The other day my friend Susan dropped off some mangoes from the two trees in her yard, and I was reminded of how, up north in the summer, people would give you their surplus zucchinis. 'Foist off on you' might be a better way to put it. One slow news week Russell Baker wrote a hilarious column for the New York Times about how every summer he'd get bombarded by friends bearing zucchinis, a vegetable that he - and quite a few other people apparently - didn't have much use for. You had an image of people receiving zucchinis and then passing them on like fruitcakes.
In South Florida friends give us mangoes, and nobody writes humorous columns about it. We accept them gratefully and eat them sloppily, drippingly, happily.
Miami and Tampa are at war over which city has the Official Cuban Sandwich. Miamians claim that the Tampa version is a travesty, some say a sacrilege, because it contains Genoa salami. This makes sense, since Ybor City, where Tampa's Cubans lived, was also home to Italians and Spaniards. It also makes the sandwich sound more like a hoagie, which to this former Philly boy sounds pretty good.
Tampa's Cuban ties are older than Miami's, though the latter's sandwich is probably more "Cuban." But it's hard to take food purists seriously in a country that turned the croissant into sandwich bread.
In the classic earthquakes vs. hurricanes debate the clincher for me is not that you can prepare for (or flee from) hurricanes, but that they have a season. Those of us who reside in the subtropics (and tropics) get a breather, while people in California live with the idea that at any minute, of any month, their houses can crush them.
And with exquisite timing, hurricane season winds down just as stone crab season begins. The taste of the sweet sea meat is enhanced by the returned feeling of tranquility.
I had reservations about my fellow travelers when I first laid eyes on them in the lobby of our Prague hotel, and they were confirmed a few hours later when we sat down for lunch.
Almost as soon as the menus appeared, hands shot up. "I don't eat fish," one young woman announced after reading about the smoked trout salad with caviar. "I don't eat lamb," a middle-aged woman barked on seeing it offered as our main course. Our bemused waitress conferred with our guide, and solutions were found.
The young woman, I learned, didn't like the "texture" of things from the sea. (Her dismissal of the salad had nothing to do with health.) The anti-lamb lady didn't eat "young animals." Though she didn't inquire about the age of the pig she received as a substitute.
I used to be a picky eater, but then I started traveling. It seemed rude to refuse foods I was graciously served, and also wrongheaded: the whole point of travel is to experience the new, even - some might say especially - at the table. I don't like everything I eat abroad, but I usually give it a try.
The waitress returned for our drink orders. The restaurant sat in a vineyard overlooking the city, in a country famous for beer. The two ladies ordered Diet Pepsi.
There was a gathering of food trucks Saturday afternoon in Esplanade Park on the New River. We did a tour of the L-shaped formation and settled on Mr. Good Stuff ("Food from the soul - Stuffed with love").
I got the Sweet Caroline: BBQ pulled pork with melted cheddar cheese and coleslaw in a white cornmeal arepa. This was not the thick, sweet, greasy ballpark arepa; it was thin and toasty (but a lot tastier than toast). And it was stuffed with lean and delicious meat that was beautifully buffered by the slaw.
Finished, we headed over to the dessert truck parked in the middle of the park and got a spicy Mexican chocolate creme brulee. We found a seat nearby, where we ate the pudding while watching the people and admiring the dogs (including an albino boxer). A band played blues from the stage. This was pretty much what I had envisioned for the old Hyde Park Market lot, which has a better location on Las Olas (visible to clueless tourists) and still sits vacant after all these years.
Sunday we returned next door, to the Broward Center, for Indian Independence Day. Inside the Amaturo Theater, groups of children sang and danced. In the lobby, representatives from various Indian organizations sat behind tables, some handing out information on upcoming festivals. The growth of the Indian community is one of the encouraging and under-reported developments in South Florida (especially in Broward).
Two buffets were set up in the courtyard, serving black lentils, creamed spinach, spicy chickpeas, butter chicken, naan, dosas, mango lassis. For the second day in a row, we ate a meal sitting on steps. But here the people-watching was even better, as most of the attendees were Indian, and many of them, even the men, wore traditional dress. I felt a bit self-conscious showing my legs.
Wandering around Manhattan last week I was struck by the large number of businesses devoted to food. There were blocks with only these, restaurants next to pizzerias next to fast-food franchises. There were the familiar - Chipotle seemed almost as prevalent as Starbucks - and some that were new to me, like Maoz (wonderful falafel with a fresh salad bar). One day in midtown I walked past the soup place made famous by Seinfeld (and now selling T-shirts printed with the words "No Soup For You"). Then of course there were all the street carts grilling kabobs and sausages.
It was hard to walk a block without seeing or smelling something to eat. It didn't seem so much a health problem - people generally looked pretty fit - as a psychological one. New Yorkers, like other Americans, have become obsessed with food.
I stayed in a friend's apartment on the Upper West Side, and was disappointed to see that the Barnes & Noble at 66th and Broadway had closed since my last visit. Walking around the neighborhood I found a choice of edibles from around the world - many of them temptingly displayed and ready to eat - but no store where I could buy a book. On the Upper West Side, one of America's intellectual enclaves. There seemed no clearer sign that in the national battle between the mind and the stomach, the stomach has won.