When the Young family showed up at the foot of Mount Megunticook in 1777, the plantation around them was called Canaan, after the biblical Promised Land, the land of milk and honey. By the time the Youngs built their sprawling farmhouse, around 1810, the town around them had incorporated as Lincolnville, and in the generations that followed, the Young farmstead became a land of milk and eggs: a dairy, at first, then a laying farm. 

Today, it’s a land of milk and wine — or it can be, if you order chef Michael Nowak’s superb Bolognese at Aster & Rose, the unpretentious contemporary-European restaurant he and his wife, Karrie, opened in 2022 in what is today the Youngtown Inn. Chef Nowak’s Bolognese is a fragrant marriage of slow-braised pork, beef, and lamb, a protein triple-threat served over the fettuccine noodles he makes in-house almost daily. It’s a luscious standard on a fairly protein-heavy menu that otherwise changes frequently with what’s in season, and it’s of a lineage with his output at the meat-centric Black Pig, a much-praised, French-influenced farm-to-table joint the Nowaks owned outside Cleveland before relocating to Maine, in 2021.

“We’d vacationed here a lot and just felt like this was our place,” explained Karrie, a native New Hampshirite with Maine family roots, when I stopped in recently. “In 2019, we were staying in Stockton Springs, and I saw a listing for this cute inn in Lincolnville: land, a restaurant, and six guest rooms.” Two of those things they wanted; running an inn wasn’t part of their vision. But the next year, COVID shut down the Black Pig, and Karrie’s corporate job was restructured. The couple thought, hey, we can be innkeepers if it facilitates the Maine dream.

The Nowaks, who now live next door with their three kids, aren’t the first to look at the Young family spread and see the Promised Land. The white-clapboard farmhouse became an inn back in the ’80s, after the collapse of the midcoast poultry industry. Before the Nowaks, it was run for 30 years by Maryann and Manuel Mercier, who raised their own three kids at Youngtown Corner and cultivated a loyal clientele. The Merciers’ dining room was elegant, a white-tablecloth affair, with Manuel, classically trained in his native France, known for his delicate sauces and lobster ravioli.  

The Nowaks’ approach at Aster & Rose is more relaxed. On one recent visit, I sat solo in the snug bar, wearing Chacos and a hoodie, attacking a plate of fettuccine Bolognese and draining an Oxbow pilsner while admiring the patterned wallpaper, which shows Benjamin Franklin blowing a big, pink chewing-gum bubble. It’s the most whimsical of the contemporary touches the Nowaks have put on the place, which include new furniture and fixtures throughout. “We did that for a reason,” Michael says. “To say, this is not a serious room — hop in here anytime for a snack and a cocktail.”

The adjacent dining room is a smidge more serious but still far from stuffy. Gone are the white tablecloths. The vibe is, well, country farmhouse, with wide-plank floors, exposed wood beams, gauzy drapes, and just a few bright landscape paintings. When my wife and I came in for a date night, our fellow diners were mostly in street clothes, with a few boomers in blazers and pearls. The menu was simple, six entrées, each described in fewer than a dozen words, half protein (including a fish dish — scallops on my visit) and half pasta (Chef Nowak, though trained in French technique, cut his teeth at an Italian restaurant).

We started with a salad of local greens and lion’s mane and oyster mushrooms, grown at Troy’s Moorit Hill Farm, tossed lightly in a tahini dressing and made decadent with a beautiful poached egg on top. We foolishly skipped the chicken-liver toast I now know to be the one anchor item on an otherwise rotating starter menu. It’s a favorite seasonal canvas of Chef Nowak’s, dressed with pickled shallots, spicy honey, and pistachio on my first visit, then pickled strawberries when I came back a few weeks later. Our entrées, both off the menu’s non-pasta side, were rich and robust: The bistro steak, on a bed of broccolini and nutty onion farro, was as tender as could be. A perfectly seared duck breast got a bit of sweetness from a citrus demi-glace and a veggie-and-apple hash (midcoast purveyors, like Morrill’s Calyx Farm and Hope’s Three Bug Farm, supply the kitchen with produce).

Dessert was a slab of spiced-pineapple and toasted-coconut cheesecake and a raspberry-chocolate custard, with a healthy dollop of mascarpone mousse, both served on colorful, irregularly shaped ceramic plates. From start to finish, the experience hit a sweet spot between classic and rustic. Which is by design, the Nowaks say — the Ben Franklin wallpaper notwithstanding.

“My style of cooking is kind of more-than-meets-the-eye, with a lot of little prep steps and nuances you don’t necessarily read on the menu,” Michael says. “But we don’t want to get too modern or too wild with anything. We’re aiming for approachable food that, you know, fits a 210-year-old colonial farmhouse in the Camden Hills.

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When the Maine Organic Farmers and Gardeners Association planted its first trees in the Maine Heritage Orchard, in 2014, they were all apples — nary a pear to be found. But pears were once common on Maine homesteads. By the 1800s, probably a couple of dozen varieties had arrived from Europe, just like apples. So, a year into their project, the Heritage Orchard’s managers started grafting twigs, from the USDA National Clonal Germplasm Repository, of pear trees traditionally grown in Maine. Between the orchard and MOFGA’s neighboring fairgrounds, in Unity, 16 varieties have taken root, and staff finally got to bite into some of the fruit last fall. Like apples, pears can be eaten fresh, used in cooking, or pressed and fermented. Orchard assistant Lauren Cormier thinks of a great pear as “the ultimate dessert,” with an almost buttery texture and a bright sweetness. But apples fare better in northern climes, and, over time, heirloom pears petered out. Now, they’re Cormier’s white whale — she scours the state for unidentified heirlooms that might have survived the centuries. “We have yet to actually find some,” she says, “but it’s possible those trees still exist.” 

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With a smooth coating of brown-sugar buttercream as a backdrop, plump dots of apple butter nestle in fat squiggles of frosting, while purple aster blossoms, spiky Japanese-maple leaves, and yellow cosmos petals evoke the fall landscape. Or maybe purple kale, chrysanthemums, and goldenrod flowers, on hazelnut-praline frosting, mimic the coral and seaweed of the underwater world. Victoria Nam-Sonenstein’s cakes always seem to conjure a time and place while also looking out-of-this-world gorgeous.

Nam-Sonenstein works out of her Cumberland home, operating under the name Siblings Bakery. She launched the business almost accidentally, in late 2020. Stuck at home and out of work amid the pandemic, she began baking bread and frying doughnuts for her friends and neighbors. Then, she started selling sufganiyot, the jelly-filled Hanukkah treats, over the holidays. Baking was nothing new — she had worked as a pastry chef across the country, as well as in Japan, France, and Italy, until burning out on the stresses of big kitchens. But with her passion suddenly rekindled at home, she arrived at her new bread and butter: cakes that are veritable works of art.

Inspiration, Nam-Sonenstein says, comes from being a “chaos junkie.” She almost never repeats the same combination of cake, frosting, and décor. She also employs unusual ingredients — coriander, bayberry, spruce tips — and follows the maxim “what grows together goes together.” The flowers adorning her cakes come from her garden, produce comes from local farmers’ markets, and apples and pears come from her in-laws’ trees. She thinks of the resulting cakes as celebrations of seasonality, much like the fancily plated desserts she once made at restaurants. What changed, though, was her medium and the freedom to follow her own ideas.

Slicing that first piece feels a bit like taking a hammer to a Rodin. But the cakes are as delicious as they are attractive — maybe a moist sponge or a fluffy chiffon, layered with fillings like rhubarb-rose preserves, sour-cherry jam, or caramelized-pear compote. After the first bite, subsequent slicing becomes much easier to stomach. 

Nam-Sonenstein takes custom orders online and supplies cakes to Smalls, a coffee and cocktail bar in Portland.

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For the squeamish or the vegetarian, digging into a charcuterie board while watching a sow and her piglets snuffling around in the shade of some trees might seem macabre. Philosophical meat eaters, on the other hand, might interpret the milieu as an antidote to the dissociative effects of industrial agriculture — knowing where food comes from is good, and sitting where it comes from is even better. And for people who are neither squeamish nor vegetarian nor particularly philosophical about what they ingest, those meats at the Rooting Pig, on Broad Arrow Farm, simply make for a delicious meal.

Owners Maggy and Dan Sullivan opened the restaurant last year, on the farm they’ve operated since 2017. The charcuterie boards consist of a dealer’s-choice selection of cured meats, plus local cheeses, olives, mustard, and other accouterments. On a recent visit, a Tuscan-style salami washed in sparkling red wine and a noix de jambon were in the rotation (the latter comes from the muscles of the hind leg and fits the profile of a meltingly tender prosciutto). The day was warm, and families were scattered around picnic tables and cornhole boards and lined up at the wooden bar to place their food and drink orders. All of the food prep happens behind the bar too, which is an impressive feat, considering the scope of the menu and the tiny space, equipped with a hot plate, a fryer, an air fryer, and not much else.

One menu highlight is the ’nduja, an Italian-style pork spread made with Calabrian chiles. The Rooting Pig’s ’nduja has a nearly creamy texture that the heat of the chiles nicely counterbalances, and warm bread from Damariscotta’s Head Tide Oven provides an excellent substrate for schmearing. The farm is also a whole-animal butchering operation, so chef and head butcher Jeremy Hardcastle constantly looks for ways to incorporate parts of the pig that don’t have the retail demand of, say, the ever-popular loin or shoulder. Hence pig wings, something Hardcastle ginned up by deboning spare ribs in such a way as to roughly resemble chicken wings, then slow-cooking in lard, deep-frying, and tossing in buffalo sauce. Sandwiches are also fixtures of the menu, and the Rooting Pig makes its own deli meats — from “pigstrami” to bologna.

Top left: Farm founders Dan and Maggy Sullivan, co-owner Anna Hymanson, and chef and head butcher Jeremy Hardcastle.

Not everything on the menu, though, is quite so meaty. Dishes that rely on produce from nearby farms change with the seasons: zucchini and summer squash, on a silky bed of hummus, tossed with parsley, crumbly queso fresco, and some bits of crispy pork-jowl bacon, or a balsamic-dressed salad of fresh greens, shaved radishes, strawberries, and thin strips of pancetta, with whipped, lemon-zested goat cheese. It would be a challenge to go home hungry.

But pastoral views unfurl from where the bar and picnic tables sit atop a rise by the barn, which makes for an awfully nice spot to linger, maybe with another drink after a meal — Anna Hymanson (who’s also a co-owner and butcher) puts together a well-rounded list of Maine beers and international wines, as well as cider from Winthrop’s Absolem Cider Company. Ordering dessert is a good idea too. The big chocolate-chip cookie, crispy on the outside, remains slightly, wonderfully gooey in the middle. And, of course, it’s laced with candied bacon.

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In 2000, Aroma Joe’s opened its first shop (on the wrong side of the New Hampshire state line, but they can be forgiven for that). Now, the Portland-based coffee company serves its Topsham-roasted beans at locations in eight states. Over the years, Aroma Joe’s has more or less stuck to its original formula: almost all its shops are drive-throughs, and customers order from a barista at a window, not through an intercom — sort of a middle ground between, say, driving through a Dunkin’ and walking into a Starbucks. Earlier this year, Aroma Joe’s opened its 100th outpost (and a few more have joined the roster since). It’s just the 13th coffee-centric concern in the country to pass that mark, according to an industry group. What better way to savor the milestone than by counting some beans.  

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Lunches that are simultaneously hearty, tasty, and quick sometimes seem in short supply around Acadia National Park — especially when lobster rolls and fried clams sound a little too soporific between hikes, paddles, or bike rides. A few years ago, though, after Coda, the Southwest Harbor restaurant where she waited tables, went out of business, RaeChelle Sexton began making large flour tortillas at home and stuffing them full of meats she smoked and salsas she made from scratch.

At first, her target audience was fishermen, who she rightly figured would be keen on fortifying, portable meals. Then, chef Carter Light, her former employer, encouraged her to sell burritos from a window at the old Coda building, where he had started a sausage-making company. Sexton dubbed her new endeavor Bub’s Burritos and, this spring, moved to a space across the street, with indoor and outdoor seating and a menu that’s lately grown to include tacos and empanadas. Now, her husband, Serkan, runs the front of house, Light supplies chorizo, and guests refuel for afternoons exploring around the park. 

19 Clark Point Rd., Southwest Harbor. 207-244-8300.

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Mojitos aren’t too terribly hard to throw together — a simple marriage of rum, soda water, sugar, lime, and mint that’s in nearly every bartender’s repertoire. Three of Strong Spirits, a Portland distillery, makes a good one. Notably, though, it comes already concocted, in four-packs of 12-ounce cans. “No mixologist required,” the label says.

Three of Strong is a rum-only operation, so it stands to reason the distillers would figure out how to package a tasty mojito (as well as a dark ‘n’ stormy). Sure, compared to the citric bite of freshly squeezed lime and the herbaceous punch of just-muddled mint leaves in a mojito straight from a capable barkeep’s hands, there’s a certain subduedness to the canned version. Still, lime and mint hit pleasantly enough on the palate, and as any mojito should be, it’s plenty refreshing with the sun beating down on a hot summer day.

Lately, canned cocktails have been on the upswing seemingly everywhere. Heavy hitters, from Molson Coors to Dogfish Head to Jack Daniel’s, are crowding beer aisles with their pre-mixed drinks, and, in addition to Three of Strong, a couple of other Maine outfits have gotten in on the act.

The deepest in-state lineup of canned cocktails comes from Portland’s Maine Craft Distilling. A few of its offerings: vodka with cranberry juice and lime, rum with house-made ginger beer, and wild-blueberry liquor with lemonade and maple syrup. The latter skews pretty sweet (a tarter lemonade would help), but the other two are well-balanced drinks. And Maine Craft hits some interesting notes in other pre-mixed options, with ingredients like seaweed and rhubarb.

The newest Maine entrant into canned cocktails is Mast Landing Brewing Co., which has taprooms in Freeport, South Portland, and Westbrook. It does a lemon-lime vodka soda and a tangerine-elderflower gin soda, both of which clock in around 5 percent alcohol by volume, low even for highball-style drinks. They are, consequently, light and fizzy and agreeable — similar, in effect, to hard seltzers.

All things considered, canned cocktails’ greatest virtue is probably their convenience. They’ll come in handy at, say, a BYOB lobster shack, on a boat, or around a campfire — quite a bit easier to pack a few cans than a bar’s worth of supplies. So it’s certainly not a bad thing that mixologists aren’t required, at least when they’re nowhere nearby.

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Say it’s the summer of 1938, you have a shiny new Buick Roadmaster convertible, with its narrow nose, high chrome grill, and arching fenders, and heck, you want to show it off. You pop the top and parade up Route 1 on a blue-sky day, and as you pass through Bucksport you’re suddenly struck with a hankering for a hamburger. Lucky for you, this golden age of the automobile has ushered in a new kind of roadside restaurant where you can pull right up and eat in the car, so you cruise into the parking lot of one such place that just opened, Crosby’s Drive-In.

Fast-forward to today, and a handful of 20th-century drive-ins are going strong around Maine. Some, like Val’s (925 Sabattus St., Lewiston; 207-784-5592), Fast Eddie’s (1308 Rte. 202, Winthrop; 207-377-5550), and Fat Boy (111 Bath Rd., Brunswick; 207-406-2113), still offer carhop service. At others, including Belanger’s (84 Main St., Fairfield; 207-453-2447) and Crosby’s (30 Rte. 46, Bucksport; 207-469-3640), you order at a counter. For all, the basic premise is the same: griddled and fried comfort foods, plus a heap of nostalgia.

From left to right: Courtesy of Fat Boy; Courtesy of Crosby’s

Crosby’s is the oldest of the bunch. Across its front, neon lettering, on either side of a bygone Pepsi-Cola logo, spells out LOBSTER ROLLS, HOT DOGS, HAMBURGERS, and FRIED CLAMS. The place has only had four owners in its 85 years, and none have been inclined to shake things up. Current owner Mike Valenoti mixes in some new specials — arancini, Mexican-style street corn, pesto chicken sandwiches — but wants the restaurant to stay true to its roots. “The charm of this place is that it is a bit old-fashioned,” he says. 

Valenoti has been working at Crosby’s off and on since 1994 and has fond memories of high-school and college summers at the drive-in. He became a manager in 2012 and bought the restaurant in 2020. “It’s an institution,” he says. “We have kids working here whose grandparents worked here.”

Some picnic tables are under a pavilion on the edge of the parking lot, and families often spread out over there with their burgers, fries, and milkshakes. But for the full experience at a place like Crosby’s, the best thing to do is roll down the windows, turn the radio dial to some oldies, and risk getting a few ketchup stains on your car’s upholstery. 

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The Il Leone kitchen consists of a trailer, which serves as pantry, refrigerator, and prep station, and a wood-fired oven, which has two wheels and a tow hitch. They’re parked next to each other on the periphery of Peaks Island’s small downtown, in a shaded grove with 10 picnic tables beneath bistro lights strung from branches. That’s pretty much all there is to it — either a food truck without a truck or a restaurant without walls. And whether in spite of or precisely because of that operational minimalism, Il Leone is maximally good.

The sense of simplicity extends to the menu: pizzas that reflect a reverence for both Neapolitan tradition and the Maine farm-to-table ethos. Owner Ben Wexler-Waite’s naturally leavened dough, after just one minute in the 850-degree oven, comes out airy but chewy, bespeckled with char, and possessed of subtle sourdough tang. He makes tomato sauce with San Marzano tomatoes, imported from Italy. His cheeses come from specialty producers, foreign and domestic. And he gets most of the toppings — eggplant, basil, garlic scapes, lobster, zucchini — from around Maine.

Il Leone operates from May to October, and on a visit earlier this year, asparagus was in season. Wexler-Waite had sliced the stalks longways, into thin strips, and laid them among dollops of mozzarella. The crunch and the bittersweet grassiness of asparagus was a gentle counterpoint to the silky, creamy cheese. A halved lemon came with the pizza, for squeezing over top, adding some brightness that balanced the earthy and salty hit of freshly grated pecorino Romano.

Each element was a clear expression of itself, but everything worked together — a distinctly Italian culinary sensibility. No surprise, then, to later learn that Wexler-Waite, who moved to Peaks in 2019 and opened Il Leone two years after that, has spent a good deal of time in Italy. The flavors on the asparagus pizza, for instance, were inspired by a pasta dish he tried in Siena. Il Leone also offers salads (arugula dressed with lemon and olive oil and sprinkled with Parmigiano-Reggiano and black pepper) and antipasto platters (vegetables, cured meats, cheese, freshly baked flatbread). In all instances, Wexler-Waite seems to abide by Italian cookery’s central tenet, something like: find the best ingredients, and don’t ruin them by getting too fancy.

Il Leone has another thing going for it, which is that a visit feels like a proper escape. Sure, Peaks is part of Portland and catching the ferry is about as involved as hopping a bus from one end of Congress Street to the other. But one moment you’re weaving through summer crowds in the Old Port, and the next you’re gliding through the harbor on the 15-minute ride to the island. After that, it’s a short stroll to the stand of trees glowing with bistro lights and scented by the wood oven. And while the ferry will get you across Casco Bay, the restaurant (or food truck or whatever it is) very nearly transports you across the Atlantic. No wonder pizza boxes have become such a ubiquitous sight on the return trip from Peaks.

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At 4 a.m. in Monson, when the main street is quiet, Marilou Ranta arrives at The Quarry, wearing her white chef’s coat and a “Queen B” embroidered trucker hat. In the kitchen, singing along to disco songs, Ranta (or “Lulu,” as everyone knows her) preps for a menu that might feature baked pork belly with pickled apples and char-siu sauce, Cornish game hen with adobo sauce, or seared scallops bathed in a strawberry jus. In a small town at the edge of the north woods, with a population of just 600, that type of cooking stands out. But what really stood out to James Beard Foundation judges, bestowers of national culinary prestige, was Ranta’s impeccably warm, welcoming service, which won her this year’s Outstanding Hospitality prize, given for serving “as a beacon for the community” and demonstrating “consistent excellence in food, atmosphere, hospitality, and operations.”

Ranta’s initial reaction to even being nominated was disbelief. She grew up in the Philippines, fishing and foraging for every meal — what she calls “farm-to-table to survive.” When she was 21, she moved to the U.S., and she didn’t enroll in the culinary program at Eastern Maine Community College, in Bangor, until 2015, when she was 47. Five years ago, the nonprofit Monson Arts hired Ranta to cook for its rotating troupe of artists in residence. She accepted the position on the condition that she could also use the kitchen to run a restaurant (and, last year, she bought the building). Now, stop in for a meal and chances are that Ranta will dance over to ask, “What do you think?”

How did you wind up in Monson?

My husband grew up here. He was stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and that’s where we met. He brought me here one Christmas when we were dating. And I’m like, “Oh my god!” And he goes, “I know, it snowed a lot. It’s really rough in the winter.” And I’m like, “No, you don’t understand. You live in a winter wonderland!” The trees were full and bending. I see all the Christmas lights. I said, “This is the Thomas Kincaid postcard!” So he proposed, and we moved in ’97. My kids are the fifth generation to live in the house his great-grandfather built. That’s why we named my restaurant The Quarry, because his great-grandfather came from Finland to work at the quarry.

What did it feel like to be shortlisted?

Scary, because I’ve never talked about James Beard. To me, that’s for elite chefs. I work hard for my artists and for my guests. That’s what I strive for. But James Beard, now you have the accolades, now comes all the expectations. And I can’t even call myself a chef. My husband and kids say, “Mom, you’re a chef.” I say, “No, I’m not a chef. I’m a cook.” Chef, for me, it’s too formal. I’m not formal. But I mean, James Beard is a huge honor. That’s beyond my wildest dream. 

Where did you get your knack for hospitality?

It’s our culture in the Philippines. You go to visit someone’s house, they’ll give you their last chicken. And you eat first. Ask any Filipino, that’s part of our culture. My culinary professor said, “Lulu, if you open your restaurant, no matter where, people will come because they want to come and see you.” And it’s true. How lucky can I get? A lot of people doubted me when I said I’m going to have fine dining in Monson. They said, “Who’s gonna afford that?” But we’ve been here five years. I still pinch myself. Sometimes, I go across the street and look at the building. This girl from the Philippines, in the barrio, owns that big building. It’s my restaurant. Is that really for me? Or, I’m just dreaming?

You always seem to find time to visit the dining room, even when the kitchen’s really busy.

I want to see who’s enjoying my food. I want to hear: is the food good enough? Have that one-on-one conversation. When you go to a restaurant, sometimes you don’t see who makes your food, and I never want that. And, of course, getting new friends every night. To me, it’s an extension of our home. People come here, and they can dress down, they can dress up. You know, I had some people come here, they said they saved money just to come because they want to see how it feels. That to me is like, oh my god. So I said, “Welcome to The Quarry. Dinner’s on us.” They believe in me. They want to come and see me. Those are my James Beards. 

15 Tenney Ln. 207-997-3486.

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Growing up, I was obsessed with the mob movie Goodfellas, and bringing high-school dates to Maria’s Ristorante, in Portland, in the late ’90s, was the closest I ever got to channeling my inner mafioso. Maria’s was cavernous and dark in its former Cumberland Avenue location, bedecked with chandeliers and busts of Roman emperors. The waiters wore black ties, and Italian opera music played in the background. To impress my dates (and, I suppose, myself), I’d wear a white-on-white shirt and tie under a pinstripe suit, with Dunhill cigarettes in the breast pocket. I always felt right in my element at Maria’s. 

Though the restaurant, which opened in 1960, has a decidedly more casual feel in its new home (1335 Congress St.; 207-772-9232), it retains much of its former charm, and it still dishes up all of the Italian-American red-sauce classics it’s always been known for. The veritable barge of veal parmesan, the spicy zuppa di pesce, and the creamy lobster ravioli are all as delicious as ever. On occasion, they still serve one of the best iterations of tripe Florentine that you’ll find anywhere.

Scenes from Maria’s Ristorante, where the team includes, from left to right, kitchen manager Joe Fagone, server Kitt Tranny, owner Tony Napolitano, and general manager Tiffany Randall.

Brothers Anthony and Greg Napolitano took over the business from their parents, continuing the family tradition for decades. Greg passed away last year, at 54, but Anthony continues to oversee the kitchen. Meanwhile, the list of old-school red-sauce restaurants that have left the scene around him only ever grows: the Village Café, Sportsman’s Grill, and Espo’s, to name a few. In recent years, as Portland’s dining reputation has taken off, many new Italian restaurants have opened, but they’re primarily interested in upscale Old World cooking, not the red-sauce traditions that evolved on this side of the Atlantic. That’s not a knock on the newer places, but sometimes the soul yearns for a proper bowl of spaghetti fra diavolo. 

Fortunately for me, in addition to Maria’s, a handful of other stalwarts are scattered across Maine. Portland has another longtime favorite of mine, Bruno’s Restaurant & Tavern (33 Allen Ave.; 207-878-9511). Tesoro, in the heart of downtown Bangor, changed hands a few years ago but continues to serve up belly-filling piles of noodles (118 Harlow St.; 207-922-2761). DaVinci’s Eatery, in Lewiston, makes a highly recommendable, Italian-sausage-laced house specialty called dirty peas and pasta (150 Mill St.; 207-782-2088). In Windham, Rose’s Italian makes a mean chicken piccata (690 Roosevelt Tr.; 207-892-0010). And meals at Brunswick’s Great Impasta have come with the same complementary garlicky bread knots for nearly 40 years (42 Maine St.; 207-729-5858). As far back as I can remember, these are the sorts of places that always make me happiest. 

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The place doesn’t have to be filled with formica and chrome, but it sure doesn’t hurt. It definitely ought to have regulars who hold down the same stools week after week. Then menu can be budget-friendly and crowd-pleasing, but we’re not opposed to diners that have skewed a little frilly. Maine’s small towns and tourism culture make the state a cradle for the quintessentially American diner. Here are five spots where we’re always eager to slide into a booth.

Brunswick Diner

The bright-red rail-car–style diner has been in the same spot in Brunswick for 77 years, but its history starts 40 miles away, in Norway, where it was built by a local carpenter. Inside, retro vibes still prevail — play some Jerry Lee Lewis or Chuck Berry on the jukebox to go with buttermilk biscuits doused in sausage gravy. 101 Pleasant St., Brunswick. 207-721-1134.

Palace Diner

Around since 1927, the Palace has tracked with the evolution of its hometown of Biddeford. Once a place for a quick, fortifying meal between shifts at the mills, the Palace is now the kind of place where the pair of chef-owners get nominated for James Beard Awards for their refined riffs on everything from pancakes to tuna-salad sandwiches. 18 Franklin St., Biddeford. 207-284-0015.

Scenes from the Brunswick Diner, est. 1946 and still packing them in — not least for decadent breakfasts.

WaCo Diner

The fact that Eastport’s WaCo Diner is the oldest in Maine is made all the more incredible by how it weathered the economic headwinds that have buffeted the little city way down east. Eastport isn’t the bustling cannery town it once was, but the WaCo is every bit the vital local gathering place it’s been for 99 years. 47 Water St., Eastport. 207-853-9226.

A1 Diner

A chrome-y 1946 Worcester dining car, it sure looks the part of a classic, but the menu nowadays leans into creative, international-inflected street foods: carnitas tacos, falafel sandwiches, kimchi-topped burgers. Proof that things can change and stay the same. 3 Bridge St., Gardiner. 207-582-4804. 

Among the draws at the Brunswick Diner: bottomless coffee and perfectly golden home fries, seasoned with secret-recipe “diner dust.”

Becky’s Diner

A relative spring chicken, Becky’s has only been around since 1991. But its perch on both the working waterfront and the periphery of the Old Port quickly made it a favorite of everyone from fishermen in need of a quick 5 a.m. breakfast to visitors who saw the place on Guy Fieri’s show and want to take their time tucking into a triple stack of blueberry pancakes. 390 Commercial St., Portland. 207-773-7070.

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