Yesterday in Delray, before my appointment with my dermatologist (four stitches above my left eyebrow), Hania and I had lunch at a restaurant on Atlantic Avenue. The menu noted which dishes were gluten-free and Hania, a celiac, ordered the seared tuna with soba noodles. But she asked the server to doublecheck with the chef to make sure the noodles were gluten-free, as manufacturers often add wheat flour to the buckwheat.
The waiter seemed a bit confused. Knowledge about gluten among restaurant workers seems to have declined, perhaps because non-celiacs have decided that the downsides of giving it up - the loss of fresh bread, good bagels, crusty pizza, tasty beer - outnumber the benefits.
A short while later he returned holding a bag of soba noodles and – as if unable to read the ingredients himself – handed it to Hania. She read them and then showed them to me: “Wheat flour, buckwheat flour, water.” She explained to the waiter that wheat – along with rye and barley – is precisely what she’s not allowed to eat. She asked to see the manager.
The manager appeared even more clueless than the waiter. Hania gave him the same explanation she’d given the waiter, and told him he should take the GF off of the seared tuna entrée. Otherwise, she said, some diners might get sick and sue the restaurant. He said he would, but he looked a little dubious. Hania ordered the scallops with quinoa.
When we go back next week to have the stitches removed, we’re going to check and see if the menu’s been changed. My guess is it won’t be.
A recent starred review in Publishers’ Weekly of a work of fiction quoted two lines from the book: The first, a racist comment from a peripheral character and the second, another character’s statement about the prevalence of racial hatred. And I wondered: Do writers win points these days simply by citing the currently approved obsessions? Wouldn’t readers be more impressed by the sharing of some telling observation from the author, a brilliant apercu perhaps, or an unusual or interesting use of language?
Yardbird, specializing in Southern cuisine, was cold, even though we knew to bring sweaters. We were seated in the back, away from all the other diners. Restaurants do this to keep the entire wait staff busy, but I wonder why I am habitually the one sent to Siberia. Do I look too old and unhip?
The lack of neighbors made it even chillier. When my shrimp and grits arrived, the dish was lukewarm. I had a bad feeling when I noticed a thin film had formed atop the sauce. I asked if it could be reheated. The waiter took it back to the kitchen, and then returned saying the chef would make me a new one. When I suggested he just pop it in the microwave, he told me that would ruin the flavors. He brought me two biscuits to munch on while Hania ate her pork tenderloin. I ate one; it was delicious; Hania wrapped the other and put it in her purse.
A piping hot shrimp and grits arrived. The shrimp were good but the ham was tasteless; thin strips I didn’t even recognize as ham at first. The grits were bland, even with the Pabst Blue Ribbon sauce. Perhaps they resented the northern beer.
For dessert, we shared a flourless Key lime pie that could have fed a family of six. As we headed toward the exit, passing tables filled with diners, we felt a considerable rise in temperature.
From there it was a short walk to Lincoln Road and the Colony Theater. The people congregating outside the entrance created a kind of Broadway buzz, though it was muffled by the occasional man in shorts. Dressing for the theater, apparently, is not a Miami thing.
The play was Anna in the Tropics, which both of us found disappointing. We thought of leaving after the first act. I wasn’t impressed by the writing; Hania had problems with the acting. She also chafed at the way they all pronounced Karenina, rhyming it with Karolina. The second act was a bit better, though the ending seemed pat and way too abrupt. But it was pleasant walking to the parking garage down a quiet, café-lighted Lincoln Road.
Sunday morning I reheated my biscuit in the microwave. It didn’t taste as good as it had in the restaurant.
We were in Coral Gables yesterday and so went to lunch at Bulla, our favorite restaurant in the city. It's not just the delicious food - we usually come home with four or five orders of gazpacho - but the friendly atmosphere. Yesterday streams of small Spanish flags hung from the ceilings, and large screen TV occupied the bar. As we were finishing our meal a busboy appeared. "I'm sorry to interrupt," he said, "but can I take some of these plates and give you more space?" A few minutes later he approached the neighboring table, with the same apology.
We had family in town so we took them yesterday evening to Shooters, apparently Ft. Lauderdale's go-to place for Thanksgiving dinner. Toward the end of the meal, someone commented on how tired the staff looked. Much more surprising was how friendly and gracious they were.