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Not to be outdone by our northern neighbors, Miami has spawned a few of its own kooky cafes. And after dining at two of them, I can say that while I'm not convinced they're in it for the long haul, the fun factor is fairly high. As for the cuisine, it probably would have tasted better had I been fairly high.
Take Tastes Like Chicken. Located at the top of Ocean Drive, this South Beach newcomer specializes in the gastronomically exotic. And the interior, designed by industrial-waste artist Billy Blastoff (best known for his Cherrynoble installation, which he formed exclusively from radioactive material), reflects it. My party sat beneath a sponge-painted mural of a picnic scene in which people-size ants chomped on sandwiches while humans were busily swarming the tablecloth in an industrious double row. A pair of mottoes painted in gold leaf -- "We Cook Anything" and "Tastes Like Chicken or Your Money Back" -- emblazon the mirror behind the bar.
Such provocative declarations practically demand that you test them -- especially when applied to Tastes Like Chicken's menu. Not content with preparing the venison, pheasant, quail, and rabbit other game-oriented eateries have suddenly rediscovered, chef Mike Richards reaches farther afield for atypical delicacies. Make that way farther afield. "Serving game is a trend right now, and I don't want to jump on any covered wagons," says Richards, who graduated from the Culinary Institute of America with that school's top honor, the Prix de Paillard. "Sure, we've got all that ordinary nonsense on the menu A buffalo steaks, elk sausage, wood pigeon pie A but that's only because you have to make a few concessions to stay in business. I mean, it's all so redundant these days. What I'm aiming to create is a real safari for the mouth." Not surprisingly, Richards counts among his mentors Calvin W. Schwabe, author of the seminal work, Unmentionable Cuisine.
Ergo appetizers such as offal of opossum in a port wine-and-rosemary reduction. Not exactly for the faint of heart (pardon the pun) and still bearing a faint urine tinge from the kidneys, this visceral melange was rich, albeit tough. Even tougher was the $24.95 price tag. Armadillo fajitas were a bargain by comparison (though this Southwestern-inspired delicacy was a bit too chunky for our taste), topped by a smooth sour cream-based salsa spiked with a hearty puree of roasted garlic and peppers. Tricolore potato chips, a noteworthy innovation, provided an enticing counterpoint.
Shy palates might cringe at the thought of consuming Richards's signature "rain forest crunch," pan-fried Antillean pewees scattered on a bed of steamed eucalyptus leaves and topped with honey-roasted cashew dust. Crisp and grease-free, the birds were nevertheless somewhat brittle. The chef, who believes food can be found anywhere, also offers a bar menu whose more wallet-friendly pricing allows patrons to sample foods they normally wouldn't ever consider trying. We tackled with gusto the baby guinea pig carpaccio (a Peruvian import) seasoned with preserved lemon oil and a dollop of cräme fraĆche. Our sole quibble was that we couldn't seem to forget the dish's origin, given the small circumference of the thin slices. The same went for goldfish ceviche, nicely "cooked" in a tangy-spicy marinade laced with fresh cilantro and Scotch bonnet peppers.
Main courses were slightly less eclectic than the starters -- and not nearly as successful. Intrigued by a section of the menu labeled "Chain of Command," which pairs hunter with prey before serving to the diner (who is, of course, the ultimate predator), we bypassed more beeflike grilled items such as yak, camel, and emu and ordered two entries. Alligator tenderloin was juicy and rare if a little gamy, but the smoked frogs' legs stuffed within were far too salty. An accompanying fire ant-and-basmati rice pilaf, however, was virtually inedible, unappealingly mushy and evidencing hardly any of the promised piquancy. "Backwoods Bear-and-Hare Bourgignon" proved another disappointment, relying too much on mediocre meat and not enough on a good balance of stock and spices. (The bear, which should have been a veritable carnival of carnivorous delight, was utterly flavorless; the hare nothing but sinew. And if this burgundy wasn't of the Gallo Hearty variety, Richards paid too much for it.) An unpleasant musk steamed from the dish.
As we have come to expect from the typical Beach eatery, the service at Tastes Like Chicken was as bad as the stew. A jellyfish sashimi A this and the alligator-frog duet were the only two locally based concoctions A came smothered with lubber grasshopper remoulade, which we had specifically requested on the side. Tempura leeches with sour plum sauce were cold and soggy, as was an arthropod paella. In his search for back-to-roots dining, it seems, Richards skipped the more elemental quest for fire.