For more of my posts about National Food Holidays.....it's National Coffee Day!
09/29/2010
09/22/2010
09/18/2010
09/16/2010
03/19/2010
Head West (to Naples), Young Man. The Prairie is Calling You!
Let's chat about childhood idols for a moment or two, shall we? I've certainly had my stereotypical share that which lined the walls of my pre and post pubescent bedroom. There was Lynda Carter (as both Wonder Woman and her ego-tastic, 70's Vegas crooning self), Miss Piggy (shut up), C. Thomas Howell (although now, as an adult, I realize that was probably more of a crush than idolization).
But then there was "Half-Pint". Laura Ingalls, herself. Melissa Gilbert.
Oh, how I loved "Little House on the Prairie." So much so that, long before I knew marriage to a girl was not for me, I--like so many little boys do...right???--envisioned my wedding day and the attire my, ahem, bride and I would wear. The theme would be, "Little House" and I would dress like Almonzo in dressy, yet still dirty, farming pants and some kickin' boots (although secretly I really wanted to slip into one of those fancy, only worn on Sunday dresses sold at The Oleson's Mercantile. The pretty, simple and tasteful Holly Hobby kind that was certainly not as garish as one Nellie would wear).
As you can see, I gave lots of thought to it.
Then, I got gay and my tastes got, well, a tad bit more Nellie and the marriage fantasy blew away with the prairie dust. However, Melissa stayed put as an "idol." It's a tough job getting through years of mediocre Lifetime movies---and I'm talking about watching them, not actually acting in them. But hey, work is work and I was thrilled that during the last twenty years at any time of day or night there was a Missy fix to be had whether it was a "Prairie" rerun, a guest spot on "Nip/Tick" or some odd, late-night infomercial for a miracle shampoo that's not really a shampoo. Go figure.
So needless to say, when I heard that "Little House: The Musical" starring Melissa as--get this--Ma, was headed to Naples (just a straight, er, gayly forward, two-hour arrow across the state) I scooped me up two front row tickets the second they went on sale and set the countdown clock. Tick tock. Tick tock.
I know. Dork.
To pass the time I began scoping out restaurants for my and Billiam's mini 24-hour vaca. I put out the feelers and Googled my fingers to the bone. It was up to two dining choices in the city of what I'd come to realize as being the place where Italian food is king and chain restaurants go to retire. However, there were two standouts, USS Nemo's (recommended to us prior to the trip by two kind locals...thanks!) with its unique Asian spin on typical seafood and my find, located in the "trendy" district of 5th Avenue South, Bistro 821. Although Nemo's menu looked damned enticing, we chose the latter for its culinary diversity and close proximity to what we had hoped was the pulse of the city.
We quickly found out the city is sort of like being in a nursing home full of Republicans. The pulse is weak and uptight.
Take notice of Ebenezer staring grumpily at us.
At 5:30 PM the wait for a table at most every restaurant we passed appeared to be the same as ours: 40 minutes. And there wasn't even any Early Bird specials going on! Surprising as this was to us, it apparently was the hoppin' time of night for folks on the West coast and from the looks of the ones strolling the streets at that hour they might think twice about hopping for fear of breaking a hip. Billiam and I certainly got a look or thirty seven while waiting for our table--in broad daylight of all things, something new for us.
When I poked his belly like one would the Pillsbury Doughboy to muster up a smile, he snapped under his breath at me, "Don't touch me like that here!"
What did he think? The fogies would gaybash us with their walkers?
So in awkward silence we sat and sipped our sweating martinis on a street side bench where, no lie, it was the "drop off spot" for all the cotton-headed ladies exiting Cadillacs driven by their husbands who undoubtedly searched for the most convenient (and cheapest) parking available. Ever the button pushing rebel that I am, I did however make quite sure to perch myself just a tad closer to him than these folks might have been used to seeing two guys. On his lap.
One good thing that should be mentioned about downtown Naples: the FREE parking garage. What a concept! Mind you, free means one could be circling to the rooftop and back down again with no luck of finding any available spots as there are no cubicle manning employees shouting, "All full!" But, what the hell? We found one, the people behind us didn't, and that's all that mattered.
On to the food.
As we were now in a rush because of the unexpected wait and I was catching my usual hell from Billiam for not preparing as much as I should for these moments of stress, blah blah blah (I mean really, who knew the nursing homes released THAT many patients for early dinner breaks?) we sadly opted for no usual "K and F" appetizers. Although, had we the time (and my trainer I hired to shed the 19 pounds gained from a year and a half of food reviewing did not fill my head with guilt hours before the trip) I would have chosen the Earth and Sea Chile Relleno ($12.95) typically prepared with a fresh poblano pepper and here stuffed with garlic shrimp, spiced beef and mozarella cheese, wrapped in puff pasty and drizzled with a roasted tomato and chipotle pepper sauce. Mmm good.
I assumed.
While we munched on complimentary samples from our favorite part of the meal (and my caloric downfall): the bread basket, we awaited on our entrees and patiently scanned the disappointingly pseudo 80's decor complete with mauve sponged walls and copper bursts of sunshine wall hangings.
"Finally!" I could hear his thought bubble exclaim, before it exploded all over our plates as they were set before us.
It was a little dark in there.
For Billiam a Veal Scaloppini with lemon and Pecorino Crust ($27.95) came a calling and for yours truly it was a tossup between the Seafood Risotto in either small or large plate size ($15.95/$28.95) or the Seafood Paella ($24.95) with its intriguing Italian spin on the traditional Spanish recipe. I pinched one of my love handles with disgust and went for the lesser evil that was bounteous with clams, mussels, Gulf shrimp, sea scallops and tender medallions of fish which I do believe was salmon. Fighting for what little room was left in the bowl were grilled summer squash and saffron rice making for a quite melodious concoction to fill my belly for the few hours of entertainment soon to come.
Not a fan of the baby cow, I had to entrust Billiam's word that the sauteed, thinly sliced veal was moist and flavorful and complimented by the accompanying al dente penne pasta that was smothered in a rich, Sun Dried tomato Alfredo sauce. Sounds delightful, but I just can't get past the baby cow thing. Call me a hypocrite when I chow down at Thanksgiving but slam on my brakes for a pigeon in the road, I don't care.
No dessert, sadly. But a few passed our table on their way to less rushed (and non weight conscientious) customers. All in all it was an enjoyable, unfussy joint with pretty good service and quite decent food.
I shan't critique "Little House" as I am so completely biased, but let me just say that there are a few cast members who, besides being most appealing to the eye, can belt out a number in the best way and the staging was superb. I do however feel horrible that in order to drum up word of mouth for its potential interest in Broadway producers they must deal with audiences such as ours who may as well be hooked up to life support. (I mean, you know what you're in for when the announcement to turn off cell phones prior to the curtain rising also includes a note about hard candy wrappers!....gee, do I sound ageist?). And finally, Melissa Gilbert!
I had a smile clear across my face for two hours and when I met her after the show she was everything I knew she would be.
Don't we look adorable?
Now after the show we felt like taking in some of the local, gay nightlife. If we could find it. We had heard of only two (yes, TWO!) gay bars in the city and one was supposedly on the same hustle and bustle street as our restaurant from earlier. Though at 11PM I could do cartwheels (if I knew how to do a cartwheel) down the middle of the street for blocks and worry not an inkling about being mowed down by foot, nor wheel. Plus, the address where the fictional bar was to reside was no longer a gay bar.
Drats.
So, on to the other side of the city to a strip mall hole in the wall called, Snappers.
I know, sounds oddly lesbian only, doesn't it? Of which there were quite a few...well, to be honest, there were only about ten people in this (almost) scary establishment that which we questioned the patron's sexuality and the possibility that, were they not friendly to "our kind" how quickly could we make our escape through the cluster of hallways which may or may not lead to the freedom of the parking lot. (We even backed our car in to the spot for a swift exit, if need be. Call us paranoid.)
While sitting atop our bar stools, trying to avoid the stares of the locals (who obviously don't get too many tourists stumbling in), we scanned the cavernous room with its three sad looking disco balls missing chunks of mirror chips hanging from the ceiling above an empty and darkened dance floor where tucked in corners--for that homey feel--assorted plastic plants are surrounded by more ashtrays than I've seen in one place in a looong time, we felt a wave of gay guilt wash over us. We suddenly felt so lucky to live in Ft Lauderdale where we had our pick of any number of bars, with a selection of vibes varying even if ever so slightly to make it seems completely different than another in which to park our kiesters and knock a few back with other fags comfortably.
We swore to never, ever take for granted again the freedom and diversity we have where we live. Those queens don't know what they're missing. Pity.
But what the hell, I got to meet an idol and to me it was worth it. But, damn, if we won't be headed back to Naples anytime soon. Billiam will make sure of that.
03/02/2010
I Spoke Too Soon...or, How Sandy Let Me See the Light.
To hell with it, I say! So, I don't have a paper to write for at the moment...should that stop the adventures? No way!
So, with the wise words of lush Margaret Foster from the classic film 9 to 5 stuck in my head, empowering me, I shall proudly--and defiantly--dust off K and F (sans the faux facade) and regale you with tales of our time spent with Sandra Lee (the effervescent host of "Semi Homemade" on the Food Network) at her cocktail party held this past weekend during the South Beach Food and Wine Festival.
"Atta, girl!" Thanks, Margaret.
Sadly, we were not able to attend the Food Fest itself, due to a lack of funds, but Billiam (the critic formerly known as "F") did provide yours truly with a pair of tickets for Xmas to "Cocktail Time with Sandra Lee," one of the many side events during the Fest which were hosted by several different Food Network personalities. When my imaginary date with Tyler Florence fell through--what? a boy can dream--I begrudgingly allowed Billiam to escort me to the event. After all, he does adore a good cocktail as much as I, so I felt it only a fair and just last minute replacement for Tyler. (Damn wife and kid!)
Now, a word or two about the weather in South Florida, especially during the winter months; otherwise known as "the dry season." Twas not dry during "Cocktail Time..." In fact, I have never seen so many folks dolled up in gowns and sparkly evening wear sopping wet as if they'd just tip toed through a car wash. The event was held in the open air courtyards of what was once Versace's mansion (which, BTW are stunningly surreal. First, simply because of the iconic history attached to not only the front stairway where he was gunned down but what was hidden beyond the gates "normal folk" never got to see. Second, because the three story structure appears almost Disney-like, one cannot imagine someone actually living there).
Unfortunately, the party planners planned poorly and neglected to check a weather forecast which would predict downpours so they might perhaps bust out a few dollars for some tents (again, because this was an all outdoor event with scarce space to be had where a roof was over one's head). I proved smarter than most attendees by dropping $8.95 for an umbrella of my own in some tourist shop a few blocks away when Billiam revealed he only had one umbrella in his car. The few that did also bring their own form of covering squashed Billiam's insecurities about his soiled, bent and ugly freebie emblazoned with the name of some mortgage company we don't even use. I'd never seen so many limp umbrella branches in one spot. It was as if the rain had taken everyone by surprise and in desperation folks hunted under car seats for that long forgotten to toss away emergency parasol. Quite humourous.
For the first hour of the event--sans any sighting of Sandra--bartenders poured drinks from the open bar wet and shivering (as the temperature that night plummeted to a near South Floridian, bone-chilling 55 degrees) and tux-wearing waiters made the rounds with fancy nibbly things on silver trays moistened by the deluge. Some found cover under archways while others, like myself and Billiam, simply stood in the midst of the typhoon for fear of missing out on something, anything we paid for. Occasionally we'd share our umbrellas with a dampened damsel in distress as she waited for her unintentionally watered down cocktail to be poured or made eye contact with other party goers, all of us expressing silently the mutual feelings of this quite frustratingly comical scene of trying to enjoy oneself whilst dripping in designer duds, chewing on clammy canapes.
Finally...
A break in the clouds brought with it a voice over the intercom that was familiar to anybody who gets excited over "tablescapes" and the ability to make an extravagant supper for twelve merely from a box of Duncan Hines, some thread, card stock from the craft store and a pork loin. Sandra Lee! Everone suddenly forgot how we had just been sloshing around the muddy courtyard in our Sunday best, drinking in the rain like homeless people.
She emerged from the kitchen (how apropos) with her sister Kimmy in tow. Clad in head to toe white, a billowing crocheted jacket trailing behind in the breeze, golden locks draping delicately past her shoulders with a halo of matching toned umbrella held by an assistant, she appeared to be an angel.
Really.
That, or we were relieved as quite possibly the crowds were just this close to rioting since we'd not yet even glimpsed our warm and dry hostess while her paying minions suffered it out in a monsoon.
"I'm from Seattle and there we don't let a little rain stop us from having a great party and I know it won't stop you either," her voice reverberated over the speakers as crowds rushed her for photos and recipe advice.
All was forgiven.
She handled he crowds like a pro. I am always aghast at these sort of events with the amount of pushing and shoving of people to reach and grab and toss a few sentences at a celebrity they will, no doubt, forget seconds later. When I had an opportunity to snag a photo--politely as that's just my way, unlike some others, ahem--she obliged
while Billiam fumbled with my new smart phone (hence the strange equator-like effect on Sandra's face). Later I had my sort of payback when, still in a mob, Sandra stepped back and with a heeled shoe stepped on Billiam's toes. She even apologizes as sweet as sugar syrup.
There was a "best fashion" award given away to two lady guests (what? none for the boys?). The drinks ran out fast, by 7:30 we were hopping from one station to the next simply trying to locate our beverage of choice (no white wine left here...no signature cocktails there...no, believe it or not, cranberry juice over yonder). The food, what little we tasted when it was actually not rained upon was, well, OK. (Something tells me Sandra had little to do with the appetizers as her recipes all look scrumptious.) But all in all it was a lovely, unusually memorable evening.
Oh yeah. Our night ended with a male underwear fashion show. But that's another story.
02/14/2010
12/29/2009
Possible Scrooge Here...
The Egg Nog (and Brandy) is working its way through my holiday spirit and our cats are tearing through the tree we worked so hard on to look glamorous...all while the phrase "You'll shoot your eye out, kid," played on a loop in the background of our lives for twenty-four hours, thanks to TNT. (No really...thanks!)
Now, while this does indeed sound like any number of typical evenings at our Casa de Glitter it was in fact Xmas time and to treat ourselves on The Eve of it all, we spent a few dollars dining (for the first time) at The York Restaurant; the highly touted eatery attached to the brand-spankin'-new Wilton Manors club/complex, The Manor. With salivary delight we anticipated reviewing this place upon its opening--prior to The Blade closing shop--(as it would be tres scandalous if it were not up to gay par) so, suffice it to say, even without the luxury of having a paper to excrete our opinions all over the ink-smudged pages our two cents is thusly offered. Merry Merry. Better than coal.
But first, to soften the blow...our pretty tree...
Yes, I know...Thank you.
But back to The Manor.
With all the horn tooting that went on in the press prior to its grand opening we had expected a four-star joint with the kind of delicacies (and dining experience) missing in Wilton Manors. So we were more than a little shocked to find the final product delivered on our plates to be a baby step above mediocre bar food. (I know...we should turn in our gay membership cards right now. What next, will I turn on Lady Gaga???)
Here, in a nutshell, was what we found problematic and where a tad bit of tweaking, in our opinion, is most necessary. First, the host that greeted us at the door (after much teeth pulling) obviously thought the far more important task of rolling silverware took precedence over faking a wide smile and welcoming us. That aside, girlfriend MUST drop the attitude. Sure you're in your twenties and skinny, but let me remind you this is still only Wilton Manors. The SoBe 'tude don't float here. At least not with us.
"We had a reservation."
"Well, inside will be quite a wait................"
We paused....looked at each other....With several empty tables visible through the tinted windows, why? OK then. Outside?
"(dramatic huff) Right this way."
Pardon us.
Now, as for the food. There is certainly no lack in the attempt at creativity, however, the execution was either lacking or confusing. Example: I had a "Boca Salad" with spinach, cinnamon croutons, a syrupy dressing (which we surprisingly experienced on another dish, as well) and mandarin oranges segments (from the can). On paper it seemed intriguing, but the combined flavors were cloyingly sweet and puzzling to the taste buds. How did the, essentially, cinnamon toast fit in with the story, I wondered?
For my main course I selected a salmon with oven roasted potatoes and asparagus tips. The salmon, dry as a sandbox. The spuds, oily like a wrestler. The asparagus "tips" were no more than the shavings of said tips hidden, most likely from shame, under the slab of fish.
It was disappointing and what we had hoped to be our new favorite, conveniently located restaurant was a sad shake of the head.
In its defense, the entire club is marvelously designed (we spent many a night at the Gin Mill and Costello's so we were more than a little impressed with the new architecture). And it is, without a doubt, a welcome addition to the city's overall look and income so, yes, you will find us perched on a balcony, martini in hand, or shaking our groove things on the dance floor....but dining?
Well, we'll see. Maybe if the Xmas spirit lasts all year long we'll give them a second chance. HoHoHo.
12/02/2009
11/17/2009
11/12/2009
Untethered and Uncut
Crunched for time. How I sincerely dislike those few, simple words when merged together.
For those who have recently been scratching their heads in confusion as to just where K and F have gone for two weeks (no, it wasn't a serious bout of food poisoning as some of you might have wished) I am here to say all is safe and sound in our little gastronomic world. Last week I got a tad too, ahem, "arty" with the column (which prevented our inclusion) and this week...well, for all involved it was, "crunched for time."
So, for those who cross over from The Blade to The Blog, I present to you--uncut and unedited--what was to become today's published column (and will most likely be next week's for those Blade-only readers) before it's subject matter is deemed as irrelevant as every word uttered from Sarah Palin's mouth.
Munchies and Misbehaving
K and F Get A Taste of the Island
“There you are!” I shouted, following an exhaustive search for F only to find him slumped over on a bar stool, head propped up in the palm of his hand, an expression of defeat and fatigue smeared messily across his face covering all but the maroon smudge of hot sauce glossily painted to a corner of his lips.
“You have to carry me home.” It spoke. “I cannot move,” he continued, his tongue poking out to lazily lap up the sticky remnants. “Mmm,” he hummed as melodically as a drunken karaoke singer. With mild annoyance I rolled my eyes and collected him in my arms.
What set of circumstances could transform two otherwise sophisticated, well-dressed and proficient food critics into sloth-like, slobbering, satiated, drunken messes? The answer––this time, anyway––was the 4th Annual Taste of the Island: an economical ($30 advance/$35 door) food and wine festival held on November 2nd on the grounds of the Historic Richardson Park and Reserve in Wilton Manors; that adorable two-story, white house that seemingly looks as if it were just plunked there on Wilton Drive from another time.
Behind its unassuming, period construction lay five surprising, nature-filled acres coiled with pavement walkways that on this night were lined with booths and tents from which assorted aromas wafted from the samplings of more than fifty local eateries and food entrepreneurs––some worthy of mention, others we’ll sidestep. To wash it all down there were abundant samples of wine or spirits that clearly would have been rude of us to refuse.
F and I hurled ourselves into the festivities with a delightful canapé of a Spanish Meatball from Dakota Catering Co. before swiftly moving on to Kelly’s Landing who presented us with a velvety smooth Clam Chowder so thick and wonderful we returned for seconds. While standing in the lengthy line for Galanga’s wildly popular dumplings––or perhaps just for the muscle bound servers passing them out––we felt compassion for Juice Blendz bright yellow truck-booth nearby. It appeared to be inconveniently located where sipping on one of their sweet and healthy concoctions seemed too premature for fruity flavors. Unless they’re from a grape.
Usually, at these events, F and I begin by curiously requesting the pourer to enlighten us of a wine’s origin while we sniff the bouquet, swish daintily and probe the creative crevices of our brains for the perfect adjective to pretentiously describe the wine’s complex flavors before expressing our gratitude and moving on towards the next booth’s offerings. Around wine stop ten or eleven we start losing all sense of faux snobbery, decorum and etiquette we arrived with and tend to knock back, with careless gusto, whatever liquid is poured for us into those miniature plastic cups like college kids at a Spring Break kegger. Because of that, this is also the time when F wanders off like a naughty child only to be found several booths away, a fried frog leg hanging from his lips flirting with the booth’s attendant or placing outlandish bids on raffle items he doesn’t need. Such is the cross that I bear.
During his periodic absences I sampled from Rosie’s a slider sized burger called “Hell on a Bun,” consisiting of ground beef, sliced jalapenos and blue cheese crumbles between a fluffy bun that pleasingly danced a two-step on my taste buds and found myself standing before Alibi’s booth with open-mouthed awe. Generally, moist Paella Bites or the lightly smoked tentacle-covered arms of a petite octopus atop a crispy cracker are not the typical fare associated with the popular watering hole so for that the Chef should give himself a pat on the back for extending creativity beyond typical bar food.
“Try this!” F suddenly reappeared behind me holding in his hand a large mound of fried uncertainty, which he was now thrusting towards my mouth.
Normally I would have flinched in horror at the heart clogging object but, numbed by several recent glasses of In The Mix’s pre-opening promotional cocktail called the “Grace-mo,” I opened wide for an burst of greasy heat with the identifiable mingling of rich chocolate flavors. Courtyard Café’ had, with their fried Oreo, allowed me to understand and enjoy––if only for that night––the concept of frying that which is already bad for you and making it better.
Arm in arm, we stumbled––almost literally––upon the booth of Lucia Fasano, “Nutritional Chef” (or so said her business card). Flaunting no fancy cookware she had with her only a few simple bowls and a cooler as if she were attending a family picnic but within this crockery were three heavenly helpings of hummus; our personal favorite the spicy cilantro jalapeno. While she spooned each chunky mound onto F’s plate, crowning all with a different cracker, she explained that everything she prepared is organic just as a fly landed atop one of F’s hummus peaks. Casually attempting to shoo it away only bruised the hungry insect and it fell wounded onto his plate before her finger slid its, by now, mangled corpse to the ground.
“Now it’s really organic,” I quipped before F snuck off to parts unknown with his non-vegetarian hummus.
Attempting to again locate him I veered off course to Cookies by Design for just one pumpkin shaped, frosted butter cookie. Ok, maybe two. Fine, I went back five times. There would have been a sixth attempt had Royal Cakes not beckoned me with tiers of tiny cupcakes in varying hues and fruity flavors all of which I had to, for the column of course, partake of––at least once––before resuming my hunt for F. And there, with pineapple frosting stuck in my teeth, is where I spotted him slumped over a half-eaten chicken wing and our evening came to a conclusion.
As we made our way along the path towards the exit, F reached out at the Humpy’s booth and snagged a slice of pizza. Between bites he wondered aloud my exact thoughts when he said, “I wonder if there’s a twelve-step support group for food festival attendees.” If not, there should be.
10/30/2009
Boo!
Here's wishing all you witches, warlocks, goblins and ghouls (you know who you are) a Happy Halloween.
And to scare you all here is the photo of F from the Cut 432 column...full on spooky. I promise I only hurt him a bit. Merely a flesh wound.
10/22/2009
Le Icky.
So, um, yeah. Le Bistro is probably not that happy with yours truly right about now. Not only did F and I completely trash their shoulda-been inspired menu, but I went ahead and had F take a picture of me fake vomiting on their front door step (yeah, that was me and not F as mentioned in the caption in The Blade--I need some "face-time" too, ya know). Just to further make my point that "your food was just not good."
We did feel a bit guilty that, with our only 900 give-or-take words, we could not fit in how our server was a decent guy. A bit shaky in the wine pour (I do suggest scooting back a bit in your chair when he lifts the wine bottle and aims in your general direction, just in case) but still, sociable and fine in his job. I do have a heart after all, despite what a scattering few tend to believe, and don't want those not at fault to be at fault. To us, it was indeed the menu's execution that should be, well, executed. By a firing range, preferably.
It's a shame, too, because on paper--when looking at all the menus for this year's Dine Out Lauderdale--Le Bistro's was one of the most innovative out of the entire bunch. It just was poorly done.
The care given was truly half-assed; which is not to say there is not potential there. Obviously Chef Ramsay saw potential in them to film his show at their establishment. But then, just as I was inserting a spoon into my mouth full of orange slop that was supposed to be bisque, we overheard the chef at Le Bistro blatantly utter to other diners that immediately upon completion of filming "Kitchen Nightmares" they had the balls to return to their original menu it was like, "What? Are you kidding me?" It is a slap in the face of every diner willing to spend a dime in their establishment.
We cannot wait to see the episode this coming season and if anybody knows Chef Ramsay, I'd like to have a word with him, please. Seriously. Have him email me.
After that debacle we were determined not to let the Le Bistro experience ruin the Dine Out specials for us and a few nights later (not for the column, just for us) we found ourselves at Ilios (a place we reviewed--for cocktails--as a double critique with dinner at Cap's Place...look in the sidebar for the review if you like). This time, however, we were there specifically for dinner. And let me just say that they know how to treat a diner. From the ever-friendly bartender serving us those deee-licious Pepperberry Martinis (you just have to have one!!!) to the hostess who asked F for his last name to which he replied frightened and paranoid "Why do you need that?" Silly.
He was henceforth referred to by Mr. (insert last name here) whenever checked in on. Fancy. The server shook our hands prior to and post dining and seemed equally as happy to have us with him just as if we were royalty or The Jonas Brothers (which clearly we're not). And the food, even on the Dine Out menu, was in-freakin-credible!!! Really. We were shocked at just how good it was. Elegant, fun, sophisticated and, most importantly, scrumptious. (Not to mention the patio dining on the pool deck provides awesome views of half-naked, pool-bobbing tourists of the hot kind--at least when we were there.)
So, if you want to spend your money wisely, check out Ilios on Ft Lauderdale Beach. That's our recommendation for Dine Out this year. Yup.
10/16/2009
Tap Tap Tapping Away at the Keyboard
I'm here to remind you to click on our newest adventure, this time to Tap Tap Haitian Restaurant in Miami.
The picture used in the column was cropped to a severe yawn fest. (Being a control freak this, well, freaks me out!) Here is the original followed by a few others from that night and a bonus in the Gallery.
An Alternate Cover Unused. F utilized the Desi Arnaz technique he learned watching hour upon hour of "I Love Lucy" reruns.
So goat...let me tell you guys something. We will try it again, somewhere else, just to see if Tap Tap's version was indeed as horrible as we all thought. If I concentrate hard enough--which is, admittedly, painful at times--I can still feel the greasy, charred texture on the roof of my mouth stuck there like peanut butter (but not as enjoyable). Even more frightening was that, because it was hardly enjoyable, my brain kept tricking me to believe that there were tough little goat hairs in my mouth (though it may have just been some of S's weave gone free).
Nonetheless Tap Tap was, if nothing else, gorgeous to look at. My compliments to the artiste!
10/08/2009
No Bones About It.
After offering our spot in The Blade last week to our Sapphic sisters for thier informative columns on tool shed makeovers and 101 new uses for an old flannel shirt in "The Lesbian Issue," we have returned. Our first stop was Himmarshee Bar &Grille where F realized just how much he, too, loves to eat a good piece of fish...tail. Ahem.
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