When you work in the restaurant business everyone you know, everyone you know's friends, in-laws and children, and everyone you've not met yet, comes to you for restaurant recommendations.

Needless to say I am extremely grateful that Chowhound also exists. For it gets quite tiresome to be absolutely everyone's go to for breakfast, lunch, brunch and dinner suggestions. Especially when you consider I grew up in New York City, have lived in London and Napa Valley and the Bay Area is my permanent home.

All this being said, when I plan a trip to my old home, I very much look forward to what I will eat when I'm there. Will I visit the places where I know the chefs and pastry chefs? Will I haunt my old workplaces? Will I eat all my favorite foods? Will I shop and cook in my host's kitchen? Will I eat at brand name places so that I have something to talk about when I get back or will I just eat in the places no one but real New Yorkers go? Will I eat solely for memory or will I want to try all the new things I've read about since I was there last?

The truth is that I eat foods in my old home that I can't find in my new one. I'm fiercely loyal to old haunts, places whose menus I can trust no matter what the current trend and flash-in-the-pan hip happening thang is. I bring my money to the people I love and have the most respect for. Chefs and pastry chefs whose work is something that inspires me, fills me with hope that one day my California home town will embrace these innovations.

My upcoming trip to New York will look different from ones I've taken in more recent years. Because I met and be-friended some spectacularly talented people at the Pastry Chef Conference in May, I will spend some time eating and working with some of these folks. I'll go to Daniel just for dessert and then with their pastry chef, Dominique Ansel, we will eat at Devi, pastry chef Surbhi Sahnhi's post.

In the sweet theme, I'll make it into Chikalicious at least once. And if I have time, Pichet Ong's new place, P'ong. And then there's always a detour to Il Laboratorio del Gelato on Orchard Street in the heart of the real Lower East Side. Maybe I'll get a kasha K'nish at Yonah Schimmels beforehand so I can convince myself I've eaten dinner.

It's not a trip to New York without one surprising dinner at the diminutive Prune on First Street. Whether chef/owner Gabrielle Hamilton is there or not, I like to bring her a California gift. This week I'll be stocking up on jars of jam from newcomer Rachel Saunders so that I can present unique gifts to the people I love. Prune is my favorite restaurant in NYC.

But for the food I grew up with, there will be frequent visits to Veselka for pierogi, cabbage soup and a chat with my father and stepmother over blintzes. I always have to have one steamed lobster dinner at Pearl Oyster Bar on the tiny slanted street of Cornelia. When you grow up with steamers dipped in drawn butter and tasting of the chewy clammy sea, no nouveau California preparation of clams will satisfy.

It will be important for me to get sticky with coco helado on a street corner if it's hot, and of course I'll be noshing on my old stand by in Coney Island, ridged french fries at Nathan's and a cone of pastel green pistachio soft serve with colored sprinkles on Neptune Avenue!

For a post Coney Island Mermaid Day Parade de-tox I might head over to my favorite macrobiotic restaurant Angelica's. I have to get my fix of their kooky "cornbread," carrot spread and one small Dragon Bowl. And if I make it to Harlem I'll be going directly to M&G's for fried chicken. And if I want to roll out of my bed the next day to stand in line, I might head to Danal for brunch.

Saving the best for last, I am over-the-top excited that this will be the first time I'm going to Gerry Hayden and Claudia Fleming's restaurant The North Fork Table & Inn on Long Island. I used to work for Claudia Fleming at Gramercy Tavern in the Flatiron District. This will be my first time seeing her since I threw a party at Citizen Cake for her incredible book The Last Course, a must have for anyone who loves to bake seasonal desserts. The day I made the reservation to eat and stay at the Inn I could not sleep.

So, you can see, I will be eating well in my old hometown. Like most people, I tend to eat the familiar when I'm home. I have plans with friends and family, old lovers and new, bloggers, chefs and pastry chefs. I have adventures planned and I will be taking my feet to places they'll go without direction.

If you're looking for NYC restaurant recommendations, I still give them. But only if you're willing to try what a real New Yorker eats...

I'm still in mourning for the afterhour taco stand that was once wedged in front of Taqueria Vallarta. Huddled outside, bundled against the night air and only slightly buzzed, I've enjoyed many a midnight snack. At first, I alternated my orders, enjoying beef and pork, grilled and fried, sausage and offal. Eventually, though, the tender suadero owned me completely.

I know, I know. A 49 on the health inspector's score card justifies, in the modern logic of cleanliness and public safety, the shuttering of a restaurant. I only wish they'd let the taco cart stick around. Bereft, a friend and I recently wandered up and down 24th Street, sniffing the air for potential rebound consolation. We were in luck. A few doors down from our old taco love, inside a tiny space that was a butcher shop by day, an impromptu taqueria had been set up to serve the swing shift. A thin haze of smoke drifted from the shop, and once inside, we realized that three card tables and a portable grill were the only capital investments in this brand new micro-business. No fire extinguisher or ventilation hood in sight. No menu, no music, no English, and no smiles. Still, the minimalist approach was more than justified by the perfectly charred beef. We returned a few nights later but were disppointed to find only a dark, properly locked-up butcher shop.

For all its bragging about being a culinary capital, San Francisco is woefully behind the curve when it comes to good street eats. The occasional downtown hot dog stand and farmers' market tamale stalls are just not enough for this hungry girl. Where I come from, you can't walk twenty feet without someone grilling or steaming or frying or stacking or stirring something good to eat al fresco, but here in America, fast food ordered through a squawk box from your car is apparently safer for you.

Fortunately, immigrants from lands of good food persist in their attempts to share their treats. Whispers of "you want tamales?" from parked minivans have lured me to steaming bundles of masa joy, while contraband rice cakes reach me through trusted intermediaries. In between such priceless finds, though, it's the taco truck that assuages my need for street food.

Returning from a hiking trip in Big Sur one weekend, my hubby and I were craving some filling, warming soup. With San Jose just a few miles in front of us, we plotted a minor detour from 101 around Capital Expressway up Senter Avenue to one of my favorite Vietnamese restaurants on this side of the Pacific. But before we got very far north on Senter, one stoplight to be exact, we saw a line snaking its way from a shining, white taco truck all across a parking lot to the curb on the corner. Hubby's quick reflexes pulled us right up next to Paisa Taqueria, our quest for pho and bun rieu immediately forgotten.

The best way to identify a good taco truck: a long line even in the middle of the afternoon.

Now, this wasn't your normal taco truck. This was a special tricked-out version that boasted large, squeaky clear display windows through which you could watch women patting and pressing corn tortillas to order. A trompo of glistening pork spun invitingly at the other end of the truck. A few feet away was the grill station: what normally served as a hot dog cart was lined with glowing, hardwood charcoal from Mexico. The salsa station included the usual fresh and cooked salsas, lime wedges, crisp radishes, and a delightfully creamy guacamole-style sauce. Large jars of agua frescas sparkled in the sun.

The taco truck was already passing all my usual tests, but when a patrol car rolled up into the parking lot behind us and then two cops strutted toward the line, I knew for sure. We were in for some good food. (And yes, the cops got to cut straight to the front.)

Non-stop tortilla production line.

Fornuately, the wait wasn't as long as my empty stomach feared it'd be. I ordered my usual suadera and carnitas, and then decided to try one of their mulitas, a sandwich of two grilled tortillas and melted fresh cheese. I had barely ladled and stacked my numerous cups of salsa when our food appeared in the window. Like everyone else, we scurried back to our car to eat. The tacos were exactly the way I like them: small and simple. A light sprinkling of chopped onion and cilantro were the only gilding on the meat, while the freshly made tortillas had that perfect balance of softness and toothsomeness. Gone were the soggy pile of beans; the limp, torn, stale tortillas; and the massive, messy hump of filling found in far too many so-called taquerias.

I'm not sure how often I'll get down to San Jose for a plate of tacos, even ones as good El Paisa's. I guess that means more midnight strolls sniffing the air and praying for benevolance from the street food gods.

MORE TACO LOVE

--Learn lots about tacos, including the Lebanese "sheep herder" roots of al pastor and the difference between lard-cooked carnitas, steamed cabeza, and luscious suadero at this informative guide to Mexican street tacos.

-- Spanish speakers can brush up on their taco knowledge while ingesting a bit of taco history at Mexico's official Taco Day site.

-- Anyone heading to LA should definitely compile a list of taco trucks from the impressively well-researched Taco Hunt blog.