Miami Nights and Strange Happenings By the Ocean

By Greg Evans

Miami is a city filled with stories - a few of which are even true. It is where heathens and gluttons run wild, sex kittens prance around in edible dresses wrapped tighter than a grapefruit in Saran wrap, and glitz permeates from every high rise and sketched-out boutique hotel from the Upper East Side down to Coconut Grove and from Flagami in the west to the beaches out in the Atlantic.

We pulled in on a Sunday night, rain like a Bangkok monsoon was washing all the sin from the city to start the week fresh. A wild dog ran down the block with a shoe in its mouth. I wasn’t sure if a foot was still attached. The rain became large and fat like giant slugs splattering on the windshield. Rain anywhere else is just rain, but in Miami, it is apocalyptic. And when it gets going, along with the angry tropical wind, you start to wonder if this is it. However, regardless of the weather (which is peculiar pretty much every time I come here), the rush hour traffic which stretches from 7:00 am, to 8:45 pm without taking a breath, and the grossly overpriced everything (except street parking, which should be a free common courtesy), you’d be a fool not to love this city. I don’t know even what it is about it that I like so much. Maybe it is the strange energy this place has, that Qianfu beating heart, like what New York City always felt like it had all those years that I lived there. Not all places feel like that.

We weren’t in town for more than an hour when we dropped our stuff at the hotel and headed over to Strawberry Moon located inside the Goodtime Hotel for some food and drink.

“I’m not staving, but I could eat,” Em said.

“I need food and beer, stat,” I said. We exited the elevator and veered to the right and into the bar.

“Can we grab table?” We asked.

“You’ll have to eat at the bar tonight,” the bartender said.

“That works for us,” we said. The restaurant is located on the 3rd floor, so unless you know that the restaurant is there, you wouldn’t stumble upon it off the street, so the fact that it can be quiet earlier than dinnertime or when there are no events out on the beach, like Art Basel, should not be surprising. Even better, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t need a crowded and loud restaurant or bar to enjoy a meal and a beer.

The bartender’s name was Dylan and he was a cool guy, super friendly, and seemed to really love South Beach. Who wouldn’t though? The guy was originally from Jersey, moved to South Beach with his wife like 13 or some odd years ago, says it’s paradise. That part I got before he said it. I’ve been to South Beach many times and have never heard anyone say they don’t like it. Em got a salad with watermelon, feta, walnuts, spinach, arugula, etc. I got three fried Baja fish tacos and an IPA. The tacos were good. They hit the spot. I almost ordered three more. The IPA was crisp and refreshing. I wanted a cigar to go along with it but I was afraid we’d get kicked out of the place in today’s overly sensitive climate. Em took the rest of hers to go and we headed out into the street to wander a bit.

We visited the Versace Mansion, a beautiful place, wandered Ocean Drive, Collins, Washington, here, there and everywhere until we were soaked to the bone. Exhausted we both went to bed early. I lay in the dark and drank a beer and listened to the night sounds and some Chet Baker. I had to leave my shoes on the balcony to dry for a day, they were so wet. Luckily I also travel with extra footwear. Saves having to get new ones and then having to break them in. We are walkers and put in serious miles. Some of my best thoughts come during prolonged walks.

The following day, the horrible monsoon briefly moved on (but it would return) and we were mercifully drenched in 87 degrees of thick heavenly yellow sunshine. We went down to Coral Gables to the campus of the University of Miami and wandered around and visited the campus store. It’s a great place. We bought some merch. Took a few pics. The kids all looked happy to be alive. How could you not be riding a buzz living in South Florida as a young college student? We got back in the car and started cruising, exploring, soaking in the city, and the sweet, yet rare sun. We hung out in Coral Gables too long and didn’t want to get on the 95 to head back to South Beach for dinner. Instead we took Brickell Avenue, at rush hour… This takes some work to manage, requiring considerable patience and maneuvering through the plethora of snowbirds, tourists, ex-pats, Martians, and handful of locals that give Miami its texture of undefinable driving culture, but even that is less tiring than driving in said traffic, weighted down by an unrelenting tropical rain. If you’re not sure what I mean by that, tropical rain is heavy and thick like oil. Get out and walk in it, it is hard to breathe (not literally). You don’t just get “wet”, you get saturated, like being soaked in a vat for twelve hours. But the sun can dry you fast enough, if it would come out long enough too.

A word to the wise, if you are downtown in the Brickell area, maybe going to the Museum of Ice Cream for an all you can eat sugar blast or I can’t believe its not pasta carbonara at Crazy About You, avoid the intersection of Brickell and SE 8th Street as part of that commute, especially between 4 p.m., and 8:45 pm. - with easily the longest red light possibly in the universe due to the raising and lowering of the Brickell Avenue bridge, a bascule drawbridge over the Miami River connecting Brickell to downtown - to let some sadistic person with a sailboat pass through at rush hour. If I was the mayor, that would not happen, ever. Mr. Sailboat would either turn around and sail out to sea, anchor and wait until 8:45 pm., to cross, or be unmercifully waterboarded. What kind wretch would pass through there at rush hour anyway? The guy in Lamborghini SUV in front of me took a solid power nap while waiting for the light to turn green. Em played about 423 hands of Solitaire on her phone and I read the entire newspaper through twice and then woke the guy in front of us up when it was time to move again. The Waze claimed to go 9 miles would take 58 min, but that was what it took to go 16 feet. Most people see the name Lamborghini stamped on the back of a car and get giddy. But you see Lamborghinis around Miami like you see pickups in East Tennessee. The guy that works at Best Buy has a Lamborghini here. After two days you barely notice them anymore, cutting you off on MacArthur Causeway.

Em and I like to eat. We like both the real authentic places, as well as the trendy spots. We do a little of both. It helps to listen to the locals when seeking out good food. It is something that I have learned works to your benefit. It is analogous to when you go into a liquor store and a sophisticated looking guy is raving about a specific bourbon. You stop gawking at the shelves like you know anything and buy that bourbon because it’s more likely than not, damn good! On a side note, when getting a liquor recommendation, how the guy is dressed is a strong indicator of his liquor knowledge and recommendation proficiency. Sounds goofy? It’s true though. If he has speckles of gray hair, a huge plus, is in a golf shirt with a sweater, or like a button-down shirt and loafers and wearing spectacles, or even a nice suit, he knows his liquor better than you do, and will give you a solid suggestion. I have learned this through experience.

Anyway, Dylan, at Strawberry Moon, emphasized that Em and I drop in on the 11th Street Diner. We did. We got the beer-battered onion rings with a buttermilk dip, I think, for the appetizer. Excellent. I ordered the Tropical Grouper Sandwich. It was enormous. Light battered grouper on a hoagie with shredded lettuce, chipotle slaw, mango salsa and lemon juice squeezed over it. Excellent. Em got the massive Cowboy Burger, a cheese burger with American cheese, onion rings, lettuce, bacon and BBQ sauce. She said it was perfect. I also got a Lagunita IPA. The french fries on the side were nice and crispy and were accompanied by a ranch dip of some kind. We got a seat on the patio and watched a baseball game that was on TV. Great food, mellow atmosphere, and the servers are friendly - highly recommend. Afterwards we wandered up and down Ocean Drive and Collins Avenue. The weather couldn’t have been better, people were in a great mood, and we people-watched for hours before turning in.

The mornings come quickly in Miami after doing so much walking the day before. It is a place you want to get out and walk despite the fact that it seems the majority of people are driving just to drive, around and around in endless circles. We jumped on the 95 and went down to the Edgewater neighborhood, to The Leinster Irish Pub on 1st Ave. There was easy parking on the street, a block away, and the paybyphone (all over Miami) is a breeze. The place was hopping and full of good Irish energy. It was a friendly place. Everyone was having a swell time. The Guinness was flowing and you better believe that I had one, being that Guinness is my favorite beer. Em and I are hedonists- we live to have a good time. If you aren’t having any fun, what is the point? I also bought some merch and we then jumped over to Novecento, a delectable Argentine eatery at 900 S. Miami Ave. in Mary Brickell Village. We sat outside, as we like to do, and loaded up on good foods. Em got the Parmesano - Spaghetti with Parmesan Cheese Alfredo. Excellent. I got The Pesto - Cavatelli, pistchio pesto grana Padano. Wonderful. We also got Crispy calamari rings with homemade tarter sauce and marinara. Tender battered bliss, and Truffle Fries Provencal (maybe the greatest thing ever invented), and Sautéed Spinach, a bottle of Saratoga Spring water and two Modelos. They also brought out warm bread with a poppy dip of some kind? Not sure what it was, but it was mild and a nice accompaniment to the warm fresh bread. The wonderful thing about eating in Miami is that nothing is over-salted, not even the beer. Womp, womp. It is a cultural thing. Same goes for all the ladies dressing up, only the opposite is true- you can’t be too overdressed here. Add extra salt to that dish! It’s what you do in Miami. I love the way women dress here. Miami is a mecca for beautiful women, and as I have noticed, you don’t have to be a handsome man here to be with one of them. You can learn a lot about the world and how to navigate it by sitting and watching the people at play. We sat on the balcony of the restaurant and did just that. It was crowded down below, people milling about, taking pictures, socializing, and being seen. Elegant ladies - one-after-the-next, in gowns and glitter, tight mini Elie Saab, Valentino, and Roopa Pemmaraju skirts and dresses, Christian Louboutin Kate and So Kate pumps, Hermes scarves and swirling hair done up at IGK - walked toward Moxies, dressed in their finest Friday night attire, on a Tuesday. Must be a party. They all looked beautiful. Every one of them. It is a glamorous town, dripping with lust, money, art, and sex. This town is embraced by type A, hit-the-street-running-types, dancing on the couches in the pubs, sparkling under the hot lights, sheik drinks in manicured hands while taking body shots, without flinching, off the sweaty sun-baked skin of strangers. If you are a Type B or C, Miami, after a while, might even seem like a lonely place, unless you force yourself to learn the lingo. You don’t have to necessarily take mezcal bangers off Anastasia’s cleavage, but you learn to loosen up a bit. You can’t get too caught up in yourself, that doesn’t fly here. Just be you, but raise the bar about six notches. Make an effort. Miami rewards those who give it a decent shot. And it is imperative that you stay fit (jog, lift, power walk, swim, etc.) and eat right at least 2-3 days a week. That’s just the standard menu. Most people opt for the specials- working out 5-6 days a week and a super-strict diet. You then wear a glow, glide with ease and look like you belong. It is ok to want to belong in Miami. You look good, feel good, and therefore live good, but don’t go broke doing it.

God made greed one of the “seven deadly sins” for a reason, but that list never reached Miami. In Miami, there are only two deadly sins, wrath and sloth. Keep your wrath in your pants and don’t be moving too slowly or you will get left behind, unless you made the inane mistake of traveling during rush hour, and then you’re not going anywhere fast. In a fast, chic town like Miami, if you can flaunt it, why not do it. Humility is for the suburbs. You just have to be careful not to be a sucker if you really aren’t one of the chosen few. Biting off more than you can chew can leave you tapped out quicker than getting those fake Stefano Ricci sneakers soaked right through to the styrofoam sole. Situational awareness is key to sidestep the fluff and bullshittery that can easily suck in the John Q’s wanting to catch the buzz.

Em and I like live sporting events. We regularly attend them. Tonight we went to see Inter Miami CF vs. Nashville SC at Chase Stadium in Fort Lauderdale and watched Messi score his 900th career goal. Though Nashville tied the game and got the points, it was a good time. We had prime seats considering the weather. Our section, at mid-field, had a lot of good energy. But there really isn’t a bad seat in the entire stadium. Luckily we were under the awning to escape the misty rain that fell the entire time. If I lived in Miami full-time, or even Aventura or Fort Lauderdale or Pompano Beach, I’d be a season ticket holder. Guaranteed.

Traveling up to Chase Stadium from Miami is not a bad commute outside of the fact that 95 is a chaotic white water rapids of cars, trucks, space-mobiles, motorcycles, motorized 10-speed unicycles, glow-in-the dark rocket propelled skateboards, mechanical sprinting camels weaving in and out of fellow speeders with no headlights on after dark while hubcap-deep in a deluge. After the game we ate at Epazote Restaurant. Em had shredded chicken and beef Flautas and I got the cheese Enchiladas. I struggle with lactose intolerance so it was a risky move, but God dammit they were phenomenal.

It is 1:18 am. I am sitting on the balcony sipping a Modelo and watching the ducks waddling in the street causing havoc on commuter traffic. The rain has gotten thin. The palms sway gently and their fronds glisten like plastic in the neon glow of nearby lights.

Last night, wandering the windy, rain-pelted streets of South Beach, Em and I saw strange occurrences by the ocean. Had they been green aliens with webbed fingers and large onyx black eyes I wouldn’t have even blinked. Not here. It was like there was a full moon but there was no moon. It was as if it got plucked out of the sky and served by the slice at Jaya. I stayed up late reading Murakami.

The morning arrived with a splattering of sun and extra wind. We got Starbucks and spent the day downtown. First we dropped in at the Museum of Ice Cream, a wild sugary place of pre-diabetic bliss and fun for the kids, and then we shot over to Little Havana, Calle Ocho, that sliver of Caribbean island magic in the big city. Colors and aromas and sounds and chickens and roosters and dancing and tobacco smoking and good eating and beautiful island women and did I say drinking and dancing? And good cheer and a down payment on a house right smack in the middle of it (j/k) because what a great neighborhood. I bought some overpriced cigars just because. They weren’t great but it’s about atmosphere sometimes that makes up for it.

We lunched at El Cristo. Em had the classic Cuban sandwich and fries. I got the Mahi Mahi, plantains, and yellow rice, washed down with an authentic Mojito. This place is easily in my top 3 favorite restaurants of all time. I could live in Little Havana, in a little pastel house and be completely content.

My grandma always mentioned how much she loved Havana before the communists ruined it. I have been to Little Havana before, but this time was different. Maybe it is because Em was with me.

For dinner we slid through the unrelenting rain, back to South Beach, and dined at the Thai House. Once again we had good food. Em got the fried calamari appetizer with a crumbled peanut sweet and sour dip and the Volcano Chicken entree which literally arrived on the table aflame, with a Thai tea on the side. I got the Pad Kee Mau. Miami, much like New York, or Vienna, is a place to come if you want to eat well. You can be the most annoying, pickiest eater in the world and you can find food to eat here. Luckily, we aren’t picky and we are well-seasoned restaurant selectors.

We wandered the waterlogged neon-drenched streets of South Beach late into the night, until about 9:15 pm., picked up a sixer from South Beach Brewing company, who by the way, has one of the coolest bar tops, second only to Jamie in Houston, Texas, and sailed off toward the glittering horizon by way of MacArthur Causeway, to see what the night had in store. Sometimes it’s best just to ride that wave until it breaks.

Miami is a hard town to leave, both figuratively and literally. You don’t want to leave, but it’s simply hard to do so with so many cars crammed onto the roadways. I know that is becoming redundant but so too is the traffic. We were heading north to St. Augustine to visit with family. The average speed limit on I-95 north on a Friday from 7 am to 8:45 pm ranges from 0 - 220 mph with an average speed of like 11 mph. It is between three and four lanes but should be fourteen. Bumper to bumper, excessive speeding, unreasonable tailgating, and mercifully the occasional blinker, and I mean occasional. The Indian Harbour Beach exit, average mph, 0. Studies show that the 319 miles on I-95 is the most dangerous corridor in the country. I can vouch for that. Wrecks and severed car limbs strewn about like Beirut.  I’m not totally complaining, more stating the obvious.

As Miami faded into the distance, swallowed up by heavy gray and purple thunderstorm clouds, in our rearview mirrors, I felt like I still needed a couple of more weeks there. We’ll see you again in December for Art Basel. Ciao!