Category: hometown
I had never spent a lot of time in Coconut Grove. The word was that it had abandoned its bohemian roots and gone upscale. But yesterday I was given a tour by a third-generation Grovite and I got a different perspective. (Jane's grandmother, Helen, was the author of a book about Miami and had been a neighbor and friend of Marjorie Stoneman Douglas.)
We began at the Peacock Garden Cafe for a delicious brunch - two sunny-side-up eggs on flatbread with basil lemonade - and then took a stroll past Peacock Park before stopping at Catch A Wave surf shop. Older than Jane, it was that rare store in Miami that reminds you that you are in a waterfront city.
Up on Main Highway, an odd name for a leafy main street, we visited a few more shops (Florida Running Co.), walked past the entrance to The Barnacle, and headed down to one of Jane's favorite bars, Taurus, which is an old house made of Dade County pine. It was closed, so we backtracked to Commodore Plaza, which is really a street. (Another Grove street with a misleading name.) We took in the bloody-Maryed crowd at Green Street Cafe (at the corner of Main Highway and Commodore Plaza, naturally). At the bottom of the street we entered Lokal, an eco- (and hostess) friendly burger joint that, while new, was perpetuating the old Grove vibe.
At George's another friendly hostess (everybody we met was friendly) flipped a switch at Jane's request and set into motion the disco lights and music that announce any diner's birthday. We entered Mr. Moe's, which looked as if it had been transported from Laramie, Wyoming, but waited till we got to the Cuda (Barracuda Raw Bar & Grill) for a beer, which we drank the hard way, by playing beer pong (on a table with a University of Miami emblem in the middle). The game wasn't around in the Grove's heyday but it seemed very much in the spirit of the place. All the wood in the bar, the manager told us, came from an old shrimp boat called the Cat's Ass.
We walked through the Sandbar - packed with young people watching the Heat - and headed up to the Mayfair Hotel, where we took the elevator to the roof for a view of the Grove, the bay, and downtown Miami. Friday happy hours here go until 10.
Our last stop was at the dog park at the corner of Virginia and Shipping. It was like a punctuation mark to the fact that I had seen Coconut Grove like a local, and I had done it all on foot. In a touristy city built for the automobile, that was a delightful achievement.
Norman Braman was outraged by the building of Marlins Park. I'm outraged that they've made it into an indoor stadium.
This past weekend the Marlins played one night game and two days games. I was tempted to go to the night game, but there were reports of possible showers (imagine that) and I figured they would close the roof. They did.
I've been to the stadium twice, once for an exhibition game in March, once for a regular season game in April. Both times the roof was closed. I knew not to go to the weekend games because I'd heard that the roof will be closed for all day games. Even day games at the beginning of May when there's no threat of rain and the temperatures don't even reach the high 80s.
We have either the most pampered players or the most pampered fans in baseball.
A letter writer in the Miami Herald this morning congratulated Shaquille O'Neal on his recent doctorate, and said that he would love to see other celebrities following Shaq's example. I wonder if Dwyane Wade and LeBron James think that by wearing clunky black glasses they are.
After my talk in Boynton Beach on Monday I headed to City Hall, picked up Hania, and drove to Cuthill's Backyard for lunch.
They were still working on the roof over the craft beer bar. We took a seat at a high wooden table in the garden - it's all a garden - while fans scattered mists.
The fish of the day was mahi mahi; I ordered it in taco form. A few minutes later a plate of three fish tacos appeared in the window of the Airstream kitchen.
The large pieces of fish were bedded in cabbage and drizzled in sauce, but that was about it. This was a fish taco that was all about the fish.
The taco is enjoying its moment right now - in South Florida, at least, it's the new burger (even though the burger is still going strong). And I've had some excellent ones, at Taco Beach Shack in Hollywood, the new Casa Frida in Oakland Park, Taqueria Dona Raquel in Pompano Beach, the Miami Mex stand at Marlins Park. For simplicity, freshness, and taste, you can add Cuthill's fish tacos to the list.
I was late here yesterday because I spent the morning up in Boynton Beach speaking to the local Hadassah group at the Aberdeen Golf and Country Club. I used to do quite a bit of public speaking - when I was at the newspaper - and I'd forgotten how much fun it is.
It's even more pleasurable now, as it gets me out of the house (the house being more boring than the newsroom ever was). I love talking about travel and - like most people - myself. I spoke about themed travel, and told of my trip to Sicily to write about the anti-Mafia organization Addiopizzo.
But I also enjoy hearing bits of life histories from audience members. One woman asked if I had ever been to Budapest, her hometown. Afterwards, a woman came up and told me that she had been born in Berlin, and that a number of years ago the city had invited her back to visit. One woman told of traveling around the world with her son, the highlight of which had been Japan, because her son had lived there with a family. His Japanese mother dressed his biological mother in a kimono.
On my way out I talked to a woman who said she wasn't traveling these days. Her husband just died three months ago, she said. She herself had survived three types of cancer: breast, ovarian and colon. I would never have known; she looked wonderful, her short gray hair in a stylish cut. I felt honored that she had come to hear me.
After the Marlins' sweep of the Giants in San Francisco, I suspect that the roof of the new stadium will be closed for good and the thermostat set permanently at 55 degrees.
The first prediction is not far off. I went down to Marlins Park last Friday, knowing that I had to go in spring to have any hope of watching a game outdoors. Walking toward the stadium I saw with dismay that the roof was closed. (The skies were overcast, and there were reports of showers later.)
Inside, the place looked livelier, more finished, than it had for the exhibition game in March. The bar above centerfield was open for business, under a big bright Budweiser sign. Normally I hate advertising, but I had to admit the red neon looked good above the lime green wall.
The Bobblehead Museum was now furnished with the little statuettes, their heads bobbing (apparently air is circulated to keep them moving). The collection covers both leagues throughout the decades, and includes mascots and famous announcers. People peering into it can't help but smile. It's a whimsical reminder of the humor in baseball, which usually takes place in the dugout or clubhouse, invisible to fans.
I walked around admiring the art work; there was not a piece I didn't like, including the Home Run Sculpture by Red Grooms. This time I found The Taste of Miami, set off from the concourse, and with outdoor walkways looking over Little Havana. The ceviche looked good - better than the piles of processed ham waiting to go into Cuban sandwiches - though it was served in a styrofoam cup. I headed over to Miami Mex (Kosher Korner was still closed) and got the steak tacos which were as good as I remembered them (actually worth the $12). The pickled onion gives them a unique flavor, and helps counteract the mildly fiery sauce.
I made my way up to Section 302 - I had asked for the cheapest ticket, which was $2 less than my tacos - just to see what the view was like. It wasn't bad, but I didn't find my seat; I headed down to the Budweiser bar, bought a beer, found a place at the wall (it wasn't easy; the area is a popular hangout spot), and watched the game from deep left-centerfield. Kids screamed "LOGAN!" and Morrison turned and gave them a quick, waist-high wave.
After a few innings I got tired of standing and walked toward the third base side. Coming down the aisle, I continued until I was far enough away from the blasts from the massive air conditioning units.
I found an empty seat with no problem. I tried to keep my eyes on the field - the grass looked rather anemic - and imagine that the roof was open. I hate watching sports indoors, especially baseball, the languorous game of summer. But it was hard to pretend because of the noise. A roof, of course, traps sound; at one point I thought that the experience of sitting at a Marlins game replicated my least favorite aspects of eating out in Miami: It was cold and it was loud.
In the latter innings, a characteristic, repetitive, South Beach bounding seemed to be emanating from the Clevelander in leftfield. How could this be, I wondered. Between innings perhaps - but during the game?
When the game was over I headed to Calle Ocho, for Cultural Friday, and watched the dancers on the sidewalk outside El Pub. It was heavenly to be outside.