At Eddie’s, there’s hardly a vegetable in sight (the green-speckled Denver omelette is a notable exception), the pancakes are plate-sized, and the sausages, gloriously, come in link, smoked, and patty forms. The tender biscuits are always warm, with softened butter, and you can choose between a side of white rice or hot grits. Drip coffee flows easily along with the attentive and efficient service. The back wall is plastered with posters from neighborhood theater groups and also features a working pay phone—a pleasing anachronism—where Mia, the new owner, hurriedly takes pickup orders.

Eddie’s is one of the few places left in San Francisco where the diversity of the Bay Area is evident on any given Sunday—people from all walks of life come together here. Part neighborhood bastion, part unofficial SF Giants memorabilia museum (check out the hilariously eclectic mug collection in addition to the Giants bobbleheads), and a rare spot in the city where you can still get breakfast for two for under $30, it offers exactly what you want in a homey diner.

In Japantown’s Buchanan Plaza, a stone’s throw from Ruth Asawa’s famed origami fountain, sits Benkyodo Company, a 113-year-old institution. Established by Suyeichi Okamura in 1906, Benkyodo has offered San Franciscans handmade manju (steamed, filled cakes made with wheat or rice flour) and mochi (pounded glutinous rice cakes) for over three generations.

Benkyodo is the city’s last-standing manufacturer of Japanese sweets, called wagashi, and the shop is a testament to the resilience and grit of the Okamura family. The family survived forced closure and Japanese internment during World War II, redevelopment in the Western Addition, and encroaching gentrification. But every year, whether eaten for a daily treat or a Japanese New Year’s celebration, these wagashi are a San Francisco staple.

Not much of Benkyodo’s decor has changed since the 1960s; the long red lunch counter, with matching stools, is charmingly retro. It’s an opportunity to savor a bit of history reasonably, as the prices are friendly to tourists and neighborhood elders alike.

Benkyodo doubles as a dinette, offering up an Americana menu of tuna or deviled-egg white-bread sandwiches for under $6. But for me, the fresh mochi is the star of the show. Specialties range from the delicately chewy green mochi dusted with nutty kinako (soybean) flour to pillowy white mochi wrapped around soft creamy peanut butter. Age (bite-size sugary doughnuts filled with smooth bean paste) and festive rainbow suama (sweet mochi dumplings) are not to be missed.

It’s best to beat the after-school rush, as early birds are rewarded with fresh picks before they sell out. I prefer these treats as an unapologetic second breakfast, and regularly order the mango mochi and humble chofu, a tiny honey cake that’s wrapped around a plain glutinous-rice cake. If you are extraordinarily lucky, during the springtime Cherry Blossom Festival, you might get your hands on the sakura mochi, a pale-pink rice cake wrapped in a salted cherry blossom leaf.

San Francisco is also bordered by over 100 miles of verdant farmland and ranches, aided by northern California’s mostly temperate climate and a long growing season. Bounded by both the sea and the bay, the city has also long sustained fishing communities up and down the California coast (thank you, Dungeness crab). It’s no wonder people here love to eat—how can we help ourselves?

Our food scene can be as mercurial as our weather—skyrocketing rents mean more restaurant closures than we can bring ourselves to count—but one thing remains the same: There are delicious treasures in every corner of San Francisco, if you know where to look. Our collective diet is shaped by our neighborhoods, nostalgia, and novelty. Eating like a local is a sincere commitment to preserving the old school, while steadily supporting an earnest new school.

While not even an encyclopedia could capture the dynamic foodscape of San Francisco, my list is a humble, short offering to a city that keeps my stomach full and my heart even more so.

Lou’s is an old-school Greek diner. It opened in 1923 and, three years later, found itself near the start of a new road called Route 66. Hungry travelers fueled up at the counter and in the little booths before setting off on their journeys. Today, locals and tourists still crowd in for the Main Street vibe and jumbo breakfast dishes. People chat, newspapers rustle, silverware clatters—close your eyes and you could be in Winslow, Catoosa, or some other small town instead of downtown Chicago. Di’s is my neighborhood bar, a few blocks from where I live, on Chicago’s Northwest side. It’s not famous or glamorous, or a dive turned hip hot spot; it doesn’t even have beer on tap. What it does have is true local character. Many an eater has left their heart in San Francisco. Some, like me, stuck around for good after that first bite. When I first told my mother that I wasn’t going to law school, but was instead moving to San Francisco to start a career in food justice, we had what one might diplomatically call a “difficult conversation.” Thirteen years later, I hold a deep love for a city that has taught me to nourish—and resist—for most of my adult life. (And Mom’s proud, in case you were wondering.)

From crusty slabs of natural sourdough to warming bowls of tonkotsu ramen and heirloom varieties of fruit you might not be able to pronounce, there’s no shortage of evidence that San Francisco has rightfully earned its title of world-class food destination. This didn’t happen by accident. Situated on traditional, un-ceded Ohlone land, the raw beauty of San Francisco’s surroundings and a real shot at economic opportunity have drawn diverse diasporas to the City by the Bay for two centuries. And each has left a delectable mark.

Chinese railroad laborers and miners established the country’s oldest Chinatown, morphing Cantonese dishes into Anglicized shrimp in lobster sauce and chop suey. Italian fishermen in North Beach favored a Genovese specialty: Ligurian focaccia. African-American naval-shipyard workers never forgot their Southern roots and love of barbecue while living in Butchertown (present-day Bayview). And, while the cultural significance of the Mission burrito cannot be underestimated, regional treats such as huaraches, mole, and sauce-soaked tortas are a nod to the steady flow of Mexican migration, from braceros to revolutionaries.

There really is a Di. She’s a sprightly senior citizen who’s often around, sometimes tending bar, sometimes just chatting with customers. Regulars fill the stools, longtime Chicagoans who work as garbage collectors, nurses, and construction workers. These folks take a pull on their Miller High Life tall boys and give you an earful about the mayor, taxes, and potholes. They also throw darts: Di’s entire back room is devoted to the pursuit.

That all goes by the wayside, though, if there’s a big game on TV. The Blackhawks have a rapt audience, the Bears a grousing one, but the Cubs are the end-all and be-all. Di is a rabid fan. “Son of a bitch!” A cry erupts from the bar when the opposing team hits a homer in the ninth inning. The mood darkens, and insults about the pitcher’s man parts fly the rest of the night. On the other hand, a big win might mean a round of apple pie shots on the house.

Flashy cocktails and slick décor? Not at Di’s. An authentic patch of Chicago with cheap liqueurs? Bull’s-eye.

The waitresses at Lou Mitchell’s are for real. They’re worldly and wise and wear sensible, thick-soled shoes. They have names like Audrey and Dot and Virginia that are sewn in big letters on their aprons. It’s hard to tell their age, but they’re not young. They’re strong as Hercules, lining heavy plates up their arms and then dealing them on the table like cards: fluffy, feta-packed omelettes; thick-cut Greek toast (made with a dense, rustic sourdough Greek bread); fruit cups; and stacks of airy silver dollar pancakes. They know their regulars (“Hi, Charles. How are the kids?”) and call everyone “sweetie.”

Goodness prevails here. If there’s a line to get in, the hostess hands out free doughnut holes sprinkled with powdered sugar to ease the wait. Then come the mini boxes of Milk Duds. Once you’re at the table, further freebies arrive: dishes of stewed prunes (tastier than they sound) and soft-serve ice cream. By the time I leave—after Audrey calls out, “Enjoy your day, dear!”—all is right in the world again.

I like to stay traditional with my jibarito, and Cafe Central makes a steak version that’s as classic as it gets. It’s a mom-and-pop spot, in business since 1952, where teapot-print drapes hang in the window and mosaics made of multicolored beans adorn the walls. Older Puerto Rican couples slurp pigeon-pea soup in the front booths, while extended families gab over platters of rotisserie chicken and yellow rice at the tables in back.

Regarding the jibarito: It arrives by its lonesome on a white plate. There are jibaritos in this world piled so high your jaw unhinges to take a bite, and jibaritos so greasy a river runs down your hand, and jibaritos so garlicky you can’t speak to anyone for three days after eating. Cafe Central’s sandwich is none of those things. Compact and subtle in sauces, it’s easy to devour.

Each bite crunches through the plantain and into melted American cheese, two thin slices of steak, and cool tomato and lettuce. The meat is tender and juicy, the ingredients balanced so they don’t slop all over the place. Other cities have discovered the allure, but the jibarito remains best munched here, in a humble hometown restaurante.