By David Minsky
By Jen Mangham
By Bill Wisser
By Laine Doss
By Bill Wisser
By Dana De Greff
By Laine Doss
By Zachary Fagenson
I had been looking forward to reading Pat Conroy's latest best seller, Beach Music, for two reasons: I admire Conroy's flowery style, and the Southern-boy protagonist in this novel, Jack McCall, is a food and travel writer. Devouring page after page of well-crafted, poetic descriptions of different dishes and cities, I figured, would be the literary equivalent of savoring an outstandingly prepared meal in an exotic land. As I usually do when I anticipate mental satiation (such as when I first read Conroy's Prince of Tides), I even laid in a stock of gourmet snacks to enhance the experience.
I needn't have bothered. Beach Music is a torturous read, so overwritten -- packed with observations like "For me memory was the country of the usable past but I now began to wonder if there was not also a danger to unremembrance" -- that I began to wonder if an editor had so much as glanced at it before sending it off to press. Worse, the passages about food -- "I could not imagine that nectar in Paradise could have tasted any better than that freshly picked tomato" -- were way over the culinary top. After several futile attempts, I put the book down out of sheer frustration, vowing never to pick up the self-indulgent tripe again.
The same compulsion that requires me to down the leftovers in my fridge before I can review another meal, however, led me back to Beach Music again and again. Reading bits and pieces seemed to do the digestive trick, and as with a forkful of a heavy dessert, I discovered the titillation of a small taste. What's more, I eventually found Conroy's passion for his subject -- the swampy coastal regions of South Carolina's Low Country and the area's rich heritage of food and culture -- somewhat inspiring. If Conroy were a chef, I began to realize, I'd probably laud his commitment.
All this to say that despite the usual stockpile in my pantry, a craving for grits and gravy was perhaps inevitable. And while Conroy may not cook this time out, Marvin D. Woods, executive chef at Savannah, most assuredly does.
Open for a month on Washington Avenue just below Fifth Street on South Beach, this 163-seat Low Country restaurant, lounge, and cabaret fills what I have long felt to be a yawning void in Miami. Although several local chefs employ Southern influence and ingredients (Kerry Simon of Mercury and Johnny Vinczenz of Astor Place come to mind), none has gone the fairly strict Carolina route the way Woods, late of New York City's Cafe Beulah, has. His menu, which takes fried chicken and okra upscale, highlights Southern cooking's African roots without regard for stereotypes. Black-eyed peas and collard greens have never been prepared so elegantly, nor served with so much pride -- at least not around these parts.
Woods reinvents everything, beginning with corn bread and biscuits, which are doled out one by one by busboys who stop by all too infrequently (one per customer was the norm). A delicious spread composed of pureed corn, garlic, and butter accompanied the bread. Filled hush puppies, different varieties of which are offered nightly, were another familiar food rendered imaginatively here. We ordered salmon pups as an appetizer but wound up with beef tenderloin; four light, crunchy dough balls stuffed with chunks of juicy, medium-rare filet. One bite of these and we resolved not to send them back in exchange for our original request. A tangy barbecue sauce complemented both the hush puppies and an order of chicken drumettes -- hefty chicken wings coated in a spicy batter and deep-fried to a greaseless finish, then served around an arugula centerpiece. Hooters could take a lesson here.
A multitude of textures, including stone bricks (like you see on houses in Charleston), blond wood, woven canvas fabric, leather, and long oval mirrors, all surrounding a lacquered grand piano in the dining room, unite into a beautiful whole. Likewise, a host of cultural influences put a spin on the fare but don't knock it off track. Two different kinds of roti, for instance, project India onto the appetizer list. Once again, though, we wound up being served what we hadn't ordered, and this time we sent back the beef version and demanded the one made with seasonal vegetables: julienned squash, zucchini, and carrots roasted and enclosed in warm nan that tasted too much like pita bread. The bread was brushed with a ground yellow-lentil dal, adding nubbly texture to each bite, but a billed cucumber "coolant" was more plate decoration than sauce, a dumbed-down raita. The dish, as a result, was a little dry. Utilizing Indian -- or even truly seasonal -- vegetables might also give this recipe a lift.
Under a "Lite and Low" menu heading, several salads are arranged. A pile of fresh green arugula drizzled with warm blue cheese and fried okra prove this to be false advertising -- everything but the greens packed a caloric punch. Still, the peppery combination of arugula and okra, soothed by the creamy and pungent cheese, was worth the fat grams. Confit of duck is a less-filling salad, though not quite "lite." Nuggets of barbecued bird were interspersed with baby lettuces, with sunflower seeds and couscous adding interesting, nutty garnishes, and an unobtrusively sweet honey-mustard vinaigrette tying together all the ingredients.