^{Photo courtesy Cheba Hut's Facebook page}

If you've ever ordered a 420 Burger from Boston Burger Company or picked up a Bob Marley sub from Al's Deli, we have good news for you. Rumor has it "toasted" sub shop Cheba Hut may be coming to town soon.

Cheba Hut started 15 years ago in Tempe, Ariz. and has been creeping across the country since.

 
It's National Applejack Month, y'all.

Mark Gaier, (left) and Clark Fraiser.
If you've ever been to Summer Winter Restaurant in Burlington, MA, and caught glimpses of chef-owners Mark Gaier and Clark Fraiser flitting between tables, you'll understand why we're so pumped about their appearances on this season of Top Chef Masters

What is mofongo? It sounds like a swear word, but when mixed in with some hot chicken soup, or as a side dish with lunch or an entrée, it is Latino comfort food at its best.

Good ol' fashioned food fans celebrated Area Four's very first birthday last Thursday, and the whole thing felt like the ultimate laid-back block party in the 'hood. If, of course, your block was populated with nationally acclaimed chefs. I wish I lived on that block, because this was some of the best cookout food I've ever heaped onto a sturdy paper plate.

We here at The Phoenix gave up trying to resist the mid-day food coma that comes in the form of chef Tiffani Faison's drool-worthy BBQ joint, Sweet Cheeks, months ago. That juicy, sizzling smoker scent that sneaks into our Fenway headquarters, mere feet away, has played a mighty large part in this, it's true.

Bissonnette and Oringer © Boston Herald

Hooo, boy. If you haven't heard already, The New York Times reported that the guys behind everyone's favorite tapas spot, Toro, are diving headfirst into the New York dining scene, with a spot in Chelsea opening this fall, after seven years on Washington St. What does that mean for us Boston food-hounds who finally have a few local gems we're loathe to share with big, bad, NYC?

Aaaaahh, Father's Day. Yet another Hallmark holiday that marks an opportunity to stress unnecessarily over the correct way to honor the man who, as Groupon puts it, gave birth to you. For some reason, golf, BBQ, and a shit ton of meat seem to be the main options that scream "MANLY!" and "DISTINGUISHED!" for those of us scrambling to make plans this week.

It's a sad, sad, thing when waves of tourists looking for a night of Boston cuisine, totter out of the Seaport Hotel, bedecked in pastel pants and wedges, then descend upon the restaurants directly adjacent to their lodgings. How very adventurous.

While I do understand the desire for ease, and agree that a bumpy cab ride into an unfamiliar city always seems a bit risky and exhausting, it was with a heavy heart that I watched endless variations on the same tanned, blond, bright-eyed tourist theme walk through the revolving doors of Rosa Mexicano last Friday night.

That's right, folks: chef Michael Schlow's much-anticipated Happy's Bar + Kitchen is officially open.

Luke O'Neil is that dude you can most definitely trust to call bullshit on just about anything: SXSW, St. Patrick's Day, anything. When it comes to craft cocktails and bars in general, this is always what you want--yes, a modicum of interest and general knowledge about what you're drinking is a plus, but at the end of the day, it's all booze, so don't be an asshole about it. Since he's got this strangely genius palate paired with an acid wit, we will absolutely follow him into the murky underworld of mixology, every time.

Full disclosure, my idea of a quick cocktail is either a) cracking open a bottle of beer, which is not a cocktail, or b) taking a shot, which is also not a cocktail. Give me a little more time, maybe put on some relaxing, lounge-y music, leave the room, and I can definitely whip something up for you. Maybe.

I think it's fair to say I would have been out of my depth behind the bar at Monday night's American Idol/Iron Chef Cocktail Competition at The Hawthorne. And--because I know some of you read that last sentence and thought, American Idol?-- no, the bartenders did not need to sing while they slammed together artful combinations of spirits in shakers, and the goateed Kevin Brauch, thankfully, was not there.