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.
When you have trouble swallowing you view food differently. You look at a steaming plate of pasta and don't think "That looks good" but rather "That looks like a lot of work." On the plus side, when it's all gone, instead of regret you feel a sense of accomplishment.