The line of cars heading to the beach, at 5:30 in the afternoon, stretched to the west side of the Las Olas Bridge. Twenty minutes later we made the turn onto A1A, serenaded by music from the Elbo Room. Fifteen minutes after that we were seated on the patio of the Ritz-Carlton, watching the parade of college students interspersed with a few locals in green.
The people sitting next to us were vacationers from New Jersey. They didn’t know spring break was going on. “We usually go to Key West,” the woman said. “Next year we’re going to Key West.”
The police horses we had passed on the beach walked by in single file, like thoroughbreds headed to the starting gate. Then a fire truck roared past, followed by an ambulance and police cars, their lights whirring. Moments later an Ocean Rescue vehicle made its way, in the same northerly direction, along the beach.
We paid and walked to the parking lot. Driving north, just below the Bonnet House, we found a crowd gathered on the beach, looking at the spot in the ocean where surfers, rescue workers, jet skiers, and boats combed the water. We asked an onlooker what had happened and she confirmed what we suspected: someone had drowned.
Because of the exorbitant rents on Las Olas (which I’ve bemoaned before) the interesting things in Fort Lauderdale are happening elsewhere. Two opened this weekend alongside the FEC tracks.
Henry’s Sandwich Shop in FAT Village has such a smart and appealing design that bulk boxes of potato chips are employed as part of the décor. Even more thought goes into the food: the roast pork sandwich – with broccoli rabe and sharp provolone – took me back to Philadelphia (fly, Eagles fly) while the red beet and goat cheese salad (the default choice for celiacs) was, according to Hania, excellent: just the right size and with a delicious citrusy dressing. As we ate, the Brightline train passed a few feet away. When I return by myself some weekday, I’m going to finish with a slice of pie. You can also buy a roll of Reed’s Root Beer candy, which I hadn’t seen since childhood.
That was Saturday lunch. Saturday evening we stopped by for opening night at the Tarpon River Brewery on SW 6th Street. It is a brewery/restaurant/bar like no brewery or restaurant or bar I’ve ever seen, except perhaps at Oktoberfest in Munich, where little “cabins” are tucked inside the massive tents. (Though there the beer is brought in, not brewed on site.) Here, the house-within-the-old-warehouse bar requires bartenders to watch their backs, so to speak, because patrons stand at a series of open windows, gazing in at the people sitting at the bar and waiting to place their orders. At one of these windows I sipped a refreshing orangey IPA while Hania made the acquaintance of a giant, eight-month-old Harlequin Great Dane. I saw what looked like a plate of fries topped by a fried egg sail past, and – another nod to Oktoberfest – a giant soft pretzel. In a few months, the Brightline train to Miami will also be sailing past.
Sunday I gave our houseguests Dan and Jane my customary tour of Miami (much abbreviated as they’ve taken it before) but they didn’t leave until last night, which meant yesterday I had the more challenging task of showing them around Fort Lauderdale.
We headed first to Himmarshee Village, passing the performing arts center (where I’m going tonight to hear Bebel Gilberto) and the Museum of Discovery & Science. I pointed out the work-in-progress Western saloon and the ghost of Riverfront Mall. Saw the back of the Brutalist Main Library, curved around the front of the art museum, and continued down Las Olas past my old office and way too many empty storefronts.
At the Elbo Room we turned up toward North Beach Village where, after a walk on the beach, we bought a bottle of coconut water in the market and heard from the friendly cashier that there are free movies every Friday.
Then I drove up A1A to show them Sea Tower, perhaps the most beautiful example of Miami Modern in South Florida. I always imagine residents sitting in their living rooms sipping martinis and listening to Sinatra.
Lunch consisted of delicious buckwheat crepes at Voo La Voo in Eucalyptus Garden in Wilton Manors – a place that seems transplanted from Napa – and a chat in French with the two charming mesdames. We took our postprandial coffee in FAT Village at Brew Urban Café.
Next up was the new Brightline station, still as spotless as it was on opening day a month ago, the staff still as smiling and helpful. “Perhaps New York could start a new train,” said Dan, who grew up in Long Island, “and call it Sullenline.”
For the grand finale, I drove them through Sailboat Bend and across the swing bridge. The sensation of having entered Old Florida was deepened when we entered Riverside Market. As we sipped our sour ales under hanging kayaks and blown-up postcards of 1960s Fort Lauderdale, the beer-bottle lighting giving a mellow glow, the world of Las Olas seemed far away.
We drove down to Coral Gables for tea with a friend at Books & Books. Dara had spent a few years in Krakow, and learned basic Polish. “My favorite people to talk to were taxi drivers,” she said. “You don’t look them in the eye, and you never see them again.”
Afterwards we checked out the new Casa Tua food hall at Brickell City Centre. Animated diners filled the tables between food stations. We passed the ones for pizza, salads, raw fish, roasted chicken and walked by the bar – bottles of Zubrowka overhead – to the pasta station, where we ordered two different kinds of risotto. Then we took our numbered sign to a table with two empty seats at the end. The family sitting next to us was speaking Spanish. They departed just as our food arrived, mother and father both wishing us “bon appetit.”
The risottos were excellent, but just as impressive was the music: a medley of Doo-wop from my teenage years. It felt incredibly strange to sit in a trendy Miami eatery and listen to the “Bristol Stomp.”
Yesterday, I gave three friends my tour of Miami. They liked my new car.
“But it doesn’t have a CD player,” I told them, “so I can’t play music appropriate to each neighborhood.”
“I can find any music you want,” Alex said from the back seat. “Just give me the name of the song – or the singer.”
“It’s good to travel with millennials,” said Patsy.
Our first stop was the Biltmore Hotel, approached, of course, down Columbus Avenue. Then we headed to the Venetian Pool which, unfortunately, was drained of water and being repaired. At Books & Books, we chatted with Mitchell Kaplan in the café. The calm before the storm. (Fire and Fury had yet to be delivered.)
After lunch at Versailles, I remembered about the music, and asked Alex to find Buena Vista Social Club. We sailed down Calle Ocho to the sounds of “Chan Chan,” followed by “Dos Gardenias Para Ti” (my two favorite songs, which are not together on the CD).
On the way to the Design District, Alex asked about the Brazilian singer I’d once played in the car when we were working together. Soon, Caetano Veloso’s “O Leaozinho” was filling our ears.
We parked on NE 41st Street, across the street from a fashion shoot. A child model was posing in vest and trousers, while a little girl waited in a silver dress.
Alex asked her sister Gabby to stand in front of the building to the side of the shoot. Its mustard yellow façade matched Gabby’s sweater. As Alex snapped the photo, the little girl applauded.
Riding my bike along the river the other evening I noticed a market readying to open on the ground floor of one of the condos (the one behind Savor Cinema that was built sideways so to make it waterfront property). The young man standing outside told me that the market will have tables and will serve cheese platters, panini (his family is from Italy), bruschetta, and such. I always wondered why our Riverwalk, unlike San Antonio’s, offers little for the people who stroll it; the ground floors of the luxury condos, instead of housing restaurants and cafes, hold gyms and offices. (Something that, my wife tells me, is not allowed in Boynton Beach.) Encouraged, I pointed across the cul de sac: “And that restaurant will be opening soon,” I said.
“No,” the young man shook his head sadly. “They’ve been trying for seven years to make that a restaurant, but the rents are too high.”
I didn’t ask about his rent. But I did think of all the empty storefronts on Las Olas. Fort Lauderdale is pricing its downtown out of existence.