizzi for years. That's the problem; familiarity can lead to laziness. This review goes into great detail about the chef and his daily specials, and by the time it was published, the chef was gone. He apparently sold the restaurant and was no longer involved with it for at least a month before I visited. Since the food and service at Mezzo remained of high quality and I was happy to write it that way, my mistake was more of a disservice to the former chef. When I discovered Sgrizzi had moved on quite quickly to open another Italian bistro and deli, I felt it necessary to give Parma a shot. Besides, this guy's food is good, so there's really no reason not to try it.

Located on Buffalo Drive just off Summerlin Parkway, this neighborhood cafe turned out to be the perfect neighborhood spot for a quiet dinner or a casual group meal. Small tables round the perimeter of the restaurant while a wine-and-snack-friendly lounge is the centerpiece. Display cases housing beautiful homemade desserts and imported meats and cheeses available by the pound rest in front of the active kitchen, where the chef and his crew are making their own pasta every day. Sgrizzi has retained his signature dishes, like the amazingly crispy, non-breaded eggplant parmesan and spinach lasagna in a tasty pink basil sauce. The carbonara is a faithful rendition of the classic dish, and like I raved about in my misguided Mezzo review, the specials here also change often and focus on fresh seafood or steak. The prices are just right, including a range of affordable wines.

This is the third Vegas restaurant for Sgrizzi and I have followed him to each one because his food is reliably good. Parma feels like the chef is in his zone, moreso than the other venues, and that's nice to see.

killin' some korean barbecue at tofu hut.

Tofu Hut probably is named so because the house specialty is a soft bean curd soup. The restaurant also touts its traditional bosam, boiled pork and duck eaten with steamed cabbage, onions and pickled beets. But we hit the hut for lunch with a certain something else in mind: Korean barbecue.

One of my partners in Chinatown exploration, Chi, recommended Tofu Hut and was happy to lead me through the all-you-can-eat, grill-at-your-table barbecue menu. He also proved particularly adept at relieving our busy (and kinda slow) server at moving the meats around the hot grill in the middle of our modest table, using tongs ninja style and shears to clip our food into smaller bite-sized pieces before tossing them onto our tiny plates. Chi had first experienced Tofu Hut on a visit to a different, nearby Korean barbecue joint that was closing and couldn't accommodate his crew's late-night urge. A Korean friend suggested Tofu Hut instead, especially since the all-you-can-eat prices are more affordable here (It's about 18 bucks during the day and 15 after hours).

We attacked, ordering everything that looked interesting: the marinated sirloin known as bulgogi, thinly sliced beef tongue and beef brisket, pork belly marinated in chili paste, sugar, garlic, soy and sesame, and some squid to top it off. Everything cooked up quickly. The squid and brisket needed some additional seasoning and the salt-and-pepper sesame dressing served on the side worked well. The bulgogi was so flavorful and tender that we ordered a second plate, and the tongue was almost as delicious. But as always, it's hard to top pork belly, especially crispy-grilled, spicy pork belly.

All this meat was accompanied by small dishes of kimchi and seaweed, cold noodle salads, peppery potato-veggie pancakes, sweet fish cakes, and a salad of greens with a light peanut and sesame oil dressing. All these side dishes are all-you-can-eat as well, and the salad was particularly fresh and tasty and a perfect complement to all the grilled protein. Planted in a small group of auto repair shops on Spring Mountain Road near Valley View Boulevard (on the other side of the street from Chinatown Plaza), Tofu Hut doesn't look like much from the outside. The dining room is pretty humble, too. But the barbecue was delicious and there was plenty of it. Like so many mid-day meals of the past, this feast made me wonder why anyone would go anywhere other than Chinatown for lunch.