Locals don't bother with it much any more. Sure, we'll take a stroll on our way to and from the beach, but come dinnertime we'd rather go hungry than subject ourselves to the hordes. This rule of red-lining is not without its consequences. Some Ocean Drive restaurants -- a Mano, for instance -- are among the best in South Florida. So when I could no longer stand incredulous comments like, "You mean you've never eaten at the Colony Bistro? But it's exceptional!" I made a reservation, wrestled my way through the rabble, and went. Twice.
The Colony, in its third year of operation and already something of a sure thing, attracted even more attention when Robbin Haas took over in the kitchen last July. Formerly executive chef at the posh Turnberry Isle Resort & Club, Haas hobnobs with the big boys, and he wants us to know it: The Colony Bistro menu name-drops "David Burke's basil potatoes" as a side dish. (Burke, star chef of New York City's Park Avenue Cafe, is known not only for his spuds but also for his sense of humor. His swordfish "chops" are served with numbered tags that qualify you for a raffle.) Maybe Haas is just giving credit where it's due. But this kind of thing makes an impression. Indeed, a party of six next to us declared his menu "very New York" -- the ultimate seal of approval. Not coincidentally, they had also dined at the Park Avenue Cafe.
In actuality, the menu is anything but New York. Malanga-and-horseradish-crusted salmon on a mango, roast pepper, and onion salsa served with sweet-hot baked calabaza. Pan-seared mahi-mahi with roasted red-pepper sauce and tostones, garnished with relishes of scotch bonnet peppers, tomatoes, and mangoes. If labels must be attached, these are very South Florida. They are also ambitious, their aggressive flavors matching an equally determined kitchen. Vegetables are roasted for maximum intensity, herbs are infused. Goat cheese figures prominently, as do truffles and shiitake and portobello mushrooms. Even the accent fruits Haas chooses, such as mango and the powerful passion fruit, are vigorous. But strength against strength doesn't always work, a consequence that gifted, forward-thinking chefs must risk.
Haas's success with appetizers was uniformly impressive. Duck breast cured in citrus molasses was sliced and fanned over a bed of tossed greens and firm papaya. Halved red grapes added crunch and sweetness, buttery ground hazelnuts were scattered around the circumference of the plate, and a pungent, salty, black olive vinaigrette dressed the salad. The duck melted like filet mignon on the tongue, and the play of flavors, from game to greens to fruit to nut, was marvelous.
Honey-chili barbecued quail was an exquisite rendering of a bird that's hearty in flavor but delicate in form. This tender, unusually meaty quail topped a warm slaw comprising crunchy jicama, sweet peppers, and pale, sauteed cabbage. A relish of yellow corn and red pepper was a colorful counterpoint, though it was too artificially sweet to be truly successful.
Crisp, pan-seared herbed shrimp served on a "hoppin' John" risotto provided yet another complex combination of tastes and textures. A "shrimped-up" tomato sauce added intensity, although the jumbo shrimp had plenty of zip all their own. Salt and spice were subtle but lingering, a ballast to the tomato and to the starchy creaminess of the piquant and sticky rice, which mixed well with black-eyed peas.
Incidentally, though Haas deserves to be commended for his descriptions of menu items, he tends to try a bit too hard -- a former menu featured "sexed-up" frog legs. Doubtless he will work through this overzealousness in time. But what really irks me are the typos and misspellings, which I take to be signs of laziness and inattention. I'll refrain from a lengthy tirade (I burnt out proofing Van Dome's disastrous menu locution last summer) but I will say this: If you're going to misspell a word, at least be consistent. Risotto is spelled three different ways on this menu. (On the plus side, one of those manifestations is the correct one.)
For a main course, we tried another risotto dish, though that was actually a creative misnomer -- it was made with orzo. A generous bowlful of the rice-shaped pasta was topped with grilled asparagus, pieces of succulent portobello mushrooms, braised endive, squash, and a colorful supply of peppers. Unfortunately, this vegetarian dish, enhanced by a truffle-mushroom broth, was overpowering and had a bitter, medicinal flavor. On a subsequent visit our waiter described the orzo as the kitchen's gesture toward herbivores; he characterized it and the menu's only chicken offering as "not representative" of the menu. True enough. So I ask: Why make it at all? Vegetarians wouldn't like it, either.
The grilled tuna "mignon," another disappointing entree, bore little resemblance to its namesake. Requested medium-rare, this steak arrived closer to medium-well, barely pink in the thickest part. Though the tuna retained its integrity and was juicy and firmly fleshed, it was marred by the unpleasant aftertaste of a too-smoky charcoal grill. The dish was attractive, served on a platform of arugula, and a delicious side of pan-fried potatoes layered with olives, roasted peppers, thyme, and sun-dried tomatoes provided much-needed distraction.
I didn't hit the entree jackpot until my second visit. The sesame-glazed yellowtail snapper was accompanied by shiitake mushrooms, bok choy, celery, peppers, and sliced Chinese sausage in a just-sweet-enough, hoisin-based sauce. While the menu description proved misleading (the snapper was not glazed but dredged and pan-fried) the presentation was both unusual and attractive: Cut into thirds, the fillet was tiered like a wedding cake, each layer "iced" with vegetables. The flavors were arresting, despite the fact that the fish itself was overdone and a little tough.
One of the most interesting -- and one of the tastiest -- treatments of meat I've seen in this city of fish fanatics is Haas's tenderloin "sandwich." Here beef was grilled to medium-rare perfection and cut into a pair of disks, as one might slice a bagel. Eggplant, portobello mushrooms, and tiny shelled crayfish made up the stuffing, and fresh spinach lined the plate. Two sauces complemented the peppery meat: a rich and tangy passion-fruit bearnaise, and a thin truffle broth.
Though entree portions are plentiful, it would be a mistake to skip the Colony's desserts, delicacies that rival Mark's Place for attention to detail. One of the simplest is Florida bananas baked in rum and cinnamon. Prepared in a casserole dish and served with vanilla ice cream, the bananas were soft but held their shape. This was sweet hot-and-cold goodness, tasting like everyone's fantasy of the perfect apple pie.
Unfortunately, sometimes the talent in the kitchen has little to do with the experience a diner has in the restaurant. On our first visit, my companion and I were seated at a veritable Tom Thumb of a table. Between the glasses, salt and pepper shakers, two sets of silverware, and a basket of crusty baguettes, there was little room for anything else, particularly the Colony's oversize plates. We felt awkward, all elbows, as if we were dining in a dollhouse; by the time the entrees arrived, we were paying more attention to the security of the dishes balancing on the edge of the table than to the food they held. While I appreciate the need to squeeze as many tables as possible onto the sidewalk, I prefer not to be squeezed (at least not in public). And this table had been wishfully set for three. A third diner would have had to hold his plate on his lap. On our repeat visit, we sat in the Colony's beautiful Art Deco dining room. Although space there is also at a premium, the tables are a little bit larger.
In contrast to the tables, the Colony's prices are deceptively prodigious. Though entrees occupy a reasonable (this is Ocean Drive, after all) $17.50 to $27.50 range, two side dishes -- baby asparagus with passionfruit vinaigrette and roasted garlic potatoes -- are offered, priced at $8.50 and $5.50 respectively. Even worse, although the menu does list these prices, on one visit our waiter inquired whether we would prefer the asparagus or the mashed potatoes with our main courses, the way one would if the vegetables were included at no extra charge. This less-than-sincere ploy, unfortunately, is not uncommon in the trade and is hard for waiters to resist, given the accompanying augmentation of their tips.
Spending a good deal of green stuff on gourmet food goes with the territory; it's both my job and a privilege to eat so well. But that doesn't make money any less meaningful to me. I was astounded to find that the glass of house wine our first waiter had so graciously recommended cost seven dollars. (Only bottle prices are listed on the ample, mostly California/French wine list.) Yes, patrons can ask, but if a restaurant is going to offer wine by the glass without putting it in writing, it ought to have the decency to state prices, too. Perhaps the biggest insult on the check was the $2.50 we were charged for an ordinary cup of American coffee -- another hidden cost, unlisted on any menu.
Aside from wanting to avoid the crowds, we locals tend to stay away from Ocean Drive for one simple reason: We don't relish the thought of being taken for tourists (i.e., treated like nuisances from whom large amounts of money can be extracted with relative ease).
Some of us also realize that ultimately the method by which the tourist is separated from his dollar has a direct impact on the local economy, and thus on all of us. Alienate the tourists enough, and they'll stop coming back. Think back to November, when a summer marred by tourist murders had caused a near panic among the people whose livelihoods depend on seasonal visitors. Though we may not admit it now, we were worried. Remember those cruel, empty months before Mother Nature saved the collective ass of our little American Riviera by bombarding the northeast with blizzards and sending the snowbirds down here like so many frozen chickens.
Like I said, it had been a long time since I'd dined on Ocean Drive.
