I was born into a family of suburban fishermen. On weekends, vacations, and holidays while I was growing up, my father, brother, and sister liked nothing better than to drop a line into the water. They were pretty good at it, too. Show them a fast-running stream and they’d show…
I phoned Las Pampas Argentinian Steak and Pasta House, a two-month-old restaurant on Biscayne Boulevard in North Miami. “Are you open?” I inquired. A reasonable question: It was a Monday night, and some restaurants in that neighborhood of strip malls and business offices find it more practical not to open…
In the movie Big, Tom Hanks plays a young boy who is granted his fervent wish to be a grownup, treating the audience to scene after scene of a twentysomething man scouting out toy stores, engaging in food fights, and decorating his apartment with pinball tables and soda machines. My…
I’ve been accused of writing this column out of spite. She harbors a secret, unfulfilled wish to own a restaurant, some gossips whisper, and that’s why she can be so hypercritical. She’s jealous. Truth is, I would like to own a restaurant. But it’s no secret. My friends (who open…
July is the month for celebrating the existence of America, and I’m all for it. I like where I live. I like the principles on which the United States was founded. I’ve always believed in the strength of diversity and individualism, and though some of our constitutional rights fail us…
Writing about food is a lot like writing about fashion: You know a new trend is going to be unveiled in the fall, but you can’t always predict what it will be. As an observer, you can comment on it, note its good points and bad. As a consumer, you’re…
“All of our restaurants are casual,” the owner of the Seaside Inn on Sanibel Island told us, “and none of them is great.” On a brief weekend getaway from Miami, I had only a few chances to experience local flavor, so I did something I hardly ever do when I’m…
Every night at about ten o’clock, my phone rings just once, as if someone had pinged the bell with a forefinger. If I answer it, I hear only the dial tone. “Power surge,” my husband suggests. But I know better, and my psychic agrees: My grandmother passed away last year,…
I love summer projects, and this year I’ve taken on a doozy: overhauling our restaurant capsules. Revisiting restaurants I haven’t been to lately, checking out places that have undergone alterations in chef, menu, or management. I can’t rewrite the capsule on every restaurant — that would take years — but…
“It’s all about balance,” my dinner companion, a fellow writer, said to me over cocktails a few evenings ago. She paused to sip her Cuda Red Ale thoughtfully. “Yes,” she said, swallowing appreciatively, holding up her pint glass as if to catch and drink the setting sun. “Balance.” My friend…
When I got married, my mother-in-law gave me the family bible –the cookbook her temple had put together as a community fundraiser one year. All of her son’s favorite childhood dishes were in there. I thanked her and assured her I’d never let him starve. I didn’t have the heart…
I have a love/hate relationship with high-priced brunches, buffets, salad bars — virtually any all-you-can-eat meal. I adore the endless variety, and the idea of sampling, taking little tastes of dishes without being obliged to order or consume an entire portion, appeals to me. I’m also a big fan of…
In the Eighties, when consumerism was at an all-time high, Americans became adventurous, willing to try anything without thought of the consequences. Extreme sports. Junk bonds. And food: sushi. Steak tartare topped with raw egg. In the Nineties, we’re still bungee jumping and whitewater rafting. The stock market thrives. But…
In order to maintain my anonymity, I caution my guests about being obvious. Don’t call me Jen, I warn them. Don’t mention New Times. Don’t be too enthusiastic about the food. Talk about something — anything — else. I’ve yet to be found out in a restaurant while I’m working…
Surfside. Bal Harbour. North Bay Village. Bay Harbor Islands. A war brews in the least likely of neighborhoods. Only this one isn’t about drugs, guns, or gangs. This fight’s about noodles. Prompted by my remark a few columns ago linking Oggi Caffe to Cafe Prima Pasta, Prima Pasta’s owner Gerardo…
Dedicated to the proposition that all restaurant customers are created equal, I have a recurring dream: I walk into Mark’s in the Grove, where I have made a reservation, and don’t have to wait more than half an hour for my table, buying seven-dollar glasses of wine at the bar…
My husband opened the refrigerator, stuffed with the rich remains of tony meals we couldn’t finish. He closed the door and sighed. There was nothing he wanted to eat. “Time to find a dive,” he said. My editor marked up yet another in a series of reviews of New World,…
Like a beacon to the untalented, a white baby grand piano sat in the middle of the terrazzo floor of South Beach’s Astor Place Bar & Grill. Next to it was a rowdy table of ten, five guys and their model-type girls. One man, encased in tight black pants and…
In a recent article titled “Why I Disapprove of What I Do,” New York Times restaurant critic Ruth Reichl reflects on a piece of advice given to her in the Seventies by the late M.F.K. Fisher. To be a restaurant critic, Fisher told her, you have to be “one of…
I have a friend who likes to order his pasta al dente. I laugh every time we go to a restaurant together. In this age of trend-conscious restaurateuring, springy noodles cooked “to the tooth” are a given, his have-it-my-way directive equivalent to ordering a Whopper “on a bun, please.” Or…
I’m homesick for New Orleans, though I’ve never actually lived there. Moist breezes blowing into sudden summer pyrotechnics. Distinctive architecture housing distinctive modern-art galleries. Tugboats guiding cargo ships up and down the muddy river. Dialects and accents blending as if in a Cuisinart switched on high. And over it all,…
Certain candies have commemorative powers for me. I can’t see a Heath bar without remembering cramming for college exams, a Milky Way without recalling the Sunday night stuff-my-face ritual before the starvation diets that always began on high school Monday mornings, a Charleston Chew without tasting once again the sea…
