Hail, Boston, our city of neighborhoods. From the east, the aroma of tortillas on the griddle, char-bottomed pizza pies, and airplane fumes mingled with paper-cup coffee. By the water, lobster wholesalers, urban fish shacks, and metal shipping containers in Cezanne hues, dispersing into North End brick, garlic sizzling in olive oil, and sauces cooked for hours. Live shrimp and pea shoots and pork potstickers in Chinatown, ginger and scallions and white rice plain and perfect. On to lobster Savannah. Oysters and chowder. Fenway franks. The South End, roast chicken, sticky buns, steak frites, rinse, repeat. And into the boroughs: Irish bars, burritos, Burmese soups, soul food, sushi seven ways (or more). For every quirky little neighborhood, dozens of quirky little restaurants and dishes, and the people who love them. It is as good a reason as any to live here. Better than most.