It’s been a worldwide quest: trying to find the cupcakes of my youth.

My search for this Holy Grail (see here, where it first started) has taken me from New York’s Lower East Side to the Upper West Side. From Seattle to Ho Chi Minh City. I always scope out a cupcake store wherever I go.

Like so much else in life, many look luscious, but they betray my tastebuds. Dry to the point of sawdust, with frosting that’s waxy or sickeningly sweet.

I went back to a strong contender the other day, just to make sure it was still The One. It is, because nothing else that I know of comes close.

The winner, which is still anemic next to the original, is … New York’s Magnolia Bakery. (One bang on the drum; it’s not worth a drumroll.)

Calm down. I know it’s a touristy cliche, often with lines around the block because of its role in Sex and The City, Saturday Night Live and The Devil Wears Prada. But the yellow cake with chocolate frosting (my standard) is pretty satisfying.

There are lots of locations, but I like the original on Bleecker Street in the West Village. Nothing like it on a nice summer afternoon, where you can savor your purchase at a nearby park with some of the luckiest pigeons on the planet.

If you know of better, I’d sure like to hear about it! My research is never done.