Miami — A City That's As Much About Its Attitude As It is About Its Flavor
Miami welcomed me with open arms, fed me with love, and kindness, left experiences etched all over me and gave me the gift of memories that would last an entire lifetime.
Turbulence hit the plane like a jolt as I was pushed forward, my seatbelt holding me firmly in place as I stirred roughly from my slumber. The plane descended through the thick cumulus clouds as the sprawling mosaic of Miami came into view below me through the haze. The city stretched out beneath the plane, a vibrant tapestry of pastel-colored Art Deco buildings and shimmering turquoise waters hugging the curved shoreline as it snaked up and down as far as the eye could see. The anticipation hung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of recycled cabin air and the faint whiff of jet fuel rising slowly from my empty glass, the remnants of my airline Manhattan. My thoughts slowly morphed from cloudy to coherence as I mentally reviewed my schedule to the upcoming day. Miami—a city that was as much about its attitude as it was about its flavor. I pressed back into my leather seat, yearning for a taste a cafecito, rich and potent, sweetened to perfection, a crescendo of a symphony in a tiny cup. This was a trip to the southern tip of Florida and a culinary pilgrimage, a quest for the soul of a city through its food, shared with a local chef who knew how to translate the language of flavors into something transcendent.
And just as soon as I was roughly pulled into consciousness during the plane’s jittery decent, touched down. The wheels hit the tarmac with a satisfying thud, and the familiar rush of excitement flooded through me as I braced myself for the plane to come to a rapid and complete stop. Miami International Airport buzzed with a frenetic energy that mirrored my excitement to discover all of this eclectic city’s secrets. Everything here seemed to move to a different rhythm, a blend of Latin beats and the hum of a city that never quite stopped for anything. My good friend, a chef with a palate as discerning as a sommelier’s nose, was already waiting for me to deplane and meet her for a tasting adventure through the classic neon metropolis. We’ve shared countless meals, each one a story, each one an exploration, each one a dive through history, culture, tradition and taste. This time, Miami was our canvas and we were armed with nothing more than an insatiable curiosity and a mutual love for the extraordinary.
Stepping out into the humid Miami air, I was immediately greeted by the scent of the sea, mingling with the intoxicating potential of street food, coffee and creative culinary tradition. While taking a red-eye flight east is generally the best idea at saving time and diving into a city right away, I had to admit that I didn’t get the sleep I truly wanted on the plane. Miami, however, provided a quick and easy recipe for the sleep-deprived and the under-caffeinated. Coffee. The kind that is brewed with love and tradition. The kind that is poured with a knowing smile and care. I flagged down a cab, a nondescript yellow chariot that promised to whisk me away from the sterile confines of travel into the vibrant, technicolor dreamscape that is Miami's Art Deco District. The driver, a grizzled Cuban Immigrant with a face weathered by time and stories I’ll never hear, smiled and nodded to me as I dropped the destination in perfect Spanish. The cab surged forward, merging into the pulsating artery of humanity that coursed through this city that never stopped, never slept. I marveled at the complexity of Miami that unraveled itself in a blur of pastel buildings, palm trees swaying lazily in the ocean breeze, and the occasional flash of neon that hinted at the district's nocturnal proclivities. It was a city that hummed with an unspoken promise of excitement, where every corner held the potential for a new story. A new taste. A new thrill. A new adventure. A new experience.
We snaked through the streets, the cab's radio played a medley of Latin rhythms that my driver preset and listened to religiously, the soundtrack to a city that thrived on its cultural melange, its diversity and its rapid growth and expansion. The Art Deco District loomed ahead, a testament to the audacity of architects who refused to let the Great Depression dull their creativity. Here, history and hedonism danced a delicate tango under the relentless Florida sun. As we pulled up to the address I provided, I could see my friend already waiting for me, and with her, a culinary journey that promised to be nothing short of simply spectacular. I paid and tipped my driver, grabbed my travel duffel bag and jumped out of the cab, embracing my old friend and my culinary agitator. Here, every meal was a celebration. Every drink was a toast to another experience.
The sun cast long shadows over Miami's iconic Art Deco skyline as I slid into the low-slung cockpit of Eileen's 1965 Chevrolet Corvette Sting Ray. The car's cherry-red curves were a nod to another era, another time when muscle and elegance coexisted in a single piece of gorgeously shaped metal. Eileen turned the key as the engine roared to life with a throaty growl, a symphony of raw power and unrestrained freedom. With the top down and the wind in our hair, Eileen eased the Vette out onto Ocean Drive, immediately feeling a connection between man and machine. This car was a statement, a rolling piece of Americana that demanded to be driven, not just steered or stared at. Cruising down Collins Avenue, Eileen beamed, thoroughly basking in the drive, the Vette commanding attention at every turn, a red blur against the turquoise backdrop of the Atlantic. The city unfolded around us in a kaleidoscope of neon signs, pastel buildings, and sun-soaked beaches, each moment punctuated by the rhythmic hum of the classic engine vibrating like thunder under the hood, devouring petrol and producing raw unadulterated power.
This city was calling me, beckoning me, almost daring me to visit and I happily and willingly obliged. In retrospect, however, I would say that it was perhaps Eileen’s dare and the constant prodding that contributed to my eventual agreement to come and experience this incredible city for myself. Coming to Miami was like stepping into the vibrant, pulsating heartbeat of culture, color, and culinary indulgence. While the humidity wrapped around me like a warm embrace and never relaxed its grip from the moment I arrived like a constant companion, the city's energy was infectious, swirling around me and following me everywhere I went. With the promise of coffee and most importantly food, we headed west, nearly as far west as Miami would allow us to go.
Nestled in a quiet corner of a nondescript strip mall in the most unsuspecting of places was Islas Canarias, a small café, a hidden gem, a sanctuary from the busy, packed streets of Miami and its bikini-clad beaches. The exterior was unassuming, much like any other strip mall corner in “Name Your Town” America. If you blinked, you could have driven by it and missed this local neighborhood gem, this place of neighborhood convergence and gathering, and a cultural staple that has been around for quite a long time. We parked the Vette, hopped out and wandered over. Heads turned toward us as we slid up to the bar. But instead of awkward glances and silence stares, we were immediately enveloped by a warm, welcoming atmosphere that felt like I was arriving at an old friend’s home. The walls were adorned with vintage Cuban posters and black-and-white photographs of Havana in its heyday, transporting us instantly to another time, another place, another adventure, another discovery.
The café was a family-run establishment and it exhaled a welcoming vibe in nearly every detail. From the handwritten menu chalked up on a board behind the counter to the friendly smiles of the staff who greeted each customer like an old friend, it was clear this place was built on love and tradition, on neighborhood familiarity and a place one could truly feel at home. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the subtle scent of toasted bread filled the air, inviting everyone to sit down and linger a while, caffeinate and catch up with old friends. Eileen and I settled in, the waitress bringing over our Cuban coffee – a small, unassuming cup of dark liquid that packed a powerful punch stronger than any large chain coffee shop ever could hope for. Cuban coffee; also known as the cafecito, was not just any beverage. It was an experience. An infatuation. The first sip; a jolt of pure energy, the rich, robust flavor mingling with just the right amount of sweetness. It was smooth yet intense, robust yet approachable, sweet yet strong, a perfect reflection of the culture from which it came. Eileen explained that making Cuban coffee has always been an art form, one that she had perfected over years of practice. The key, she said, was in the espuma – a frothy layer of sugar that is whipped vigorously with the first few drops of coffee until it becomes thick and creamy. This espuma is then added back to the rest of the brew, giving the coffee its distinctive sweetness and texture. This morning ritual was full of connection, neighborhood, familiarity and a link to heritage and deep rooted culture.
While coffee is always the best idea in any given moment, I was famished. To pair with our coffee and to calm my nearly hangry demeanor, we indulged in a media noche sandwich, a classic Cuban creation that translates to "midnight sandwich." Traditionally this tiny slice of heaven was enjoyed as a means of soaking up the alcohol after a night of dancing, drinking and general revelry. For this morning, however, it was the perfect way to start our day. This sandwich was a masterpiece. The bread was soft and slightly sweet, a perfect contrast to what lay in waiting beneath the two slices of bread. Inside, there was a generous layer of roast pork, tender and juicy, mingling with slices of ham and melted Swiss cheese. Pickles added a tangy bite, while a slathering of mustard brought everything together with a subtle kick to the palate. Bite after glorious bite, I was tasting Havana. From the textures, flavors, subtleties; this sandwich was pure alchemy on a plate that spoke to culture, food and a deep nod to Havana’s culinary tradition and its people.
As we hungrily devoured our breakfast, and maybe lunch as midday was nearly passed, Eileen shared stories of her childhood and her history in Miami. We discussed how she helped out with cooking in her family's Cuban restaurant. She reminisced about the countless hours she spent in the kitchen learning the secrets of her family's recipes. The joy she felt when a customer would take their first bite, look up at her and smile broadly. She spoke with pride about her family’s humble beginnings. Emigrating from Cuba, coming to America with nearly nothing and having to start their lives from scratch. She marveled at how the restaurant was a labor of love for her and her family. It was there in that refurbished old kitchen that she discovered her passion for cooking. From the age of ten, she was helping out, learning to perfect classic dishes like ropa vieja and lechón asado. The restaurant for her was more than just a place where people came to eat. It was a magical gathering spot, a place where stories were shared by local patrons and traditions were passed down from mother to daughter in the busy kitchen. Eileen recounted the difficult decision to step out on her own as she launching a Cuban food truck with her brother. It was a bold and scary move, but one that paid off quite handsomely. The food truck became an instant hit and quickly became a sensation, drawing crowds with its authentic flavors and innovative takes on classic dishes. Their success was a testament to their hard work and the rich culinary heritage they represented and made with love every single day.
Her story was inspirational, the story of making it in America. From her humble beginnings, to the journey of helping her family on weekends and after school, and finally taking her craft and the love for her culture and setting off on her own, bringing her take on her family's food to others to enjoy. It was in those moments that she said she truly understood the power of food that could bring people together, to create memories, and to celebrate culture. We finished our meal, and just couldn't help but say yes to another cafecito on the house feeling a deep sense of gratitude for our entire culinary experience. This tiny café, on the corner in a small strip mall, with its rich history and delicious offerings, was a testament to the resilience and creativity of the Cuban community in Miami. It was a place where traditions were honored, where every cup of coffee and every sandwich told a story, and where people gathered regularly to celebrate their heritage, their community and taste and enjoy the flavors of their culture.
Leaving the café, I felt invigorated, energized and excited to discover more of what Miami had hidden between its famous keys and highways, its gorgeous beaches and its classic boardwalks. Not only did the multiple cafecitos do their job and inject Eileen and me with enough caffeine to awaken even the most bleary eyed of travelers, but I left Islas Canarias with something even more valuable. I departed of the sense of connection and the shared experience of a lazy morning amongst a community of strangers who sat together, ate together, drank coffee together, laughed together and enjoyed each other’s company. It was a constant reminder of why I love to travel and explore new places – for the chance to discover hidden gems like this, to meet incredible people like this, and to immerse myself in the rich tapestry of cultures that make our world so wonderfully diverse and enrich every experience we encounter.
As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, Key Biscayne Beach transformed into a theater of human spectacle. The sand, still warm from the day's relentless heat and humidity, cradled an eclectic mix of sun-worshippers, fitness fanatics, and the occasional lost tourist smeared with sunscreen. It was a postcard come to life, a slice of Floridian life on full display, but with more sweat and a lingering scent of coconut oil and desperation. To my left, a group of retirees engaged in what appeared to be a cutthroat game of bocce, their weathered faces etched with the kind of determination usually reserved for high-stakes poker. To my right, a parade of Instagram influencers contorted themselves into increasingly ridiculous poses, chasing that elusive perfect shot with the tenacity of starving hyenas. The juxtaposition was almost poetic, if poetry were written by a satirist with a mean streak and a bottle of rum.
And just as I scanned across the sea of bodies that lay motionless on beach towels scattered across the sand for as far as the eye could see, the sky erupted into a riot of reds and oranges. It was as if some celestial bartender had decided to mix every tropical cocktail in existence across the heavens, shake vigorously, and pour for everyone to enjoy. The fading light painted everything in warm, forgiving tones, softening the edges of reality and blurring the lines of the horizon. For a brief moment, we were all bathed in the same golden glow. It was painted magic, a pastel wonderland that surround everyone as we all stood united in our awe of nature's clockwork spectacle and simply enjoyed the show.
As the last sliver of sun disappeared beneath the waves, the beach began its nightly metamorphosis. The families packed up their sandcastles and soggy picnics, the sunbathers caked in sand and baked in oil all rolled up their towels and gathered their coolers. The tourists and locals alike, all sun drenched and exhausted from the lying in the heat retreated only to be replaced by the night creatures emerging from their air-conditioned lairs. The gentle lapping of waves was slowly drowned out by the thump of bass from nearby clubs, a siren song for the young and restless. Another day ended, another night began, and the eternal dance of Miami Beach continued, relentless and unapologetic in its pursuit of pleasure. I rubbed sand from my toes and gathered my bag. The Miami night was calling and I was off to experience it.
Miami at night was a fever dream of neon lights and pulsating rhythms that pulled at you and left you in a trance. It was a place where the sultry air hung heavy with the scent of saltwater and the promise of adventures that drifted in the daytime and continued to lure you in the dark. The Art Deco facades of South Beach glowed like a vintage postcard. The hum of Latin music spilled from every open doorway, inviting you to lose yourself in the dance that seemed to pour out from the nightclubs and onto the sidewalk in every direction. Little Havana's streets came alive with the clatter of dominos, the rich aroma of Cuban coffees and late night beverages, as locals and tourists alike reveled in the city's intoxicating blend of cultures and languages. The Wynwood murals seem to come alive under the moonlight, putting on full display Miami's ever-evolving art scene and the skills of the master artists who painting the city as a living canvas. Miami was an insomniac. It was a city that never slept. Where the night was as vibrant and unpredictable as the people who called it home.
As I ended my evening in Miami, Eileen joined me for dinner at Yardbird, a Southern gem known for its comfort food with a chef’s twist. As we sat down and looked over the menu, we continued our conversation from earlier in the day over dinner delving into the nuances of Cuban cuisine and its affect on the Miami neighborhoods, the challenges of running a food business and the ever evolving palates of tourists and locals alike. As I aways do, I brought a bottle of wine to pair with the evening and to share with good friends. We sat there, at our table, two old friends huddled around a bottle of Austin Hope Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon as if it were some ancient relic unearthed from the depths some wine cellar hidden in Paso Robles, California itself. The first pour revealed a dark viscous liquid that created rainbows of purple refraction that danced across our table as the light reflected off of our wine glasses. The deep ruby liquid cascading into our glasses like a silken promise of something extraordinary and magical. I gently swirled my wine around in my glass, letting the dark fruit aromas—blackberry, cassis, a hint of vanilla—waft up and grip my senses like a long-lost flavor. The first sip took me by the hand and led me on a decadent journey through layers of velvety tannins, rich chocolate undertones, and a finish so smooth it could serenade you from a great distance. There’s a certain magic in moments like these, where time stands still, aromas and flavors hang in the air and the wine takes over and simply does all the talking.
Eileen, ever the skeptic, raised an eyebrow as I waxed on poetically about the "nectar of the gods" nonsense and droned on about the journey of the winemaker. But even she couldn’t hide her amazement after that first taste. And in playing poker, her’s was the first face that would reveal everything. Her eyes widened, and a reluctant smile crept across her face—victory for the grape, victory for he bottle, the winemaker and the man; me who selected it! We laughed, sharing stories and toasted glasses, the Austin Hope becoming the silent third party in our conversation, standing silent watch over our table, the eavesdropping glass monolith bridging gaps and pauses with each luscious sip. It’s funny how a bottle of wine can transform an ordinary evening into something bordering on the ethereal. It’s never just the wine — its the shared experience, the connection that enjoying this special bottle fostered.
For the evening’s bite, and to pair this lovely bottle of wine, we started with Yardbird’s Deviled Eggs – a dish that was simple yet sophisticated, with dill, chives, and smoked trout roe adding layers of flavor. This dish was a testament to Southern comfort elevated to an art form. Each bite was a symphony of creamy yolk, tangy Dijon mustard, and just the right hint of garlic aioli, all harmonizing to create a dish that was both nostalgic and refreshingly modern. Pairing this with an Austin Hope Reserve Cabernet was nothing short of synergy. The wine’s robust profile, with its notes of dark fruit, cocoa, and a whisper of vanilla, cut through the richness of the eggs and created a balance that danced on our palates. It was a pairing that spoke to the soul, a reminder that the simplest pleasures often bring the greatest joy.
Next came the Fried Green Tomato BLT. The house-smoked pork belly was smoky and succulent, pairing beautifully with the tangy tomato jam and creamy pimento cheese. The frisée added a nice crunch, and the lemon vinaigrette tied everything together with a bright, zesty note. It was Southern comfort food at its finest, with a nod to the culinary traditions of Miami. Dear reader, bear with me for a moment and allow me spin you a tale about the culinary orgasm that is Yardbird's fried green tomato BLT. This isn't your grandma's sad, wilted sandwich. Rather, it was a flavor bomb that would make your taste buds stand up and salute. The crispy, tangy fried green tomatoes provided the perfect foundation, topped with house-smoked pork belly that was so rich it should have come with a warning label “Danger, eating this will induce gastronomical ecstasy.” But the real secret that the dish sprung on us was the smoky tomato jam and pimento cheese that added layers of complexity making you question everything you thought you knew about a typical BLT. Pair that bad boy with the red stuff in our glasses, and we were in for one HELL of a ride. As usual, Austin’s Paso Robles beast was no shrinking violet. Bold, in-your-face, grippy and velvety smooth grabbing every portion of the sandwich's intense flavors capturing everything in its dark fruit notes and firm tannins. Eileen and I both came to a firm understanding that this combination and pairing was so good, it should be illegal in at least three states.
As the blur of the restaurant swirled around us, I sat captivated, centered on this incredible meal, this amazing bottle of wine paired with several decades worth of respect and friendship. Time sped by and stood completely still as our conversation was flowed much like the wine from our bottle. As we laughed and caroused, our final dish appeared at our table; a 16-ounce grass-fed ribeye, seared to perfection, its marbled richness complemented by a dollop of harissa butter that melted into every savory bite. The accompanying Parmesan truffle fries were a decadent nod to indulgence, their crispy exterior giving way to a fluffy interior, each fry a perfect vessel for the earthy truffle and sharp Parmesan notes that cut through each and every delicious bite. This dish was a meal, an experience, and a testament to the art of simplicity done right from a chef who truly knew how to rest his meat. Pairing this luscious feast with a final glass of the reserve cab was a dance with the devil. The desire for the experience while knowing that it would lead you down a path so far, you may never want to drink any other wine again. The Austin Hope held its own with every sip and every indulging bite that we took. It was a wine that was both bold and unapologetic. Its deep, dark fruit flavors and hints of vanilla and spice that came from its extended aging in French oak barrels, created a symphony of tastes that danced on our palates. The robust tannins cut through the richness of the ribeye, while the wine’s complexity elevated the entire dining experience creating new textures and flavors that we paused to take in and fully enjoy. It was a pairing that spoke to the soul, a culinary journey that we both savored with our signature blend of reverence and irreverence, attention and apathy. Here, in this moment, between laughs, conversations, musings and memories, the food and the wine transcended mere sustenance and became a celebration of life’s finer pleasures and an appreciation for a life-long friendship.
With my dark glasses pulled high on my face, I shielded my eyes and brain from the barrage of the Florida sunrise. Too much good food and alcohol is always a good idea, as long as the participant is ready and willing to deal with the consequences on the following day. I left Miami the same way I arrived — reflective, indulgent and thankful of the day's experiences, the interactions and the deep friendships that meant the world to me. From the bustling café where Eileen and I shared our stories, to the vibrant streets of the Art Deco District where we drove too fast, played our music too loud, and laughed too much. From the unforgettable meal at Yardbird, the melange of flavors, aromas and pairings, sharing stories and reminiscing on old thoughts and memories while creating new ones. And every moment in-between that made me smile and take it all in.
Travel will leave you with many stories to tell. Stories about the food you ate, the people you met, the places you visited, the smiles you gave and the hands you shook. But there are stories behind the food as well. The people who poured their hearts and souls into every creative bite, the rich tapestry of all of the cultures that came together to create something truly unique and magical. Miami was a city of contrasts – old and new, traditional and modern, laid-back and full of energy. It was a place where cultures collided and created something truly different. It was a city that welcomed me with open arms, fed me with love and kindness, left experiences etched all over me and gave me the gift of memories that would last an entire lifetime.