Somehow Dee Lincoln exists in a city rife with staid steak houses straining for elegance, with smiling maître d's and hushed dining rooms. There's never a dull moment with her around. When she holds forth in "Havana Dee's," the piano bar at Del Frisco's Double Eagle Steakhouse in North Dallas, the mood shifts from upscale to frat-house blowout. In a good way. She may fling herself on the makeshift dance floor or encourage others to embarrass themselves. Her raucous laughter explodes across any room and never fails to lift a dour group. Good-natured teasing, cajoling, prodding, whatever; if it's necessary to stir up a group or create a party, Lincoln will try it and succeed. And all of this behavior occurs within close proximity to food and wine, refined service, evening dress and all the stylish elements of a Dallas steak house. Cool.

It's a given that a competent service staff has a deft grip on the menu, and Perry's is no exception. Yet steak generally doesn't cause a strain on the culinary memory banks. What does tax servers are the vagaries of people. Perry's staff knows people. They know how to make them feel at ease, how to serve without being a pest (never interrupt a conversation to ask if everything is OK), how to anticipate needs, how to meet them without calling attention to the service protocol. Skillful service is being in the forefront while loitering in the background.

Readers pick

Technically speaking, Krispy Kreme's isn't the best cup of coffee, if by "cup of coffee" you mean just coffee. Starbucks is fine for that, though with all its iced drinks, the chain lately seems more like an ice cream stand. (Hint: If it has lots of ice, sugar and milk and is whipped in a blender, it ain't coffee. It's a milk shake.) Krispy Kreme's brew, taken in the right combination, hits on a more primitive level. Picture this: Your soul is screaming, as it's up early for another miserable day working for the man. Gotta have something to brace the mind, and only that pitch-perfect blend of chemicals will do. First, start with hot grease and sugar from a doughnut. Add caffeine from the joe, then pitch in some sweet, sweet nicotine from the morning's first cigarette, balanced delicately between two fingertips to keep you from singeing your eyebrows as you sip the steaming brew. Does the coffee taste the best? Who cares? What's important is that deep inside your psyche, a primal, raging beast rolls over and purrs. It's the best combo since some long-forgotten stoner said, "Hey, I know! Let's put the hash in the brownies."

No one tops Al Biernat in the meet-and-greet. But Michel etc. comes as close as any restaurant host possibly can. Like Biernat, he (yes, he--Michel is as masculine a name as they have in France) flashes a genuine smile at each guest, throws his arms in welcoming gestures and directs people to their tables with a fluid grace. He is charming without being overbearing. Gracious without too much obsequiousness. Plus he understands the ways of fine dining and--more important--fine drinking. During his stint at Paris Vendome, BdG would spend time patiently explaining to American novices the rules of upscale European alcoholism, which basically involved downing many drinks, but in a specific order (aperitifs before dinner, that sort of thing). His talents are probably lost on the cruise-ship crowd (walk in, glance around, you'll understand what we mean) at Popolos, but what the hell. He makes it worth a visit.

The clubby, old school décor, the sophisticated tunes from the piano player, and the, um, of-a-certain-age crowd, demand that you order something other than "another cold one" or a Run, Jump, Skip, and Go Nekkid. Generous pours of first-rate bourbon in elegantly muscular glasses with the perfect amount of vermouth and one cherry, mmm...it just doesn't get much more tasteful than that. But don't try tying the cherry stem with your tongue and still expect to get laid.

Located across from Baylor hospital, this place deserves a spot in the Greasy Spoon Hall of Fame. Waitresses balance three or four orders at once, all the while yelling good-natured chatter at one another and calling every customer "sweetie." Signs on the wall note that only "two coffee warm-ups are allowed" before you start paying again, and another politely asks that you "do not stand in front of the door to smoke." The griddle is on 24 hours, cranking out breakfast feasts (eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, breakfast tacos, etc.) anytime you get the urge. Back in the kitchen they're whipping up chicken-fried steak, smothered pork chops, pinto beans and turnip greens to die for. Their motto is "Always Cookin'," and that's truth in advertising. Don't be surprised if you have to wait for a booth or a spot at the counter to open.

The philosophy of fine Dallas restaurants tends toward the overblown. We adore The Mansion, but aren't the flowers kinda humongous? Aren't the walls a little peachy? Aren't the waiters a little fawning? Jeroboam has the opposite tack--it's sleek and understated, furnished with classic woods and black-and-white photography. The waiters are knowledgeable and helpful without making us feel like Dudley Moore to their Sir John Gielgud. Of course, that means we have to wipe our own chins, but a college education has prepared us for these tasks. What Jeroboam reminds us of more than anything is Manhattan, where sophistication and smarts are prized above all else and a proper martini can make the difference between success and failure. The only thing about this New American restaurant that doesn't remind us of Manhattan is the thinning crowds; it's a sad commentary on downtown when such a superlative restaurant doesn't fill up on a Friday night

It's unremarkable, yet it works. A wide tongue of catfish with a crisp golden coating is slipped between a cleaved roll and crowned with fresh ruddy tomato slices and a smear of Creole rémoulade. The fish is greaseless, crisp, and moist with stratified flakes of flesh and not a hint of river silt.

Better get to the Metropolitan Cafe early on Wednesdays, because the lunch special is crab cakes, and they sell like hotcakes, whatever that means. Unlike many Dallas restaurants that buy their crab cakes from food distributors, Metropolitan's Momma Christine makes these oval morsels from scratch, having divined her recipe from a dream, she says, as she did for many of the soups, salads, sandwiches and such that find their way onto the menu of this hot downtown spot. These babies are sautéed rather than deep-fried, loaded with fresh crabmeat rather than frozen and served up Texas-style with black-eyed peas and coleslaw. Lawyers, cops and journalists lousy for lunch turn away in tears when they learn there will be no more crab cakes until the following Wednesday. Unless, of course, they can dream up their own recipe.

This Lakewood hole-in-the-strip-center-wall is, now that Dan's Lakewood has shuttered, the finest hangover breakfast in town, which means that by its very definition it is the best greasy spoon around. They are one and the same. You wake up after being overserved, you need eggs, bacon, pancakes, sausage, hash browns, et. al. In fact, we may tie one on tonight just so we can have an excuse for eating a plateful of this tomorrow. Our favorite, actually, is the huevos rancheros, eggs and chorizo and refried beans topped with a green chile sauce and served with hot tortillas. Even the coffee is good here. Just be prepared to wait in cramped quarters for a table during peak hours. Worth it, though.

Readers' Pick

Metro Diner

3309 Gaston Ave.

214-828-2190