We love to party. Who doesn't? Yet we have still to figure out why, the more we abuse our bodies, the more our bodies cry out for even more rough treatment.

Places like Jack in the Box or Denny's are quick fixes, but we can never respect ourselves in the morning. We rub our blurry eyes the next day, see that crumpled sourdough Jack wrapper by the side of the bed, and dread sets in -- what have we done?

So now, we head over to Mickey's Hangover, a fun dive bar that serves its full menu until 2 a.m. on weeknights, 3 a.m. on weekends. It's trailer-trash food, but well-prepared trash, like Santa Fe rolls of four fat taquitos stuffed with chicken and chiles in a thin, potent jalapeño sauce. Or "Jesus on the Mountain," mounding hefty shavings of ham with crisp bacon, melted Cheddar, two fried eggs and potato chunks on a bun. Or Mickey's Monster, an enormous pizza piled with every topping offered in this universe. And miniature hot dogs are cute, tucked in little-bitty buns, topped with Cheddar and chile, with a tiny bottle of Tabasco served alongside.

Hey, it's not high cuisine. But at least we won't be ashamed when we awake.

It's a fairly frequent occurrence that we're working, puttering, reading, retiling the roof, solving quantum physics, when suddenly we realize that, oops, it's the middle of the night and we haven't eaten for more than 24 hours. The only thing in our fridge is something we might recognize if it weren't covered in green fur, and we're not about to run to the grocery store for some ramen.

Which is why we have Western Pizza on our speed dial. The kind folks here keep the kitchen open until 1 a.m. on weeknights, and until 3 a.m. on weekends. They even deliver (from 32nd to 68th streets and Thomas to Camelback roads)!

Western Pizza serves up victuals so good, we could eat them 'round the clock. One pie, actually, keeps us full for at least two days. The 18-inch large is almost three inches thick and weighs almost 20 pounds, loaded to the gills with toppings like the Western Round-Up -- mushrooms, pepperoni, salami, ham, peppers and onions under buckets of mozzarella. And there's plenty of other delish dishes from which to choose: souvlaki on a stick (savory pork in Greek herbs), fries and gravy, a half-dozen types of wings, spicy barbecued ribs, a flurry of filling salads and funky desserts (bowl of cookie, puffed wheat cake and such). Now, is it time for breakfast yet?

If you're talking turkey, there's no better name than Young's Farm, a poultry ranch in Dewey, Arizona. Of course, such quality meat is expensive, but Arcadia Farms doesn't worry about these things. This country-cottage cafe buys its turkey from Young's, then piles it mile high on its sandwiches, layering thick slabs of real, Thanksgiving-style roasted breast on homemade bread with mayo, roma tomato, sliced cucumber, pea shoots and baby lettuce. It's served with a side of potato salad, a plateload of red, skin-on chunks dotted with dill, bits of fresh bacon, parsley and scallion on a bed of greens.

We admit it: We're gluttons for Arcadia Farms' gobblers.

"On top of spaghetti/All covered with cheese/I lost my poor meatball/When somebody sneezed." The tragedy of this childhood parody of "On Top of Old Smoky" never quite resonated with us until we discovered the meatballs at Nick's. Now, if somebody sneezes on our supper, they're going to lose a schnozz. Nick's is gangbusters on primo meatballs, rolling them by hand with fresh herbs and fennel seeds. We could eat them plain, but in a sandwich, they're hog heaven. Picture four hefty orbs, swimming in tangy marinara, draped in mozzarella, then slid into a hot oven until they go crisp on the edges and the cheese melts to a rich, chewy blanket. It takes balls to be named the best, and in our book, Nick's has got 'em.

What makes a burger better? Just good, old-fashioned, tender lovin' care. At Chuck Box, your burger doesn't meet the grill of its dreams until you've lined up in front of the steaming charcoal broiler and asked for it by name.

Try the Big Juan, a one-third-pound beauty named after Chuck Box's "beef engineer." On hungrier days, gravitate to the Great Big Juan, at a full one-half pound. You can add cheese (Swiss, American or Jalapeño Jack) and toppings of guacamole or bacon. Start salivating as the meat sizzles merrily away, next to fresh buns lightly toasting over the mesquite wood flames.

When it's done, your burger is placed gently on a tray, to be taken to Chuck Box's fully stocked condiment bar to be gussied up just a little more.

Big Mac? Ha, that wouldn't even begin to put a dent in our appetites. No, when we want the beef, we want the beef.

Segal's stops us in our tracks, with sandwiches that stretch even the biggest stomachs. The quarter-pound and half-pound burgers are simply warm-ups. The battle burger, a half-pound of meat topped with hot pastrami, starts the competition. But the full one-pound burger has us waving our white flag. It's all juicy, cooked to order, topped with whatever we choose and served with French fries and coleslaw.

We've found the beef, and it's at Segal's.

Beguiling beans. That's the only way to describe the luscious legumes at El Conquistador. It's easy to miss this place, which is hidden from the street, but to find it is to be rewarded. Here, the basic bean is elevated to a fine dish, multi-textured with the perfect balance of a creamy base and tiny bits of chunk. There's no lard in the recipe, and we don't need it, content with the most assertively beany flavor we've found in the Valley. A light gilding of Cheddar, some crispy chips and hot sauce on the side, and we're as happy as can bean.

What's more way-out West than barbecue beans? No self-respecting cowboy, after all, could make a meal without his trusty sidekick of beans. But they've got to be real beans -- not that canned, bright-orange stuff ladled out at tourist traps. They've got to be treated with respect, as they are at Joe's. Here, the side dish salutes kidney, lima and navy beans, thickened with shards of cooked-on-site sausage, chicken and beef. Insist on sopping up every last bit with Joe's terrific caraway Cheddar bread. Forget those tired old has-beans; Joe's are must have beans.

What's there to an onion ring? A little vegetable, a little batter, a whole lot of oil, and there you have it. Unless you're at Dillon's. Then you've got an onion ring that's outrageous, over the top, and oh-so-wonderful.

These are absolutely some of the most delightful crispy critters we've ever chewed on. It amazes us how decadent a stark pairing of vegetable and batter can be; the sweet onion rounds practically float off our polka-dot tablecloth under their joyously greaseless coating. We can dip them in the ancho chile sauce (think spicy Thousand Island dressing) that's served alongside, but these rings don't need gilding of any kind.

"Home of the Windy City Slider," the Chicago Hamburger Company's sign reads, and yes, the shop makes a mighty good burger. But it's worth a trip all the way to Chi-town just for this company's French fries. If you think fries are all the same, you've been sleepwalking through fast-food joints. Wake up and sample these spuds. Magnificent models of potato, these are piping hot, skinless, generously salted and crisp-edged. Like any proud potato, though, they've got to be eaten fresh from the kitchen -- to transport the delicate sticks too far would be tater torture. A generous sackful sets you back a mere $1.29, and for just 50 cents more, you can gild the fries with cheese or chili. Save your two bits, though. Fries this good don't even need ketchup.