Gone are the days of binge-drinking whatever rotgut tequila could be thrown back with a lick of salt and a suck of lime. Now, we like to taste our tequila -- sipping it like cognac, even. And the best place to savor tequila is Coyote Grill, with an impressive list of 110 varieties, including blanco and plata (not aged), reposado (aged in oak for up to a year), anejo (monitored by the Mexican government to ensure its superior quality), and mescal, a harsh-tempered beast that's not for beginners.

While other restaurants may boast long tequila lists, the Coyote's also got that $145-a-shot super-premium star, José Cuervo 1800 Colección, of which Cuervo releases only a few hundred bottles a year. We can make do with the equally good Herradura's Seleccion Suprema, at an easier-to-swallow $35. And for dessert, the Grill has flavored tequilas -- coquila (coffee, chocolate and cream), rose (strawberry and cream), and almendrado (almond). Now that's tequila worth toasting.

Arriba Mexican Grill has been serving up New Mexico cuisine at its Phoenix cantina for years. This year, its owner took a bold move and expanded to two other Valley locations. They're as packed as the original.

One reason, we suspect, is word of mouth about Arriba's breathtaking carnitas. The grilled piggy pieces come two ways, traditional style with fajita fixings and flour tortillas for wrapping, and spiced with gutsy adobada, tucked in a massive burrito and paired with black beans and rice.

Either presentation, crispy-edged and juicy, makes us smile. Arriba, your carnitas carry us away.

Best Mexican restaurant in Phoenix? Them's fightin' words to most folks. And people here cling to their favorite joints as if they were family members. We've got no problem proclaiming a winner, though. While many Mexican restaurants have a few remarkable specialties, at Pepe's everything on the menu is worthy of award. The place isn't fancy -- just two small rooms behind a nondescript storefront -- but the meals are brilliant.

Silky green chile Colorado is packed with tender beef. Chicken enchiladas are draped in mole, a sensuous sauce deep-toned with chiles and chocolate. Pork tamales are moist and bursting with good piggy flavor. And the tacos rancheros, three tiny corn tortillas stuffed with spicy shredded pork, onion and cilantro, soar when doused with splashes of Pepe's incendiary hot sauce.

Breakfast is served all day, and we love to stop in for the daily specials, too. Pepe's is the best. And anyone who disagrees can just take it outside.

How the Sea of Cortez came to splash onto the shores of McDowell Road and the Squaw Peak Parkway, we'll never know. We're just glad that it did, bringing with it the magical cookery at San Carlos Bay. The oceanscape-painted building is deceptively small, yet the kitchen cranks out an impressive variety of seafood specialties, ranging from simple (shrimp cocktail) to sophisticated (crab-stuffed chile rellenos). Whatever the choice, it's all sumptuous and served in authentic Mexican style. For south-of-the-border satisfaction, we always steer toward gorgeous, buttery garlic octopus, shrimp endiablados (very hot and spicy), and whole fried snapper. Wrap the fish in warm tortillas spread with creamy beans and rice, dunk the bundles in zingy salsa, and pretend you're on a seaside vacation.

Mention anything involving even the ghost of chocolate, and most people come running. Mention mole, though, and most folks stumble, not quite sure what we're talking about. There are millions of recipes for mole, each as diverse as the genetic code for babies. But generally, mole is a rich, velvety sauce containing a dozen types of dried chiles, nuts, seeds, vegetables, spices, plantains and chocolate. For us, the universal standard for excellence is celebrated at El Tepeyac. Poor souls who've never experienced the kiss of mole poblano should start with El Tepeyac's model. A chicken thigh and drumstick lounge under a pool of silky auburn sauce, dusky with rich chocolate tones and chiles. It's more distinctly chocolate than other versions we've tasted, and that's worth sprinting for.

Drive around downtown Phoenix on a summer day, and you'll spot several pushcart vendors selling paletas, those distinctly Mexican frozen-fruit bars. But Flor de Michoacán is one of the Valley's few true paleterias, the kind of shop found within a five-block radius of practically any Mexican town. Flor de Michoacán was opened by Nathan and Adam Hatch, two brothers who picked fruit as children in the orchards of Chihuahua, Mexico. During their work breaks, they hung out at their favorite paleteria, and studied the mixing magic of the masters. They've brought this authenticity to a variety of paleta fruit flavors, agua fresca drinks and frescas con crema (sliced strawberries mixed in cream). This shop is as close to Michoacán as you'll ever get in Mesa.

Behold the unassuming fish taco: little more than seafood and tortilla. But in the right hands, a fish taco can be a feast. We worship the masterful mitts of the chefs at Acapulco Bay Company, where the tacos de pescado bring mountains of grilled white fish that's been spiced with slow-burning heat. No goopy sauce to get in the way of the fish, just warm dicings of juicy tomato, bell pepper and onion. Add a splash of potent hot sauce, roll it all up in double corn tortillas, and bite in.

Somebody's having fun with the chips at Los Sombreros. While we enjoy the kitchen's traditional crispy chips, fresh and gently salted, we're also presented with clever little nibbles that look like wagon wheels. They're noodles, we're told, the dough thin and fried to a feathery lightness.

Either munchie makes a delightful tool for shoveling medium-hot homemade pico de gallo, or a tomatillo salsa that hints of lemon, apple and herbs. If we're feeling fiery, we request the arbol salsa, plenty infernal and sharp-edged. And after a few margaritas, we're brave enough to call out the habanero purée. Our server doesn't want us to hurt ourselves, so she starts us with little more than a thimbleful, but even a few drops of this stuff bring a jolt that's pure liquid fire. At Los Sombreros, let the chips fall where they may -- as long as at least a few land on our table.

There are several competing stories as to where the first margarita was mixed and by whom, and Lord knows, we're not going to do a tango with that tar baby. Still, most folks can agree that the traditionally tequila-and-lime-based concoction has been around for more than half a century. So you can pretty much bet the hacienda on the fact that the initial margarita, despite its disputed origins, was not served frozen but rather on the rocks. There are plenty of purists who turn up their nostrils at these alcoholic Icees for just this reason. But we don't give a roadrunner's patootie about tradition. What we want from a margarita is salt, blended ice, a bowl-shaped glass big enough to eat Froot Loops out of, and enough tequila to subdue a snarling bobcat. That's why we pick Scottsdale's Salty Se--orita as the purveyor of the Valley's best margaritas. Not only do SS's margaritas meet all our basic criteria, they're like the Arnold Schwarzeneggers of Mexican cocktails, mocking those served elsewhere in the Valley as "girlie margaritas." The SS has 100 different brands of tequila to get you effed up on, and, as an added plus, on any given night of the week, the place is wall to wall with hot dudes and dudettes loudly pounding those jumbo, high-proof Slurpees like there's no tomorrow. Hey, what better way to hook up while downing your favorite, icy-cold beverage? Love or Cuervo, we don't care, as long as they're willing.

Readers' Choice: Z'Tejas Grill

You've probably heard many a Phoenician rave about Mariscos Ensenada's seafood pastas, like the bay scallops with cream chipotle sauce, or the prawns with spaghetti, olive oil, tomatoes and wine. Or maybe you've heard someone go on and on about Mariscos Ensenada's octopus, shrimp or sea snail tostadas. And some folks just can't shut up about the ceviche verde de camarén (shrimp marinated in a spicy green sauce) or the pescado relleno de jalba con crema (fish fillet stuffed with crab). But what rocks our boat at this no-frills mariscos is much simpler: the chips and salsa. We're not sure what's in that brown, peppery elixir, but it's just piquant enough to whet our palate for another frozen margarita without burning off the first layer of tongue. The chips themselves are fresh and not too salty, and just one dunk into that Mexican ambrosia is enough to give you a jolt. Really, now, how often does a salsa stick in your memory and make you want to slurp it like a high-octane smoothie? Okay, perhaps we're slightly obsessed, but that salsa freakin' rocks.