The Best Places to Eat and Do in the United States

A Japanese restaurant sharing a block with the Peace Center, which explains the pre-curtain energy in the dining room most evenings. The courtyard bar draws a happy-hour crowd when the weather cooperates, and the menu leans toward composed, coastal Japanese with a Southern undertow. The kitchen keeps a lobster salad roll topped with seared steak off the printed menu, so asking your server is a reasonable first move.

Tucked into a strip mall at the edge of Wailea, this stylish sushi bar punches well above its shopping-center address. The nigiri is the draw, but the menu drifts into baked rolls, rock shrimp tempura, and lamb chops rubbed with aji panca that have no obvious business being this good. Happy hour runs daily in the late afternoon, when small plates come at a noticeable discount. Bring a reservation and someone who can't decide what they want.

Oheya is a 12-seat omakase counter tucked behind Uchi, which makes it the sushi equivalent of a speakeasy with better knife work. The name means "the room" in Japanese, and the room is small enough that you'll know your neighbors by the third course. A rotating chef rewrites the menu every couple of months, so the nontraditional ideas change often. The happy hour tasting is the cheaper way in.

Dim sum without the trolleys or the tea, served out of a red tent at the Maui Sunday Market and the Maika'i Market on weekdays. Only Ono is a to-go dim sum and BBQ counter from a chef whose roast pork has no business being this good outside of Hong Kong. Pre-ordering is less a suggestion than a survival strategy; the line fills fast. Save a pineapple bun for breakfast the next morning and you'll feel very clever about it.

Onyx is a soft-serve shop on North Seventh that looks closed from the street until you spot the neon "open" sign, which is the first of several lighting decisions. Inside it's all black-and-white walls, dancing LED bars, and a plant wall built for photos. The swirls come out electric purple, orange, pink, and green in jet-black cones, and the flavors rotate weekly. A toasted marshmallow rim is available for anyone who wants more going on.

Leon Bridges played the open mic here before he played anywhere else, which tells you something about Opening Bell's ear for talent. It's a coffee shop that moonlights as a live music venue, with one of the longest-running open mic nights in DFW and occasional national touring acts rounding out the calendar. Beer and wine are on hand if coffee isn't your thing, and there's food beyond pastries: sandwiches, soups, salads.

The dugout smells exactly how you'd imagine, and standing in it during a behind-the-scenes tour of Oracle Park is a small, strange thrill even for people who don't follow baseball. The San Francisco Giants' waterfront stadium runs guided tours year-round, covering the field, press box, and the World Series trophies. The pregame add-on gets you in before the gates open, which is when the place actually feels like yours.

Fried corn arepitas topped with pork cracklings set the tone at this Venezuelan bistro tucked into Bywater. The chef spent years cooking other people's food across town before opening a place rooted in family recipes from home, and the menu reads like the argument he was building the whole time. Cachapa, tiradito, good cocktails, warm room. The kind of neighborhood spot that makes you feel like you found something before everyone else did.

A neighborhood sushi restaurant on Westheimer where the menu covers enough ground that nobody at the table argues, from rolls and sashimi to noodles and donburi bowls. The kitchen leans into consistency, which is its own kind of promise. Portions are generous, the room stays calm, and the regulars clearly know it. A second location sits on Bellaire Boulevard if this one's busy.

This is a strip-mall Japanese restaurant on Bellaire Boulevard, where the sushi bar shares the menu with noodles and donburi bowls, so nobody at the table has to lose an argument. The room is calm, the portions are generous, and the kitchen aims for dependable over dazzling. Edamame, fried gyoza, shrimp tempura, and a negi toro roll are the order of a person who knows exactly what they came for. It's a quiet, unshowy neighborhood regular.

This is a Spring Mountain Road dim sum spot where lunch starts with an art project: you fill little palette-shaped dishes with red sriracha, yellow mustard, and green cilantro sauce, then dip accordingly. The dumplings arrive shaped like ducks, which is hard to take seriously and easy to order again. Birthdays come with bubble waffles and a chocolate fondue for marshmallows, so expect candles and a table of adults being very cheerful.

Palilgu is a Logan Square Korean bar-food spot where the menu is built for splitting, which is the polite way of saying nobody orders alone. Fried chicken comes whole or in half, with sauces and pickled radish arranged around it like an entourage, and the hot stone bibimbap arrives still crackling with crispy rice. The bar covers soju, makgeolli, Korean beers, and cocktails with a few twists, so the evening tends to run long.

Pappasito's is a sprawling Tex-Mex chain outpost where a tortilla machine runs all day and the margaritas arrive at a size best described as municipal. Fajitas come with yellow American cheese melted all the way through, which is a choice, and the shrimp brochette hits the table still sizzling on its skillet. Expect birthday tables, lunch meetings, and a bar crowd arguing with the football game.

Parakeet Cafe is a counter-service salad spot in Carmel Valley's Paseo Place, one outpost of a small California chain with bird motifs on the walls and a laidback, flip-flops-acceptable energy. The salads run to crispy brown rice and turmeric dressing rather than sad iceberg, and anything can be upgraded with chicken, tofu, or avocado. Eater has named it one of the best salads in San Diego, which is a sentence that exists.

Coal-fired slice shops don't come much more old-school than this Upper West Side institution, where a whole pie still runs under $20 and the coal oven has been doing the same thing forever. The thin, soft crust holds big rounds of aged mozzarella, and the received wisdom here is to order it plain, because the pizza doesn't need your help. The pale outer edge is fine; everything inside it makes the case.

Peanut Park Trattoria is a red-sauce Italian spot on Taylor Street, run by the people behind Coalfire Pizza, and it's the kind of place where the meatballs arrive before you've finished deciding. The room leans into the theme with a wine-cave wall and enough memorabilia to qualify as a small museum. Walk to the back for the Tony Fitzpatrick art, then order the baked ziti, which comes with 'nduja.

This is a counter-service burger joint in Lower Nob Hill where napkins sit on every table, which is less hospitality than a warning. The patties come in beef, turkey, chicken, or veggie, and the bigger plays involve hot dogs or housemade chili stacked on top. Dress for sauce, because the barbecue pineapple one tends to travel down the wrist. White shirts are a bold choice here.

Mood lighting, a contemporary soundtrack, and Vietnamese-influenced food that slides easily into a night out, which is exactly what Peridot is angling for. The ketchup-fried rice, drawn from the chef's childhood, sounds like a gimmick until it arrives and you stop talking. Green papaya salad comes with beef jerky, the grilled seabream is built for sharing, and the cocktails are serious enough to stay for. Book ahead on Tock.

Piccolo Sogno is a sit-down Italian restaurant in River West, and its main trick is a lush garden patio that makes you forget Halsted Street exists. The name means "little dream," which is a lot to put on a menu of wood-fired pizzas and pasta, but the kitchen manages. Pasta comes in appetizer-sized portions, a gift to anyone who orders for the table and then argues about it. Eater lists it among Chicago's best Italian spots.

A chalkboard behind the counter maps exactly which farm each cut of meat came from, which tells you most of what you need to know about this counter-service BBQ shop tucked inside a Corte Madera mall. The ribs arrive with an obsidian crust and pink flesh underneath, the pulled pork is rich and salty, and a lineup of ten house condiments covers everything from Alabama white sauce to chow chow relish. It holds a Michelin Bib Gourmand, suburban strip mall and all.

Pizano's is a casual deep-dish pizzeria in the Gold Coast, part of the small chain run by a son of the Malnati family, which in Chicago pizza circles is roughly the equivalent of royalty with better cheese. The crust comes from a recipe the owner's mother developed, and the sausage, mushroom, onion, and green pepper pie is the one to order. Eater lists it among Chicago's best deep-dish. Expect a long bake and no regrets about sitting still.

A casual BYOB pizzeria in a Gray Street strip-center suite, where a wood-fired oven runs around 900 degrees and turns out Neapolitan pies in a couple of minutes. The menu keeps going after the red and white pies, with New York and Detroit styles and a stuffed pie that's mostly cheese and ambition. Bring your own wine, since the corkscrew is the only thing between you and a very good Tuesday. Eater lists it among Houston's best pizza spots.

Pizza Matta is a small Logan Square pizzeria from the team behind Giant and Chef's Special, which tells you the people running it have opinions about pie. You build your own 16-inch pizza from red, white, or green sauce, then pile on things like mortadella or caramelized pineapple, no judgment. Seating is limited, so order online and take the whole project home. Eater has it on its list of Chicago's tavern-style thin-crust spots.

The crusts here crack audibly when you bite into them, which sounds like a small thing until you're at a table in Windsor wondering why most pizza doesn't do that. Pizzaleah is a NY-style slice shop where Leah Scurto handles the dough personally, and the brick oven leaves a char on the underside that keeps everything from going soft. The San Francisco Chronicle named it one of Sonoma County's best restaurants. Hot honey and Calabrian chile pies share the menu with the unironic classics.

Neapolitan-style pizzeria next door to the famously pricey Frasca, which tells you something about the neighborhood and also about the price gap. The pies have that crusty-chewy pull that Naples devotees argue about endlessly, and the butterscotch budino has built a quiet cult of its own. The wine list leans Southern Italy, the salads are more elegant than a pizza place has any business offering, and the garlic knots make a strong case for skipping the entree entirely.

The banana pudding has its own billing, which tells you something about the confidence level at this old-school Houston barbecue joint. Brisket shows up in everything from enchiladas to queso to mac and cheese, which is either inspired or a hint that someone really, really loves brisket. The room has been around forever, passed through several hands, and still draws the kind of crowd that doesn't need to see a menu.

An ice cream brand built around the flavors of the African diaspora, PLK1848 sells its pints online with pickup in the Heights, the address arriving by email after you order. The caramel Buckshot comes loaded with Ethiopian praline and chocolate stracciatella; the Zobo hibiscus sorbet pulls from West African tradition. Every pint doubles as a history lesson, which is a thing you can say about very few freezer items.

A portrait of an imperial bulldog greets you at the door, which is a fair warning. Pony Up is a cocktail bar in LoDo that earns its personality through drinks like a tequila-shochu-sherry situation spiked with Korean chili paste, and shots of George Dickel chased with roast-beef jus. That jus comes from the kitchen, which runs French dips as its signature, an odd pairing that somehow makes complete sense by the second round.

Potente is a fine-dining Italian restaurant across the street from the ballpark, which means the bar fills with people in jerseys making a plan for the evening. The spaghetti al tartufo gets its truffles shaved over the plate right at your table, a bit of theater that suits a place owned by the Astros guy. Expect linen-adjacent prices and a dress code of whatever you wore to the game, within reason.

The gripmen still turn these cars by hand at the turntable, which is the whole point. The Powell-Hyde line is the last manually operated cable car system anywhere, and riding it feels less like transit and more like clinging to a slowly tilting porch. Standing on the running board while the car crests a hill makes a strong case for handrails. Most riders are tourists, which you also are, so just lean into it.