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.
Would you by chance still have Lucia Fasano's business card? I'd love to get in touch with her!
Great site btw, just ran across it looking for her actually. LOVE LOVE LOVE that you have interviews with Kate and Miss Coco. I'll be checking this out a lot now I'm sure. :-)
Posted by: Glenn Stubbs | 12/30/2009 at 07:48 PM