We had dinner in Miami last night at 5:45 – which I wasn’t sure was legal, but it was the only time we could get a reservation at Sunny’s Steakhouse. We’d been wanting to go there for over a year, not just because it perennially lands on lists of “best steakhouses” and “best restaurants” but because one of the men who founded it was childhood friends with the son of our good friends in Ohio. And it was Hania’s birthday (a few weeks ago).
The restaurant was beautiful, made even more so perhaps by its location on a quiet street in an up-and-coming arts district (read: gritty warehouse district). We were led through the attractive, ficus-shaded terrace, past a picture-perfect bar (already filling with people), into a dining room that could have been in Palm Beach: dim lights, white tablecloths, small lamps on every table. There was only one off note. The music was not only loud – for some reason, I thought that early dining might save us from Miami restaurant decibels – but pumped up, completely at odds with the elegant decor. I felt as if I were in a cross-fit studio.
When I asked about it, one of the servers said that it’s a playlist of the staff’s recommendations, so it changes over the course of the night. And it did, sometimes turning almost bearable (mainly the instrumental pieces). But it was still a shock, and detracted from the otherwise excellent meal. I wanted to go around the room – which was now packed – and ask everyone if they were enjoying the music, the way the manager asked them if they were enjoying their food. I suspect the answer would have been ‘no.’ But I guess the staff was happy.
