The waitress at Gran Forno asked if I wanted chicken with my caprese salad. Caprese salad. I asked her if wait staff were instructed to try to get customers to order more expensive dishes.
She explained that it was also in her best interest. "I get a bigger tip," she said, then added that some diners are actually pleased to learn that they can add meat to a salad. Foreigners, I thought, probably Europeans unused to accommodating kitchens.
After I finished my salad, the waitress returned. "Would you like anything else?" she asked. "Dessert? Coffee? Coffee with chicken?"
I gave her a good tip.
Eating with friends at a pizzeria on Saturday evening I got everyone's attention by mentioning the story I'd heard on NPR that afternoon about restaurants that advertise fried calamari and actually serve fried pig rectum.
Lunch yesterday at Pomperdale's New York Style Deli. "The New Yorker" - hot pastrami and corned beef on rye with Swiss cheese and Russian dressing. A crisp half sour pickle completed the basket.
I was one of the youngest people in the place. Leaving, I passed two retirees coming in.
"How are you today?" the cheerful young woman at the cash register asked, to which one of the men replied:
"I'm not sayin'."
I had my first chlodnik (cold borscht) of the season the other night (courtesy of the Russian supermarket in Hollywood) and the first sip instantly transported me to summer in Poland. The mix of sour cream and red beets, radishes and dill, invariably tricks my body into believing it's back in Warsaw, sitting on a stool at a table in an un-airconditioned kitchen on Dobosza Street.
As I savored the soup, it occurred to me that, for all their benefits, ethnic restaurants have ruined the transporting power of taste. Often now, we eat the food - pad Thai, bibimbap, ceviche - before we visit the country, so there is no gustatory revelation on arrival (other than of how much better it is when made with locally-grown ingredients) and thus no Proustian memory flood when we dine out back home. Risotto Milanese doesn't fill you with Milan if you first ate it in Brooklyn, which is a good argument for visiting countries that are off the culinary map.
Drove down to Taverna Opa last night and found a table outside on the deck away from the music. (Though we did get a visit from the belly dancer.) Our Macedonian waiter brought us grilled octopus, grilled calamari, a Greek salad, an eggplant dip, and lemon potatoes, which we ate while watching boats - including two sculls - ply the Intracoastal. The people at the table next to us were speaking Romanian. The people at the table behind them were speaking Russian. The three young men at the table in front of them were speaking Turkish. It was like sitting at a restaurant on the Black Sea.
After my talk in Boynton Beach on Monday I headed to City Hall, picked up Hania, and drove to Cuthill's Backyard for lunch.
They were still working on the roof over the craft beer bar. We took a seat at a high wooden table in the garden - it's all a garden - while fans scattered mists.
The fish of the day was mahi mahi; I ordered it in taco form. A few minutes later a plate of three fish tacos appeared in the window of the Airstream kitchen.
The large pieces of fish were bedded in cabbage and drizzled in sauce, but that was about it. This was a fish taco that was all about the fish.
The taco is enjoying its moment right now - in South Florida, at least, it's the new burger (even though the burger is still going strong). And I've had some excellent ones, at Taco Beach Shack in Hollywood, the new Casa Frida in Oakland Park, Taqueria Dona Raquel in Pompano Beach, the Miami Mex stand at Marlins Park. For simplicity, freshness, and taste, you can add Cuthill's fish tacos to the list.