Asian Con-Fusion

Work took me to Miami this week.  (Started off kind of rough:  I had to wake to a 3:30 AM alarm to catch a buttcrack of dawn flight, and our power went out inexplicably at 3:45.  It came back on about 5 but by then I had already showered and dressed by flashlight.  On my drive to the airport I prayed to the grooming gods that my socks matched.)

After working a full day I finally knocked it off about 7.  I changed into a tee shirt and shorts (it was about 90 degrees in South Florida and so humid it seemed like it was raining sweat.)  I wondered around the neighborhood looking to scare up some dinner (relatively safe--I was in Miami Lakes, a sort of stopped-in-time version of Pleasantville, with much less glamor and far fewer crazed drug lords than the real city of Miami 14 miles and 100's of murders south.)

First I ambled over to the Ale House but the $13.99 prime rib special made me suspicious of its provenance and the odor of rabid sports fans wearing the uniforms of their favorite player (I always wonder if they are "going steady") amped up on cheap beer and Thursday Night Football made me opt out.

A Purrfect Sense of Arrival

I walked by a place that didn't seem to have a name.  Instead, there were just giant signs on the exterior windows that screamed out all the delights one could find inside.

 HIBACHI!  SUSHI! SEAFOOD! TEMPURA!

I figured I could find something in there I would like and opened the door to be greeted by a humongous Hello Kitty. The hostess put down her cell phone (with just a soupçon of attitude, IMHO) and said something so heavily accented I just guessed she said "table for one?" and nodded my head vigorously, hoping she hadn't really asked me something embarrassing, like "alone and pitiful?"  She was wearing black tights and a short pleated skirt and a denim jacket and I noticed how shiny her hair was as it swung it back and forth in rhythm with her sashaying hips.  I was so mesmerized I almost didn't notice we were traversing a huge dining room that probably seated 300 people.  Sadly, I was one of maybe ten paying souls in the entire place.  The staff outnumbered us 5 to 1.

Another pretty Japanese girl smiled at me as she plunked down a large plastic tumbler of water with a white paper napkin wrapped around the base and handed me a white paper napkin and some chopsticks in a white paper sleeve.  She said something like "drink?" and I inquired "martini?" and she might have said "okay?" A couple of minutes elapsed and then she brought me hot sake in a white jug wrapped in a white paper napkin.  Apparently, white paper napkins are considered essential to the success of Hibachisushiseafoodtempura Restaurant.

I sat there, drinking sake and waiting for a menu.  With all the staff hanging around I thought it strange that no one was trying to get me to order something.  I flagged down my server and asked for a menu.  She was mute with incomprehension.  I mimed opening a menu and reading a list of entree selections, summoning the Stanislavsky method to appear as if I were  trying to decide between fish or pork, or possibly a stir fry with tofu.  Clearly my acting chops were spot on, as she suddenly brightened and waved her arm expansively towards the other side of the dining room, where I could see about a million food items on display. She nearly screamed some unfathomable word with such joy that I just gave "buffet" to her for enthusiasm. (I do want to point out here that my Japanese is far worse than their English, so it is with self-awareness of my own lingual shortcomings that I describe these conversations.)

Sushi-a-gogo

I don't like buffets.  There's no nuance, no crispness, no intangible balance or contrast of flavor and texture. Everything tastes the same, and it's all mushy.  But I was already there and slightly sakeed so I ventured forth and found 17,000 different species of sushi glistening in a ton of crushed ice spread on a table the size of a basketball court.  It occurred to me this could be my last meal ever, since it was possible the raw fish had been sitting there for days.  It passed the sniff test, however, so I loaded up my plate with a daunting number of selections and returned to my seat, hoping no one would notice what a pig I had made of myself.

It was delicious.  I had eel, and crab and salmon.  I devoured sea urchin, and tuna and shrimp.  I ate every fish that swam in the sea, and then I ate them all again. I had sashimi and dragon rolls and rainbow rolls and a bunch of stuff I didn't even recognize.  I was shameless.  It was ugly.

Same Taste, Different Shapes

At the time I should have been rolling out the door, I decided to go back and see what else was available.  There was a mile long display of desserts, which tempted me not, but I couldn't pass up the massive Chinese feast featuring spare ribs, spring rolls, fried rice, sesame chicken, spinach pie (huh?), noodles, lobster chowder, hot and sour soup, and crab rangoon, along with hundreds of other selections so vast and varied it made me dizzy.  I piled up another plate, went back to my party of one, and dug in. Yecch.  Buffet food.  Everything tasted the same and it was all mushy.  Having given up on language as a viable means of communicating, I just pantomimed signing my check, which she brought forthwith, and I signed out and we smiled at each other. (I was so shocked I had eaten my body weight in sushi for $17.99 that I tipped her $10.)

I hadn't planned on returning to Miami until much later this year but I think the raw bar at Hibachisushiseafoodtempura Restaurant will make me rethink those plans.  And possibly bring an interpreter.

I Do Declare, Ida Claire

"By the Wigs of Cher, Ida Claire"-Jef w/one f

Yesterday I ventured out of my comfort zone (within three miles of downtown) to meet a colleague for lunch at a place she'd suggested called Ida Claire.  It was sort of halfway from her workplace in Oklahoma Far North Dallas and my office, give or take a few hundred miles.  (I giggled like a school boy when I heard the name of the restaurant because as a child, I thought the expression was "Howdy Claire" instead of "I Declare" and my family never corrected me because they thought it was cute.  I also said "Cart Milkon" for "Milk Carton" and "Flutterbies" for "Butterflies." After some time cute became kind of dumb; thankfully my big brother clued me in.)

Ida Claire wasn't really on my radar so I took a peek at its website before venturing up and over and saw that it was Southern Food and had a lot of good reviews. So I'm thinking fried chicken, shrimp and grits, maybe some okra. Pecans, chow chow, sweet tea, you know the drill.

I'd miscalculated the time it would take me to get there and arrived about 30 minutes early so I had plenty of time to case the joint.  The servers posed as small town girls in gingham blouses and jeans sporting jaunty aprons and saucy Aunt Jemima checkered headgear.  The dining room was big and airy and filled with wooden tables stacked with homey Homer Laughlin share plates and cutlery rolled up in dish towels.  There was huge assortment of little tea plates nailed to the wall over the bar, but  there was a kind of eerie display next to where the chirpy hostess had seated me. There were perhaps twenty-five or thirty life-sized, wooden arms sticking out of the wall in precise rows holding different kitchen implements like wire whisks and spatulas in their creepy wooden hands.  I looked away quickly and found a cluster of empty, ornate bird cages hanging from the ceiling on the other side of the room to be a little more pleasant.

I don't think Faulkner wrote this

My server, whose name was either Lauren or Eula-Mae, asked me very nicely if she could bring me some sweet tea while I waited for my guest.  I said I'd prefer tap water and she had to blink back tears when she said she'd fetch me some. The menu looked like an old-fashioned book and had a tagline that said "As I Lay Eating" which made me laugh out loud. I glanced inside  and found Fried Chicken in a Biscuit with a Fried Egg, Pickled Okra and Chow Chow (surprise!), a Fried Chicken and Cucumber salad (huh?) and their apparently famous Ida Like A Burger that had Pimento Cheese, Lettuce and Tomato on a Sweet Potato Bun with Cast Iron Okra Salad (Okay, so I nailed it, sue me.)

The drinks book was a work of art.  It had imaginary love letters, faded post cards, a long and winding tale from a woman whose man had done her wrong, and fun drawings and maps and funky sayings.  I loved it so much I almost stole it.

My guest arrived and sat down breezily.  I noticed she kind of shuddered when she saw the lifeless utensil-holding arms and redirected her gaze to the cheerier birdcages,as I had.   She ordered the Fried Chicken and Cucumber Salad and I ordered the Knife and Fork Chicken Biscuit. We talked about the Texas State Fair, and work, and life, and then a grinning runner brought over our lunch.

Which came first?

That was the largest danged biscuit I ever did see!  It was cut in half and literally dwarfed the plate.  It was crammed with about 4 ounces of fried chicken breast, a roasted tomato, spinach, some peppery gravy and bedecked with a sunny side up fried egg.  My heart missed a beat and I wondered briefly if I'd taken my cholesterol pill that day.  Gamely, I dug in and it was absolutely pure-D Southern deliciousness. The mammoth biscuit was flaky and light and the chicken reminded me of my Aunt Mary's.  Friend had the weird fried chicken and cucumber salad which she enjoyed for about ten minutes until suddenly, she choked, turned red, and grabbed her water glass while tears ran down her cheeks.  I thought perhaps she had been besieged by a slight seizure but she managed to eke out the word "vinegar" in a raspy, struggling-to-breathe whisper.  I half-heartedly offered a tiny Heimlich maneuver, which she silently refused. Eula-Mae seemed a little skittish as she poured her glass after glass of water but managed to murmur comforting words in a sing song voice until my friend could breathe again.

Five minutes later it was like it had never happened.  Sometimes house-made vinaigrette separates and unfortunately she had swallowed a mouthful of vinegar. I yanked a whisk out of one of the mannequin hands and quickly restored her salad to edibility.  I was less than halfway done with my biscuit but had to stop for fear of splitting a seam in my trousers.  The dish was $12 and I think I left $7 worth on the plate even though it was really good.

If it was closer to home I'd go back often, at least on gym or cheat days.  I hear they have a wonderful brunch and a lively bar scene on their expansive back patio. I enjoy my southern heritage and the food (minus the vinegar mishap) was truly outstanding and clearly authentic.  Yes, I will definitely return some day for more of that grub.  And also to steal that book.