I make a lot of restaurant recommendations. My friends and colleagues know I’m not a restaurant reviewer. They recognize that I’m more of a cultural critic, an eater trying to glean some truth from my time at table. Yet, they know I get around. And they know I’m always hungry. So they ask. And I offer.

Headed to Chicago? Get the chorizo-stuffed dates at Avec. Don’t leave San Francisco without a morning platter of littlenecks from Swan Oyster Depot. In New York, try Dumpling House on Eldridge, not for a dumpling but for a sesame pancake brisket sandwich.

Come lunchtime in New Orleans, get fried chicken and butterbeans from Willie Mae’s Scotch House. Need a breakfast fix in Seattle? Top Pot Doughnuts, especially the Pink Feather Boa, a strawberry-glazed round, petalled with shaved coconut.

I enjoy my role as a font of feeds. Even as I recognize that my petitioners might be better served by checking the Web sites of the daily and weekly newspapers in the city of their choice. Or a site like chow.com. Or seriouseats.com. Or the new and improved gourmet.com (where I hold forth once weekly in a forum the editors have asked me to call anything I like, just so long as I don’t call it a blog).

Problem is, I rarely get good feedback on my touts. Sure, I’ll get the occasional email, detailing the greasy glories of a favorite chili-dog joint. More often, I hear about it when a place I endorsed falls short. To wit: You really need to get out more. Those short ribs weren’t even short; they were long and tough and, hate to say it, terrible, but thanks anyway.

Earlier this year, two friends dialed and asked me for Phoenix tips. I couldn’t deny them, having traveled there twice this winter and having returned really jazzed about food out that way. So I offered up four worthy places. Unimpeachable places. They took my word on one of them, which I’ll take as a compliment.

My friends flew into Sky Harbor on a Friday afternoon. Late that night my cell phone started buzzing. It rang every ten minutes, or so it seemed. I ignored it. The next morning, I awoke to the messages.

Giddy is the word I would use. My friends were positively giddy. OK, so maybe they’d had a few drinks, but I heard sincerity in their voices. They weren’t the first to proclaim Chris Bianco, proprietor and lead pizzaiolo, a genius, but they were quick and enthusiastic converts to his place of business, Pizzeria Bianco, and to his way with a wood fire, a brick oven, and a slab of dough.

I was unable to discern which pizza sent them over the edge, which fire-blistered pie, as served up in a storefront Phoenix restaurant set in something akin to a living history village, rendered them blathering converts in the church of Bianco. Based on my experience it was likely the Rosa. That’s the one that sent me. For the record, a Rosa is red onion, Parmigiano-Reggiano, rosemary, and Arizona-grown pistachios, all scattered on a pliant crust that is almost crisp, almost chewy — and altogether delicious.

Having said that, a good eater should not overlook the Biancoverde, topped with, among other lovely things, a peppery green swath of arugula. Nor should they fail to take advantage of an audience with Bianco.

That’s him, the stocky fellow with the beaming smile, dressed in a white T-shirt, standing alongside the pizza oven, working a paddle in and out of the fiery maw. When you cross the threshold of his 30-odd-seat restaurant, he’ll likely wave his hand in your direction and thank you for waiting. And, if you are able to distract him from his task for even a moment, he’ll receive your compliments with aplomb and humility.

If, like Ed Levine, author of Pizza: A Slice of Heaven, you lay laurels at Bianco’s feet, declaring his handiwork to be the “finest pizza in America (and the world for that matter),” Bianco will steer you toward a conversation that is more cerebral, more philosophical. He will say things like, “This is more of a sociological study than a restaurant.” And, “Pizza doesn’t matter. It’s the process, the ideal.”

Based upon my experience, Bianco said such as that to my friends. But they couldn’t listen with their mouths full. Chances are they were howling with delight; chances are they never heard a word.