This is my week for classic Fort Lauderdale restaurants. Tuesday night we went to the soft reopening of the Mai-Kai. The food was OK (as I remembered it) and the drinks were excellent, though I sent back my Floridita Daiquiri - described as Hemingway's favorite from the Floridita Bar in Havana - because it arrived frozen. When I complained (I don't think Hemingway drank frozen cocktails) I was told that all the Mai-Kai's daiquiris are frozen. We were seated outside, as the dining room was not yet open, and after the meal we went in to look at the bar, which was as atmospheric as I remembered it, though I seem to recall the old one had windows with water continuously running down the outside panes, giving the feeling of being inside a waterfall. But it was good to see the place beautifully restored.
Last night, I went with some friends to Cafe Martorano. I had heard it was loud, and it was; a bit like eating in a disco - there is a disco ball over the bar - except that nobody was dancing. The chef-owner doubles as DJ. As Max Beerbohm once said: "For people who like that sort of thing it's just the sort of thing that they like."
Also leaving us this week, also at the age of 95, was Charles Dumont. Most famous for writing the Edith Piat hit “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien,” Dumont was a singer as well, interpreting his songs with a gruff, lilting gracefulness. (“C’etait le temps, souvenez-vous/le temps des grives aux loups.”) Now he joins those two other Charles’s – Aznavour and Trenet – in the French chanson afterworld.
Friday I flew to Pennsylvania for my uncle’s funeral. I took an early morning flight on Spirit, and when the cart came around, I asked for a glass of water. The flight attendant said that they don’t give water out for free but that he could give me a cup of ice. I took the cup of ice while trying not to think of the philosophical distinctions between a cup of ice and a cup of water. Apparently executives, or accountants, at the airline had already done that for me.
We arrived early, I picked up my rental car, and made my way to Route 30. When I was at the Sun-Sentinel I wrote about this highway, which begins in the gritty streets of West Philadelphia, winds its way through the gracious Main Line, passes through stolid, Mid-Atlantic towns before entering the pastoral beauty of Lancaster County, where, at an intersection, I saw a horse-and-buggy waiting to join the traffic. I stopped for lunch and, getting out of the car, was greeted by the pleasant aroma of manure. Directly behind the restaurant, a dozen horses grazed around a patch of pumpkins.
Lancaster is a miniature Philadelphia, with redbrick row houses lining streets named for trees. The funeral took place at a congregational church in a leafy part of town, where the Trump signs seen along the highway were replaced by those for Harris. The service had distinct touches of my uncle – an imposing man not just in size but in voice, a deep baritone that served him well as a local sports announcer. The famous 23rd psalm was interspersed with James Dougherty’s personal reflections on each line, an interesting and revealing touch. Two of his children gave eulogies; his daughter’s included an impressive litany of nicknames he had coined for her. Also, the fact that the term paper he had once written for her, on Latin American literature, had received an A. Hymns included “Amazing Grace” and “Go, My Children, with My Blessing.” At the conclusion, a pianist played “What a Wonderful World.”
A reception was held at the Elks lodge downtown, where mementos from my uncle’s life – old baseball caps, team photos – were displayed on a table. I had not known until I read his obituary that he is in the Pennsylvania Softball Hall of Fame.
One of the many differences between adulthood and childhood is that now I enjoy going to the dentist. Especially around Halloween, as mine puts out candy. Friday, as I was deliberating over which to choose, my dentist said, “Take one with lots of nuts.”
I'm off on a little Florida road trip - will be back here on Thursday.
We skipped the Taylor Swift concert last night to attend evensong at Trinity Cathedral, where the Anglican Chorale of Southeast Florida and the Miami Collegium Musicum sang the works of, among others, William Boyd, Herbert Howells, and Anton Bruckner. Evensong is not only a beautiful service, held once a month at the cathedral, but also, in my mind, the most beautiful word in the English language.
September 1, 1939 – December 7, 1941 – September 11, 2001 – February 24, 2022 – October 7, 2023.