Well, hell. The alarm failed you again; the sun's already long up, importing sweat through the panes and overpowering the asthmatic window unit, and somehow -- hard to remember exactly -- you're hungover. Again. You can tell even before you rise from the pillows that actual food retention is not going to be an option for several hours at least, and even at that, not unless something substantially restorative happens between now and then. You need to put something good in your body and start crawling back to life, or there's a better-than-even chance you'll be dead or wishing you were by four o'clock. You need orange juice. And if anyone serves up a better glass of juice than El Charro, we'd like to hear how they do it. You order. The waitress unloads a pile of oranges from the storage rack, halves them with a knife and feeds them into a whirring electric juicer, which spits the pure, pulpy nectar out into your choice of a tall parfait glass (small, $1.25) or a monstrous heavy-glass fishbowl (large, $3). You sip, slowly at first, merging onto recovery road, thankful that the Tejano jukebox's skull-crushing bass doesn't crank up till evening, eyeing the plastic "Homey" figurines for sale in the modified gumball machine (Collect All Four!), and grateful for the continued existence of such cheap mercy.

They fry your chicken to order at Henderson's Chicken Shack. It takes about 20 minutes. Henderson's isn't a franchise or a chain. It's owned by a Creole woman named Ann Henderson, who was born in New Iberia, Louisiana. Cooking the chicken to order seems like a nuisance when you're waiting, but once you bite into the hot chicken, you know it's worth it. There's a wonderful thick, spicy crust, and the chicken pieces come on two slices of white bread, which soak up the juice. Most people get their order to go (there isn't much in the way of tables) and let the chicken cool off in the car, so it's the perfect temperature when you get your yardbird home. But be forewarned, you'll probably end up eating all the red-peppery fries on the drive.

Cajun Corner sells boiled Cajun-style crawfish all year round in its Vietnamese neighborhood. Gulf Coast Vietnamese-Americans are wild about Cajun-style boiled crawfish -- the spicier the better. There's a condiment bar where patrons stir up insanely hot dipping sauces made out of pure cayenne powder with a dash of ketchup and mayo or a little squeeze of lemon. Cajun Corner also sells gumbo, étouffée, chicken wings, alligator platters and a full menu of Cajun specialties. But the only other dish besides boiled crawfish that really stands out is the crawfish fried rice.

They're large, always warm and have just the right balance of firmness, chewiness and doughiness. The bagels at Manhattan Bagels run golden-brown rings around the others. More than 20 different varieties are always available, including all of the standards, plus rye, whole wheat, egg, jalapeño, spinach, cinnamon and raisin, cranberry and chocolate chip. Also available are cream cheese spreads in a dozen different flavors. At $5.95 for a baker's dozen, they're a terrific bargain. The breakfast and lunch sandwiches are also good values. With their frequent shopper cards, you can earn a dozen free bagels after your 12th purchase. Now, if just we could get them to open one inside the Loop.

Mama Tran makes the dumplings at this quirky little family-run Vietnamese restaurant in the Old Chinatown neighborhood near the intersection of Highways 45 and 59. The dumplings are awesome, and the noodles are pretty good, too. Owner Jenni Tran-Weaver (Mama Tran's daughter) makes the homemade Vietnamese desserts. But that's not all that makes this place special. According to the menu, you get a lap dance from Jenni's husband, Scott, added to your bowl of noodles for $50 extra. (Shrimp is a cheaper add-on, at only $4.) Members of various local arts groups come here to eat such signature dishes as Infernal Chicken Curry and Art Car Curry. The employees wear T-shirts printed with such slogans as "Madonna Eats Here" and "My Noodle Is Bigger than Your Noodle." If you're having trouble finding this strip mall location just off Jefferson, look for Jenni's plastic pink flamingos that she strews all over the grass strip in front of the place every morning.

Plum sauce is mundane in these surroundings. If the toddy palm drink, fresh seaweed, spicy sliced pork ear and stomach, or fish balls aren't exotic enough for you, try the mochi chocolate pai, karela, tidora or moo, none of which comes with a translation. Then there's the fruit-flavored beef jerky and the sweet soursop, both of which sound like oxymorons. Live geoducks (giant clams) lie lazily in one of the many fish tanks, awaiting their fate as live sushi. Kids, this is not the kind of stuff you'll find at Kroger. The wildest ingredients, though, also may be the most expensive. Take a gander at the dried deer leg at $25 per pound, or the shark fin at a toothy $250 a pound (both are used to make soup). Sorry, you can't just have a pound or two; you've got to take the whole fin, which weighs from ten to 13 pounds. That's not just exotic, it's plum wild.

Kozy Kitchen opened in 1946, during the era of segregation. Back then, it was one of many Fifth Ward barbecue restaurants for blacks. The brisket is juicy and tender here, and the beef links are the best in the city. But it's the veal that makes this place worth a detour. The veal sandwich is stuffed with a large pile of meat that includes a little of the spicy black coating from the outside and long strings of juicy veal. You can sprinkle it with the homemade hot sauce that's out on the tables, but don't forget to put your thumb over the cap and shake the bottle first. Kozy Kitchen's sandwich combo plate comes with your choice of sides. Go for the potato salad, it's the extremely soft style known as mashed potato salad, and it's made with pickle relish and mustard. The Fifth Ward's historic black barbecue joints were the unwitting victims of integration. Kozy Kitchen is the last one left.

When you query the folks at Zydeco Louisiana Diner as to just why their mashed potatoes taste so good, they look at you quizzically and reply, "They're real." Duh. Of course they are. There's simply no way instant taters could provide such pleasure. Creamed soft but not so soft you don't find the occasional chunk of potato hidden inside, this godsend of a dish is finished off with lots of garlic and butter. Of course, the catfish and okra are great. But you really need only a large plate of mashed potatoes and a side of corn bread to leave Zydeco happy. Sure, you can almost feel your arteries clog up as you shovel them down. But what a way to go.

Bibim means "mixed" and bap means "rice" in Korean. So bibim bap means "rice hash." Bibim bap is all the rage lately because it's light and healthy. And the Green Pine Tree is the place to eat it. Their version includes carrots, zucchini, cucumbers and sprouts, all of them marinated in a ginger dressing. The idea is to dump a bowl of hot, sticky rice over the cold vegetables and a raw egg yolk, then add some of the fiery Korean pepper paste called kochujang and stir it all together with a long-handled spoon. The egg yolk, the hot sauce and the marinade from the vegetables combine to form a lovely salad dressing. And the combination of hot rice and cold vegetables creates an exciting contrast. At the Green Pine Tree, you can hide away with your bibim bap in one of a half-dozen private dining nooks, or combine it with a fish course in the neon-lit sushi bar.

Sam Segari's gumbo is murky, mysterious and full of character -- just like everything else in this crazy little joint. The soup is loaded with fresh shrimp, and the dark roux is just spicy enough to keep your lips warm. Sam prefers to serve the gumbo as an appetizer. The entrées are whatever he feels like making, but there's usually a steak and a crab salad covered with more lump crabmeat than anybody could possibly eat. Don't ask to see the menu -- there isn't one. And don't ask to be seated in the no-smoking section -- they don't have one of those, either. There are only six tables in the whole place: two round ones in the barroom up front where Sam holds court, and four in an old-fashioned dining room decorated with a huge dark wooden breakfront. If Sam doesn't like your attitude, he'll run you off, regulars warn. And they aren't kidding.