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"Washington Avenue was out of balance for a while," Gross continues. "It got too overloaded with clubs, and when there's too many, the low-end clubs become bottom feeders and attract the wrong kind of crowd to the Beach: people who don't spend any money -- just add trash to the streets, drain our services, tax our police. That's all started to turn around."
Strong medicine? No doubt. But clubland's more prosperous proprietors agree with Gross, which is why they quietly supported the city's closure in 1999 of several after-hours establishments, as well as last year's 21-and-over age restriction on nightclub entry.
Saul Gross's nuanced perspective on growth may sound a bit odd coming from a developer. Aren't developers supposed to worship the mantra of "growth is good, the bigger the better?" What is Miami Beach itself if not a testament to real estate speculation, a mangrove-clogged sandbar transformed into a resort isle? Yet spend some time with Gross and you'll come to realize that not all developers are created alike.
Among those who can take credit for the rebirth of South Beach in the late Eighties is Gross, who alongside a handful of other pioneers, such as Tony Goldman, Craig Robins, and Mel Schlesser, fell in love with the Art Deco District. At that time, left to their own devices, most Beach commissioners and realtors would have preferred simply to flatten the whole area and start anew.
"I have to laugh when I look back on it," Gross recalls over a lunch with Kulchur at the Van Dyke Café. When he first set foot in Flamingo Park in 1984 as a 30-year-old New Yorker, "South Beach was a historic area that no one was doing anything with."
That's something of an understatement. Photographer Bruce Weber had yet to put the burg on the international fashion map. Instead of the portfolio-toting models who would act as chum in the water for thousands to come, the blocks south of Lincoln Road were a rough-and-tumble mix of Marielitos living uneasily amid the graying remnants of a once-thriving Jewish shtetl. Crime was rampant, crackhouses a common sight, and the drug-dealing shootouts infamously dramatized in Scarface's opening scenes all too real.
"I'd had a pretty straight corporate existence in Manhattan as a real estate lawyer," Gross remembers. "I was earning a pretty good living. I didn't move here for the money." Like so many other Northerners, Gross found himself seduced by "the architecture, the sun, the beach, the whole style of life here.
"When I finished renovating my first building in 1986 and I put out my ďFor Rent' sign, I had no idea if anybody would even rent a single apartment," he marvels. "People thought I was crazy: 'I can't believe you're putting all this money into these old buildings!' Was it a sound investment strategy? Maybe not. But it was also a labor of love. Next thing I knew I went from renovating a single apartment on [Manhattan's] Upper West Side for $30,000 to renovating 100 apartments down here for $5 million."
As the Nineties got under way, the early risk-takers were joined by a fresh crop of developers, many from across Biscayne Bay with very different ideas about how to proceed. South Beach was burgeoning into a new hot spot, and real estate values were soaring. A clash of development philosophies was inevitable. A slew of skyline-obliterating high-rises was being proposed, and in Gross's view the very qualities that first attracted him to Florida appeared to be under siege. "As South Beach matured, we matured politically," he recalls, referring to himself, Goldman, Robins, and Schlesser. One of that quartet's first political forays involved backing the successful 1991 commission campaign of attorney Neisen Kasdin.
A decade later Goldman is now incoming chairman of the Greater Miami Convention & Visitors Bureau, Schlesser leads the Miami Beach Planning Board, and Robins, who has shifted his attention to Miami's Design District and North Beach, remains a key behind-the-scenes SoBe player as well as one of the city's foremost art patrons.
Kasdin, of course, is the outgoing mayor of Miami Beach, and he's made it clear to his supporters the best way to ensure that his legacy endures is to vote for Saul Gross. "When you dedicate a large portion of your life to the community, you want to see it go in the right direction," Gross says of his motivations for seeking office. "And that means getting involved politically to make sure the vision we had for the area is the one that gets implemented." (As of October 12, Gross had raised nearly $159,000 in campaign contributions, far more than the combined totals of his four opponents, Joe Fontana, Louis Martinez, Dan Pearson, and Julio Lora.)