Last weekend, I attended a daytime event in South Beach and when it was over I had a few hours to kill. I was in no rush to get home, so I walked about a mile from Waxy's to The Raleigh and took my sweet old time to do it.
It was all rather surreal ...
Is it just me or has Washington Avenue become even dirtier, smellier and skankier than before? I had to cover my nose on some corners. And the sight of homeless people! One woman must have been 100 years old, a wizened, leathery sack of flesh, wearing a bikini top under her dowager's hump. She broke my heart.
I stopped at Lush to see if I could find my friend Ipanemic. He wasn't there, but his photo was. Lush is a beer and wine only type of dive, an oasis of normal in the middle of fantasy land. Nevertheless, the bartender and a guest went on forever about fake boobs and fitness.
Ipanemic's photo is above the pool table.
Next stop, Club Deuce, which was fun as always, cheap and lively. You can never go wrong at South Beach's oldest remaining dive bar.
Eventually, I found Ipanemic eventually at his workplace and caught up with him. Thankfully, he wasn't making deliveries that evening.
Near Sum Yum Gai, the Chinese restaurant on Washington Avenue, some dude was walking around with a Madagascar lemur on his shoulder and no, it wasn't an animal act. He was, however, sporting a toy alligator puppet on his arm, which he used to scare unsuspecting girls on the sidewalk.
Is it even legal to own a pet lemur in Florida?
Further still, in some shit hole shop, I was terribly disappointed to find I couldn't buy used panties. (See photo above.)
As I passed by the nightclub Cameo some guidos on the corner made a flattering comment about my cleavage and then as I walked by the strip joint Club Madonna I wondered about the value of that comment.
On the corner of Lincoln and Washington I saw a bevvy of beauties going to a club ... or was it a pack of hos? They were all dressed the same: five inch heels and micro mini black dresses so short I could see their ovaries.
Turning the corner, I patronized the bar a new club called Vice, which promises to be ... yet another South Beach club. The same cocktail here was twice as much as the one at Club Deuce and the atmosphere not nearly as good -- very pretty interior design, though.
On Lincoln Road, some guy in a wife beater was peddling hard as he used a locked up Miami Beach Deco Bike as a stationary exercise machine. This trumped the lemur. Classic!
Why pay for a spinning class at gym when you can use DECOBIKE for free?
On Collins Avenue, a storefront somehow reminded me of some messed up holy representation of motherhood.
Hope she be carryin' some milk in dem jugs!
Things got better. As if the evening hadn't been weird enough! When I finally arrived at The Raleigh, I decided to have a nightcap. Are you sitting down? My bartender was a wholesome, handsome tall and tan blonde model from the Midwest who wasn't gay and played rock and roll music at the bar.
By the grace of God, what am I supposed to do with this yumminess? Serve it up on a platter with a side of coleslaw?
It has been about two years since I moved from South Beach to South Miami. I don't miss the beach at all, but sometimes I have to go back to experience a dose of non-reality.
Yesterday, traffic was more backed up on the causeway than the bowels of a constipated goat. And forget about finding parking. Oh and I refuse to pay ass-rape prices for taxis.
As a result, I walked up and down Ocean Drive in wedge heels for a total of four miles just to take advantage of my super secret free parking spot. (You could kill me and I still wouldn't tell you where it is.)
And heck, all that walking burns vodka calories, right?
The main occasion was a pre Ultra Music Festival gathering for Cirque du Pool on March 26th, which promises to be a classic South Beach bash.
Yes, a party to celebrate another party a week before ... that's how we roll in the 305, which was completely acceptable to the friendly tourists I met from Iowa.
The Terrace Bar and Cigar Lounge affords an excellent view of 5th street and Lummus Park from a wrap-around terrace, where you can while away the hours watching bumper-to-bumper traffic below. The $25 all-you-can-drink-all-day bar featuring premium liquor was probably the best deal on the beach yesterday, and if they keep that up, this casual lounge could easily become a local's favorite.
But not so cool: how repugnantly touristy Ocean Drive has become north of 5th street. Is it just me, or has it gotten worse over the years? This is what I observed as I walked from 5th street all the way to The Delano.
Tourists, why are you ordering those mega cocktails the size of a football field? What a waste of booze and offense to the art of mixology!
And what's up with the tacky food displays? Didn't the City of Miami Beach outlaw them a few years ago?
The City of Miami Beach was certainly on duty yesterday when code enforcement showed up and forced us to take the music inside, which made me wonder: who in their right mind lives on Ocean Drive not expecting noise?
Seriously, if noise offends, so should those visual displays at restaurants.
In any case, the beach was buzzing yesterday in all its urban glory, and if you blinked, you might have missed the fact that it's a barrier island on the Atlantic Ocean. I had a blast. And today I need a foot massage.
Behold the photo dump below.
Lummus Park at South Beach's busiest intersection.
I don't know why, but I kept thinking strap-on dildo when I saw this babe drumming.
Dude, you can wear a hoodie, but you can't hide the fact that you are filling in that speedo quite well.
The human slinky was really cool. Travel Channel was in the house shooting B-roll for some show ... not sure which one.
The dancer on the left looks a lot like Amy Winehouse, doesn't she? Lovely girl, but someone please take her to La Carreta for dinner.
This redheaded cutie had been pouring cocktails in a bikini and heels earlier in the day. She went ultra beach preppy after a while.
Dancing and texting at the same time! And what's up with the school bus in the background? Kids going out on a Saturday?
The Italian pavilion at the Grand Tasting, which was actually a pretty straightforward assembly line of wine pours with delicious Grana Padano cheese for nibbles.
My second experience of the Food Network South Beach Wine and Food Festival started on Friday morning when it took me one and half hours to drive 15 miles from South Miami to South Beach at 9:30 AM. After securing what was probably the last parking spot at the Anchor Shops garage across from the Loews Hotel, and being nearly rear-ended by an antsy valet driver asshole who thought he was a Nascar champion, I walked unscathed over to the Media Welcome Brunch at the Betsy Hotel.
(By the way, this is a great municipal parking garage. $16 is the most you'll pay for a 24 hour period. A true South Beach bargain.)
Quiche, mimosas and hobnobbing were on the menu at brunch. It was here I overheard journalists discuss important matters like "are you a true food writer or simply someone who writes who happens to be passionate about food?"
Well, if we're going to ask questions, I also want to ponder: "How can you be a food writer and wear a size zero? You see, food is this stuff you put in your mouth, chew and swallow. You don't eat, girlfriend."
Holding up a sign at the Grand Tasting line. Somebody please put this man out of his misery.
No cattle call ever looked so sunny and bright.
But I digress. From brunch, I traipsed over to the Grand Tasting at Lummus Park, which was open only to trade on Friday. After waiting 40 minutes in line to get our wristbands, friend and fellow writer from South Florida Food and Wine Blog and I proceeded to the gate. Once inside, we would spend three hours on our feet in what I can only call the most glorious "People Watching Festival" I have ever attended -- mobs of people were there and this wasn't even open to the general public! I think every restaurant owner with relatives in Hialeah had entire clans infiltrate the inner sanctum of this gourmet fair.
Bitches were walking around in their mini-skirts and high heels (seriously, on the beach, ladies?), Eurotrash was well represented and the requisite ass models in boy shorts were giving out booze samples. Ah yes, it was South Beach all right ... all the sex and none of the sophistication.
The mob of wine and food enthusiasts. At closing time, a voice over a loud speaker repeated: "stop pouring now." I kept hearing: "stop whoring now."
No South Beach event would be complete without the selling power of pussy.
And behold: there wasn't much food at the Grand Tasting at all, and what little there was, required a ten to fifteen minute wait in line for a small sample.
No, no. This wasn't about food. This was about wine and booze. By closing time at 4 PM, most folks were rip-roarin' tipsy, because those thimble-full alcohol samples really do add up. This reminded me of the Gasparilla pirate festival, where frat boys were wasted by 11 am, but minus the bead flinging and police arrests.
This vodka was actually pretty good. It's made in Central Florida from 4 different varieties of Florida oranges. I tried some neat. It was not as sickeningly sweet as other citrus flavored vodkas.
Refreshing prosecco. Probably my favorite pour of the day, besides cold Amstel (yes, beer!) which is about all I could tolerate under the hot tent.
The Grand Tasting is a true tribute to Bacchus for the masses, where sampling a bazillion different wines isn't really going to teach you anything about being an enophile. Come on, folks! You cannot appreciate anything in large doses. Discreet tastings of food and drink, spread out over time, is the only way to educate your palate.
The grapevine of seasoned journalists who were festival veterans informed me that the event would be doubly insane over the weekend. Scalpers abound, people try to bum wristbands from strangers at the gate and security is on hand to pick up the lightweights puking and passing out. Geez, I'm so sorry I went on the more "civilized" trade day and missed all that.
Even the dogs were getting drunk.
Two ladies getting their tan on at the South Beach Wine, Food, People Watching and Tanning Festival.
Arugula and duck salad was one of the few samples of food I saw at the event. Mind you, that doesn't mean food wasn't there, but it was so crowded, it was hard to spot.
So what to expect if you are a layperson: lots of wine, lots of waiting, lots of bumping into strangers, not so much food and fantastic people watching.
There is, of course, much more to the festival than the Grand Tasting bacchanalia and geeze, if the PR companies had been open to including more local writers, I might have been able to pen some stories about those worthy events, too. But word from the grapevine was that press passes were as tight as Madonna's ass.
As my friend put it: "If you really want to learn, go to the seminars and tastings and know that your contributions are helping Florida International University's hospitality and tourism program."
And this I did, right after, with my sand-coated feet dog tired after walking around for three hours. A small, cozy wine and cheese event at the roof deck of the Betsy Hotel was just what the doctor ordered and that kind of investment of money and time is what I would recommend to anyone interested in attending next year. If you want to gormandize, don't do fast food -- do so wisely and elegantly. Avoid this cattle call.
SEE IT ALL IN A GROOVY MONTAGE
P.S.
I don't know what it was about this weekend that turned everyone into an animal on the streets of South Beach. By the time I left around 7:30 PM, it was bumper to bumper everywhere and people were driving as if they were jonesing for crack. I have never seen South Beach like this, not even during Boat Show or Memorial Day weekend! Other South Beach residents corroborated my observations. Foodies are crazy!
I had problems with my camera so only a grainy photo from my iPhone today of my favorite dish.
Oh rum, why do you tease me so? Is it not enough that I have shared the finest grog with pirates, that I dream about a creamy guava rum punch I had in St. Lucia, staring out at the Caribbean sea, and that I loyally follow the rum gang at Miami's Rum Renaissance Festival?
Well, earlier today you teased me again, at a press luncheon showcasing the Guatemalan born spirit Botran paired with the food at D. Rodriguez Cuba, featuring two guest chefs.
PASS THE RUM
I am by no means a rum expert and I'm not going to use hoity-toity terms like "it tastes oaky" or "it reminds me of my abuelita's arthritis ointment." But I do know this -- some rums are so good, you drink them neat or on the rocks like a fine scotch. They are made with painstaking craftsmanship supported by the science of distillery. Combine craft and science and you have art. The path from sugar cane to fine rum is a long one and I'll save that for another post, but it's all involved with the rich colonial history of Spain and the New World.
For pete's sake, please don't even consider rums like Bacardi Dragonberry a real rum. Even a shipwrecked pirate on his last breath wouldn't drink that crap. That is rum gone ghetto, appealing to the audience of Real Housewives of Miami -- indiscriminately tasteless. Real rum should be enjoyed alone or with combinations made from ingredients like fresh fruit, herbs, spices and bitters. Flavored rums are blech.
Does this make me a purist rum snob? I don't know. Actually, I don't care. But I do know that Botran's Reserva was good enough to mix and very palatable in a Manhattan made with sherry, sweet vermouth and bitters. It's not a light, white rum, though. Save that for your basic, traditional mojitos. And the Solera (aged longer) was tasty but lighter than other rums I would prefer to savor neat or on the rocks.
RUM AND EATS
I'm not crazy about drinking sweet rum drinks with food. Wine or some dry cocktail just makes more sense because too many intense flavors confuse the palate. So today was an interesting exploration in pairing.
The first cocktail we enjoyed was created by Thomas Merolla, Botran's Director of Mixology. The Yellow Tail, curiously named after a snapper, consisted of Reserva blended with Aperol, ripe passion fruit, ginger, mint garnish, a bit of citrus and topped with champagne. It reminded me of an Old Cuban without the old in it -- very refreshing, like a South Beach model with personality.
The Yellow Tail was served with passed hors d'oeuvres that were prepared by Chef Carmen Trigueros of La Bottega in Coconut Grove. Her little bites were absolutely delectable, including the passion fruit ceviche, baby lamb chops with mole crust as well as Spanish tortilla with chorizo and pimentos, all of which were worthy of trying in full serving size.
We also sipped on this this cocktail with Chef Rodriguez's first course: a ceviche that made my mouth so happy, I really do hope they keep their word when they say it will be a regular menu item. Imagine this: loads of tender lobster meat and shredded stone crab in a cilantro based soupy mix with local heirloom tomatoes and avocado. The "gourmet" part was topping it with stone crab mustard and Botran rum ice cream, which had melted but certainly didn't hurt the dish, adding a light creaminess to your otherwise typically watery ceviche. You couldn't really taste the rum or the mustard, but somehow it worked.
Chef Mario Pagan from Puerto Rico was in town to help with second courses. I particularly liked a yuca hash he made to side with coconut crusted shrimp, which he said was "bringing back the '80s." (Well, if you bring back the '80s, make sure Crockett and Tubbs show up, too.) The humble tuber root was cut into bite-sized little squares, lightly fried and not at all greasy. Coated in cilantro and garlic, the hash offered a unique adaptation of the Cuban and Caribbean staple -- I would love the recipe.
Dessert came in the form of Blackberry and Goat Cheese Tart from D. Rodriguez Cuba's Executive Pastry Chef Christian Cobos. Since I don't like overly sweet stuff (have you noticed that yet?) I enjoyed the balance between the savory cheese and rich berries. Our drink pair for dessert was Botran Solera on the rocks, but I think the rum could have stood well on its own.
FOR YOUR INFO
See, I don't want to talk about some famous food network chefs whose asses everyone is kissing. I want to talk about good grub and drink that we can all enjoy right here in our own backyards once all the hoopla is over.
D. Rodriguez Cuba on Washington Avenue at the Hotel Astor has closed and re-opened on Ocean Drive inside the Hilton Bentley Hotel. Sit down and hold on, for you shall be shocked: they offer free valet for all restaurant customers! Yes, you heard that right, free valet in the heart of South Beach. Happy hour features $5 mojitos from lunch to 6 PM.
Carmen Triguero's La Bottega is a newish place in the Grove. Sadly, her website is under construction but she does have a Facebook page. I haven't tried the restaurant, but based on what I ate today, I'm raring to go. She seemed very dedicated and wanted to make sure we gave her honest feedback. I'm not complaining.
Rum lovers, don't forget Rum Renaissance is happening again this year at the end of April.
Ah, the South Beach Food and Wine Festival ... the buzz, the booze, the stars, the food! It's enough to make folks spend three days of total debauchery of the palate, like spring breakers on a gastronomic orgy. And event passes are worth about the same as college tuition, too.
Those much coveted tickets are swooped up so quickly by the affluent that mere mortals such as journalists and (gasp!) bloggers are left standing outside the pearly gates of foodie heaven. I had no intention of going, but it pays to have friends in low places who can bat some eyelash and pull some serious pork. As a result, I have gained entry to the inner sanctum of exclusivity, and all this without having to suck on Anthony Bourdain's coq au vin.
Gosh, I feel almost human.
So in the next couple of days, I'll probably be the only rogue blogger reporting from the lofty heights of Ocean Drive, eating and drinking more calories than any human should legally consume in a span of 24 hours.
But in the meantime, here's some breaking news: thousands of vegetarians are running for their lives from South Beach, as beef fumes from the Burger Bash choke their delicate lungs!
A recent discussion about club bashing at Miami Beach 411 has inspired the following rant. While club culture is fun for some and extremely important to tourism, you couldn't pay me enough to go to a local club and here's why:
Nostalgia ... as a Miami native, I miss the old days. Back in the 1980s when most of today's club goers were still in diapers, you could get into a spot like the Cameo or the Kitchen Club, listen to great alternative music and not have to take on that extra job as a Publix cashier just to support your clubbing lifestyle. And the pickle bucket at Wolfie's was really good at 2 am. And Cactus Cantina ... oh, I'm gonna cry now!
I may not be rich, but I have class. Clubbing attracts the wealthiest scumbags on planet. Money and class don't necessarily mix.
Clubs and assholes mix quite well, however. A night at the club wouldn't be the same without some belligerent and dangerous thugs thumping their chests with their gorilla size egos. Sometimes people get shot and clobbered at clubs. You never hear about that kind of crime happening at the Van Dyke jazz lounge, do you?
What did you say? Whaaaa? I don't want to start wearing hearing aids until I'm 80. My iPod causes enough hearing damage, thank you. Boom boom bass with no melody line blasting like a jumbo jet turbine doesn't do my ears good. Seriously, that powerful vibe should only be on my magic rabbit, if you know what I mean. When I go out, I want to talk to my friends and not end up with a case of laryngitis by the time the evening is over.
If you're at a club, you're indirectly supporting drug culture and some weird mafia scene. I had enough of seeing friends of mine lose their careers and lives to cocaine in the 80s. Don't care for that shit. Over it. And it's there ... in the bathrooms and behind secret handshakes. No thanks. REALLY no thanks.
$20 well martinis served with a 30 minute wait from an arrogant bartender. No additional comment here.
It's called dancing, not fornicating. Everyone dances like a drug-crazed baboon. What happened to the art of dance? These days it's not Fox Trot but Hot Twat. Every woman dances like she's a hoe-bag stripper or pole dancer, and that's all good, except that she's not actually working a shift at Tootsies! Oh and the dry humping couples, that's just lovely. Look, if I wanted to see couples fucking, you know what kind of club I'd go to in Broward. If you want to bump uglies, get a freakin' room at El Nido on 8th street.
People stress out about clubs. "zOMG what am I gonna wear? How am I gonna get in? OMG OMG OMG!!!" Listen people, there are children starving around the world, the cure for cancer still hasn't been found and homeless people are sleeping in their own vomit in the alley right behind Washington Avenue. Get a grip and sense of perspective.
You put yourself under unnecessary scrutiny to be judged. It's a club, for pete's sake, not the gates of heaven! Listen, life is bad enough as it is to have some random doorman tell me my big fat Cuban ass isn't good enough to get past the velvet rope. Let me tell you something: Maria never waits in line for stupid shit like this. Love, career, prosperity, the first orgasm while making love to a man you love and a good movie with a tub of buttered popcorn ... those things are WORTH waiting and working hard for.
The dress code makes pasties look like convent wear. In a city where even the mannequins are double D's, I wouldn't dress the part, even if I was back in my skinny bitch body. I mean even a Collins Avenue hooker looks more elegant with her tampon hanging out than the typical club chic skank. What ever happened to sensuality and leaving something to the imagination? Listen women, if I can see your nipples and your skirt is so short you're leaving your vaginal excretions all over the place when you sit down, then that's not a dress, but an over sized maxi pad you just paid good dollars for at Bebe on Lincoln Road.
Who are you kidding? Clubs are all about SEX SELLS. You're paying for a mental vacation from your day job. Is your life that boring and is that the only culture you've ever been exposed to? It's a theatrical experience, for sure, but it's not the same as going to a great show at the Fillmore. Bring the sexy into other aspects of your life and maybe you won't feel like you have to mortgage your house to be cool. Clubs are elitist, exclusionary and overpriced by nature, so who wants to be part of that bullshit?
There's more to Miami than clubs. With what you spend for cover and bottle service, you could probably grab a show at the Arsht Center, have a fabulous dinner at a gourmet restaurant, cocktails at a lounge and still have money to spare for the South Beach cab driver that's going to mistake you for a tourist and price gouge you.
Photo credit: The incredibly talented Miami Fever at Flickr. Wish he was still photographing Miami!
While everyone is talking about Urban Beach Week and how crazy it is, I haven't heard anyone mention the fact that there is a temporary war memorial in place at Lummus Park around 9th street and Ocean Drive. The memorial, set up by Veterans For Peace, flanks the eastern side of Ocean Drive and provides a sober and solemn reminder of the real reason for the holiday.
On one side, a bumper-to-bumper parade of tricked-out cars and a booty-to-booty display of flesh, while on the other, the make-shift tombstones of service men and women, carefully placed and marked by their surviving family members.
Now mind you, I'm not sayin' there's anything wrong with this celebration on South Beach -- I just want to point out what everyone seems to be overlooking.
Many of the tombstones mark identified fallen soldiers in their late teens and early twenties. A bereft father has turned his car into a moving memorial for his children. Amid the revelry on the streets, the contrast is shocking and heart breaking.
Yet a silent and invisible boundary seems to protect this tribute to veterans. "Everybody respects it," says Sam Feldman, president of Veterans for Peace's local chapter. "The place stays clean. This is the story that isn't told, but even here, there is respect for the memorial. We've been doing this for three years and only had two incidents."
It's actually fitting that a war memorial exist on Lummus Park. During World War II, South Beach turned from tourist town to military post. Homeowners donated iron gates from their homes for weapons manufacturing. All those quaint little art deco hotels on Ocean Drive became barracks. Mitchell Wolfson, South Beach's first Jewish mayor, served in Europe as a communications officer and came back to establish a media empire through Wometco Cinemas and South Florida's first TV station, WTVJ 4. South Beach's history is very much tied up with war, though luckily, it has never been fought on our shores.
It's not too late to check out the war memorial; it will be on display until Sunday, May 31st, after a service held at 5 PM on the same day. So if you didn't pay your respects this weekend because you were afraid of going to South Beach, next weekend, you have no excuse.
If you'd like to learn more, visit Veterans for Peace or email Sam Feldman at vetsforpeace [at] the-beach.net.
The Rum Renaissance Festival grand tasting event on Saturday was everything it promised and more: a veritable feast, nay an orgy of rum tasting galore. As a rum newbie, I learned more about the spirit in one afternoon than a lifetime of drinking could afford me, for which my liver is obviously grateful!
Robert Burr, one of the event's founders, is happy. "The festival exceeded all of our expectations," he said in a phone interview. "We had an excellent turnout. And that is an indication of my theory that rum will have a renaissance is pretty valid. Rum is not new: it's old. But it has been under-appreciated."
Held at the Shore Club hotel on Collins Avenue (which I affectionately call the Whore Club), the event also offered some prime people-gawking, South Beach's favorite pastime. My friend MKH and I, members of the American-Cuban Alliance of Honky White Folk Who Never Sunbathe, were fully clothed in pants and hats.
We stuck out like sore thumbs what with all those snowbirds traipsing half-naked through the courtyard on their way to and from the pool. I just love it how people travel hundreds of miles to be in a large tub of chlorinated water with about 500 hundred other bodies, when -- lo and behold -- a perfectly good Atlantic Ocean sits neglected nearby.
(MKH pictured here with a modestly dressed and buxom Bacardi babe.)
But I digress ... back to the rum business!
No sooner did I hobble up some stairs with my crutches (Whore Club is not handicap friendly, by the way), I was happy to see Paul Sevigny from Splash Cocktail -- my new favorite bartender -- at the first exhibitor booth. He was improvising cocktails on the fly with a French fruit concentrate product called Les Vergers Boiron, a thick fruit purée that is 100% pure, with no added sugar or artificial flavors. It's perfect for professional pastry chefs, so why not bartenders? Unfortunately, it's not yet available retail, but I hope it will be soon enough -- the intenselyrich mango, passion fruit and blackberry flavors I sampled made me reconsider my usual distaste for syrupy, sweet drinks.
As for the other booths, oh my! Where do I begin? There were dozens of exhibitors, a dizzying number that made it impossible to try them all in the span of a few hours. And by dizzying I don't mean sloshed: you can't get tipsy and expect to take good notes!
Even though some exhibitors were serving cocktails, most were actually eager to supply rum enthusiasts with small portions of their spirits, which is really how you should "taste" the rum -- neat or with a single ice cube (see video below).
Do you see the variety of countries from which these spirits hail? I find the history of rum to be just as interesting as the beverage itself. For example: Zacapa is aged at one and half miles above sea level; Mount Gay is the oldest brand in the world (since 1703); and Castries Rum Cream relies on locally grown peanuts and spices.
To know the history of what you're drinking makes the beverage all the more interesting to imbibe. I encourage anyone who is new to rum to explore the history behind each distillery. You'll learn quite a bit about our little corner of the world here in the tropical western hemisphere.
I also learned much about distinguishing one brand and type from the other by color, flavor and aroma. No, they don't all taste the same, and to arrive to this conclusion you need to instruct your palette in the art of subtlety, not to mention patience!
What I loved the most from the whole festival? Hands down, the rich, dark rums that you can sip slowly like brandy. Mount Gay, J. M Rhum, Zacapa and Zaya come to mind. Zaya has some incredibly fragrant vanilla and chocolate notes; it's like drinking a rain forest full of orchids.
On the other hand, I could definitely do without Bacardi's fruit varieties. The Dragonberry (dragon fruit and strawberry) tasted more like a corn syrup pop tart than real dragon fruit, but I suppose these varieties are good for mixing.
Nowhere to be found was the chilled swill that you'd find at Wet Willie's down the street at Ocean Drive. However, a frozen nitrogen drink featuring Don Q, while impressive in its elaboration and a decidedly tasty mix of guava and mint, could not, unfortunately, hold up to the Florida humidity. A 7-11 slurpee stays colder longer.
As I suspected, after the VIP tasting during Part 1, Castries Rum Creme was absolutely yummy in the hands of a capable bartender. Rob, Paul's business partner (my second favorite bartender!), made an incredible Thai Basil drink that is even somewhat healthy: muddle some jalapeño, basil and ginger, combine with vanilla vodka (he was using Stoli), Domaine de Canton (ginger liqueur) and Castries, shake, pour over ice in a highball glass and garnish with basil leaves (see video below). Again, the savory and sweet combination really adds zing to any aperitif. Castries Rum Creme was also wonderful all on its own, over ice.
A CONVERSATION WITH ROBERT BURR
Burr, with whom I shared a delightful phone conversation about South Florida and Caribbean history a few days after the event, hails from a long line of South Florida pioneers and influential Miami citizens. He publishes the The Great Gables Guide and is also very involved in promoting the Redlands.
Burr used to publish a magazine about scuba diving, which led him to the islands, where he would, invariably, taste rum and collect stories about rum. "Somewhere along the way, I decided I should get every bottle of rum that exists," he said.
And that's how it all started. Burr believes that rum drinking is really a journey. "When someone begins to discover rum, there's so much variation," he explained. "Everyone will find a rum they like. It's a way to celebrate island cultures. Every island has wonderful attributes and I think we see those reflected in each rum. I know a lot about rum, but I am always discovering."
Though an expert, Burr is definitely no rum snob ready to preach some hoity-toity gospel about the spirit. He reminds me of Gary Vaynerchuck, who has done for wine nationwide what Burr is doing for rum here in Miami -- making it cool and groovy, accessible to everyone and a joy to discover.
Burr shares my taste for cocktails that have clear, defined flavors. "A true, original daiquiri is really simple -- lemon juice, sugar and rum. The simplicity of it cannot be duplicated," he claimed. "Also, ginger beer and rum were made for each other."
And clearly, rum has found a friend in Robert.
Want to learn more about rum? Grab a copy of Robert Burr's Gifted Rums Guide; this inexpensive, small booklet features a few articles and a comprehensive listing of different brands and types of rum. For tasting events in South Florida, subscribe to Robert's mailing list. Each event costs about $20 and introduce tasters to about a dozen fine rums. Expect more events as the season picks up later this fall.
Random news, commentary and photographs. Updated at least once every menstrual cycle, if not more frequently. If you are easily offended, do not read on!
Since we're all going to die from swine flu, I thought I would focus on vanity in this edition of Planet Manola.
Today's Herald features an article about Donna Sozio, a self-proclaimed "shoe-ologist" who claims she can size up a man based on his shoes:
• If the shoe is really clean and the stitching moves in one direction, then the person may be balanced or organized.
• If the shoe has cluttered stitching, then the wearer may welcome chaos in his life.
• If the shoe has long laces, then the man has boyish characteristics.
Is this for real? Well, here's my rule of thumb. Never date a man whose hair is more fabulous than yours! Let's start talking about hair. You know how important that was for Bill Gates in rescuing his marriage!
Seriously, I never think to look at a man's shoes. Does that make me a piss-poor candidate for Millionare Matchmaker? Oh Lawd! I might as well pop that can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and trim my toenails while watching Jerry Springer, right? Does this mean I'll end marrying Mr. Buttcrack? And what would Joe Plumber have to say about that?
Well, there's so much more to a man that what he puts on his feet. And besides, all the sartorial fireworks in the world aint gonna make up for a lack of personality. If he's just right in every respect but his shoes, why kick him out of bed?
For real. If he's some rich dude and is way too obsessed with his footwear, I'd be turned off. But you know, a barefoot crackhead on Biscayne Boulevard won't get me to come hither either.
So how about a happy medium? The idea behind Never Trust a Man in Alligator Loafers is definitely sound:
... her theory explains how a man's relationship with himself trickles down onto every relationship he has, which includes his relationship with shoes and his relationship with his significant other.
True, guys. If you can't take care of yourselves, how are you going to take care of us? Still, while I wouldn't want you to look quite this trashy, I'd rather you take more care of other things than your shoes.
New contributor at Miami Beach 411, recent northeast transplant and utterly lovely Christy, goes where no voluptuous, big-ass Cuban woman dare go: South Beach boutiques! If you wonder why South Beach is famous for its scantily clad denizens of nightclubs, it's because most dresses sold are barely larger than a maxipad and far less absorbent than a shamwow! (That's Manola talkin', not Christy.)
In her words:
There are many factors at play in our decision to wear a cocktail dress. We want to show off our tan, show off our body, and it’s hot here! We enjoy getting dressed up and looking as sizzling as our town’s nightlife. We’ll save those skinny jeans for a night out in NY, thank you very much! And most of Miami’s tourists play along. A friend of mine revealed that, to her, one of the best parts of coming to Miami is being able to wear the racy dresses that somehow accumulate in her conservative closet!
So to make the long hem short -- you guessed it -- South Beach is the place where it's ok to like a ho! We've always known this here on Planet Manola. And we also know that in South Beach, "cocktail dress" refers not to the length of your hem, but the alcoholic beverage that you will be wearing after some coked-out asshole spills your drink all over your boobs as you make your way to the bathroom.
How to get that look? Read more at A Girl's Guide to Shopping and Style in South Beach. Kudos to Christy for showing us the ropes to get inside the velvet rope! There are tons of fashion-savvy tips about different shops in the area -- from the relatively economical to the Black Amex splurge.
