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
Last week I had one of those head colds no Comtrex can touch. My sinuses were so swollen that I felt like a river after the spring melt. I pulled abdominal muscles coughing, I couldn't speak or breathe, and, let's face it, you could have served me mud for dessert and I might have told you it was the best chocolate pudding I ever had.
But it wasn't the congestion that annoyed me so much as it was the advice: Everybody had an opinion about how I should treat myself, and it all seemed to involve consuming something. My mother recommended saltwater to open those nasal passages. My sister insisted on the ubiquitous chicken soup -- which she actually flew down from New York to make for me. (Well, that's a little misleading; she was coming to visit anyway.) My friend Mary wanted me to eat garlic. The woman who delivered my dinner from Oasis Cafe one night suggested raw onions with lime. And a waiter from Yesterday's in Fort Lauderdale wanted me to do shots of cognac with lemon rind.
That took care of the lily and citrus families. Then we got to the herbal remedies: A server from Hampton Cafe on Lincoln Road suggested St. Johnswort, while the woman from the catalogue company who took my phone order for Hanukkah presents recommended that I boil a bunch of unappetizing roots and leaves into icky teas.
Truth is, I don't totally mind the occasional stuffy nose. Sure, a cold interferes with the taste buds, but tasting isn't all there is to eating. Like the way that blindness is said to sharpen the sense of hearing, loss of taste increases the mouth's sensitivity to texture. I've always been impressed by how important texture is to the function of eating. I remember a study I read in a college psychology textbook: One group of rats was surgically manipulated into feeling the texture of food but not tasting it, while another group could taste the food but not feel it. The rats who could still discern textures survived; the rodents who couldn't lost interest in food and died. Think about it: Would you rather experience the cool creaminess of ice cream numbing your tongue and running down your overheated throat on a sweltering summer's day, or merely be aware of its flavor?
I also discovered that even when blocked sinuses prevent you from enjoying specific flavors, you can still identify four basic taste sensations: sweet, sour, salty, and spicy. That's some consolation to the sneezing sufferer, at least. And then there's my favorite remedy, the one I always resort to sooner or later: Feed a cold. Call it an old wives' tale, call it rationalization, but when the germs start multiplying in my body, so do the calories. I firmly believe a hearty meal cures all. And long after the ailment is on the run, I continue to indulge -- because hey, you don't want to leave yourself vulnerable to a repeat attack.
I was already on the mend when I took myself to the perfect spa for a sickie, Steak Masters. At this Brazilian steak house on Ponce de Leon Boulevard in Coral Gables, stuffing the stomach is really the only option: All-you-can-eat rodizio -- the showy Brazilian method of serving meat that features servers who tote around skewers laden with beef, pork, chicken, lamb, and sausages -- is the sole menu entry. At the beginning of the meal, each diner is given a card that's green on one side and red on the other. If you have your card turned to its green side, servers will pause at your plate and slice off some of what they're carrying so you can grab it with a pair of tongs. As long as that card reads green, your plate stays full. When you've had enough or want to take a rest, you simply flip the card over to the red side.
Given that Miami already has one notable rodizio restaurant, Porcio, Steak Masters has its work, uh, carved out for it. And at first the restaurant seems up to the challenge. The patterned wood floors gleam; the bilevel dining room, decorated with prints of cattle, nicely foreshadows the meal to come; and the adjoining lounge is dark and smoky. But the anchor of the restaurant is neither decor nor atmosphere; it's the 37-item salad bar beckoning from the back of the room, with unlimited visits included in the $24.50 price of the rodizio experience.
We filled our plates with everything from couscous with cucumbers to marinated mussels and octopus to shredded ham in mayonnaise. Julienned beets, giant green olives, pickled pearl onions, hearts of palm, whole artichoke hearts, and fresh balls of mozzarella were only a few of the garnishes. Though the prosciutto and other sliced meats, set out on platters along with shaved cheeses, seemed a little old at the edges, the lettuces -- bright, tightly curled radicchio, pale spears of endive, frilly green leaf -- were particularly crisp. Still another salad bar offering, vegetable-beef soup, was a savory broth rich and redolent with the essences of the meats being served around the room, accented with peas, carrots, and onions. An excellent segue to the skewers.