Tattoo

I don’t believe in tattoos. But that all changed this weekend when my best friend turned 21. 

Perhaps I should backtrack for a moment.

The best way to dine, in my opinion, is tapas style -  getting lots of dishes and just trying a bite or two of each. Some may guess it’s because I spent so long in Spain, but I am certain it’s because I can never get enough. I want to taste and see everything. Normally I can’t afford (literally or figuratively) the opportunity to do this on my own, and typically the portion size in the United States is too large for me to order more than one dish. To make matters worse, the majority of my friends are simply not that adventurous or that hungry to be able to keep up with me.

But for Rachel’s 21^st birthday, she invited 12 of us to Tatu at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Hollywood. Tatu specializes in Asian dishes with Cantonese, Mandarin, Szechwan, Vietnamese and Thai influence, and it provided the ideal occasion to share a whole bunch of different dishes.   

Upon entrance, it’s obvious that Tatu is a dining destination – a mix between a Disney dining experience and that that’s found at upscale South Beach locales. Though the two-story restaurant might seem large, the blue tint and warm lights give it a more intimate feeling and don’t make the sardine-packed tables appear to be on top of one another. Though a bit too noisy from a romantic dinner, Tatu is truly conducive to large groups and special celebrations, with silver beading hanging to section off some tables.

The hostesses were ready to seat our party at 8:30 p.m. (our reservation time) promptly.

To begin with, and in celebrating Rachel’s 21^st, I ordered a lychee-tini made with peach vodka, white cranberry juice and fresh lychee fruit. Rachel ordered a super-sour pomegranate martini with sugar on the outside. And some other friends ordered a scorpion bowl for two, which mixed sweet fruit juices, rum and amaretto served with a flaming Bacardi 151 float in a large pitcher.

Our attentive waiter warned us ahead of time that at Tatu dishes are served when they are ready, not when all the plates are. Normally, I find this disgusting. If I am going to dinner with friends, then I want to eat with my friends, not watch them or have them watch me. As such, I was pleasantly surprised when all our food arrived within 5 minutes of each other.  

For appetizers, our table of 12 ordered firecracker spring rolls with crispy chiken and peanuts, butter lettuce-leaf cups with minced chicken, shitake mushrooms and pine nuts, and tender greens with a miso ginger dressing. All were flavorful and large enough for everyone to have a taste of everything. The best starter, however, and undoubtedly the most fattening, was the crispy crab rangoon. I have always been a fan of crab rangoon, but these were exceptionally wonderful. These cream-cheese-crab-and-scallion-stuffed wontons were small enough to pop into your mouth in one bite. And the warm cream cheese under the fried wontons made the rangoon crunchy, yet soft and surprisingly filling.          

The main dishes ordered included sesame chicken tossed with sesame caramel and chili peppers, charred rare tuna with a vanilla teriyaki glaze and wasabi mashed potatoes, a grilled NY strip steak served with crunchy shoe-string chips and an assortment of fresh sushi. My most favorite dish of all was the one I selected, the Mongolian barbequed duck – perfectly tender and succulent in a tangy sweet plum sauce served to taste (not to drench) with pieces of grilled eggplant and scallion. All the main courses were as large as their price tags and taste did not yield to beautiful presentation. Forks flew as everyone tasted everything.  

The guys and girls alike were stuffed after our eating extravaganza, but I wouldn’t be satisfied until the waiter brought Rach (the Queen!) a piece of dessert with candles and tons of spoons. I secretly selected the chocolate propaganda – with chocolate almond mousse, fudge brownies, chocolate ice cream and fudge sauce – from the dessert menu cleverly entitled “Happy Endings.” The girls gobbled it up.

In keeping with the theme of the restaurant, with the check came gimmicky, yet tasteful press-on tattoos – an adorable concept for children of all ages, not only to remind patrons about the restaurant they just ate at, but also a fun, after-dinner activity. My friends and I took turns using the damp washcloths Tatu provided to wet the Asian-symbol tattoos to our wrists. 

Additionally with the check, our waiter brought over two helium-balloon-sized, sour-apple-flavored cotton candy hunks to complete our feast.

Rachel’s birthday crew then head over to the dueling pianos bar also at the Hard Rock Village to enjoy more drinks and feel-good, sing-along music until the wee hours of the morning.   

All I can say is the yummy food, lively atmosphere and proximity to great nightlife will keep Tatu tattooed on my mind forever. And that’s one tattoo I can handle.  

The NEW Pinkberry: Lutz

In an exceedingly modern world, fro-yo joints and ice cream shops are adapting. Of course there’s nothing quite like homemade, creamy ice cream or twisty soft serve; however, there are innovative, frozen concepts opening the door to novel indulgences. Pinkberry, a frozen yogurt chain in California, New York and Texas, has been tantalizing taste buds for years now with tart yogurt in shops just as modern as the treat it serves.  

My first experience with it was when I was in NYC. It’s all the rage there. Unlike typical frozen yogurt, Pinkberry’s yogurt is not super sweet or overly rich. People eat it for breakfast with cereal on top; people consume it in place of lunch with fresh fruit; others savor it for a healthier dessert. Though my dad says it tastes like a cross between shaving cream and chalk, I would say it’s more of an acquired taste. I’d be bluffing if I said I loved it at first bite. It actually wasn’t until my third cup or so that I really started to appreciate its refreshing, tasty and utterly addicting qualities.

The problem is that just as soon as I began to love Pinkberry, I headed back to Florida only to be robbed of my newfound enjoyment because my home state had nothing like it. Well, not anymore, baby! South Florida is finally - I repeat finally – jumping on the bandwagon and living up to its “exclave of NYC,” “most-northern-part-of-the-South” status.

Pinkberry has arrived in the form of Lutz.

Yesterday night (after much begging), I went to Lutz following dinner. The ultra-modern, colorful plastic tables and chairs, the neoteric gadgets lined up along the wall as decoration and the modish neon lights transported me back to my NYC days.

Lutz boasts the health qualities of yogurt and is proud of the fact that a half-cup is only 80 calories. It offers only two staple flavors – Original and Green Tea – and an assortment of toppings including fresh, bite-sized fruit, cereal, chocolate and mochi. Special for the summer, Lutz also offers pomegranate, blueberry and acai flavors.  

Last night, the line to order (practically out the door) reaffirmed my notion that such a place would do a killing in SoFla. I ordered a small Original with chopped strawberries and bananas. Though normally I’d skimp on the bananas and go for chocolate chips (especially at dessert-time), Lutz was all out. They were also out of fresh raspberries. Nonetheless, and despite the almost $5 price tag for a small, which is practically criminal in these times, my order tasted just like my favorite Pinkberry and made me very happy. 

Copycat or not, Lutz certainly filled my void for a quick, relatively healthy swirled treat. And I’ll certainly be taking a trip back soon. 

Rocky Road can be an obstacle or an ice-cream flavor…

Rocky road baffles me. It’s an interesting concept to be able to quell your personal rocky road with some rocky road in a pint or a gallon.

Perhaps one of the few things they have in common is that we hover over both.

We, as humans, tend to be hoverers. We harp on everything and can’t let go. Not because we don’t want to. Not because we are rebelling against what we know we should do. But because society just won’t let us.

No one wants to let anyone forget Michael Jackson. Television stations changed scheduled programming to incorporate specials on the Pop legend. Family and friends are blowing up our e-mail inboxes and cell phones with up-to-date news. I have even read that Twitter crashed because of so many people microblogging. In every conceivable medium, people are talking about the king of the 20^th Century. Even if you could care less about the simultaneously famous/infamous star, you can’t help but think about him.      

This morning, on my hour-plus commute to work, every single one of the six preprogrammed radio stations in my dashboard was talking about MJ’s death. The hosts who weren’t talking about it were having listeners call in about it. Every time I clicked from station 1 to 5 to 3 to 4 back to 5, I couldn’t tell if I had even changed the channel. The only thing that changed was voice of the person speaking. I chuckle to myself because at work, the two Cuban seamstresses, who listen to a mini radio straight from the early ‘90s, keep trying to change the channel to listen to their typical Spanish music, and even they can’t find a station (in English or in Spanish) not talking about or playing Michael Jackson.   

Memories. That’s what we have. And “the way he made us feel. “

I heard over and over again (in my car and at work) about his contributions to society. His Thriller album going platinum 28 times. His Neverland Ranch and the joy it brought sick children. His ability to go from rags to riches. His influence on the music industry and the dance world. His role as an idol. No one dare mention his allegations or issues regarding child molestation, hanging babies over balconies or financial troubles. They only talk about the good, the great, the fabulous, the superstar. They harp.  

As much as I tried to escape the chitchat for sheer and utter sickness of hearing about it, it kept on. What’s worse are the songs. The power hours of continuous Jackson hits that only linger with you long after you leave your car. Last night, on my late drive home, MJ wanted to “rock with me all night.” Then again this morning, he wanted me to “beat it,” but even as I tried my hardest, there was no escape.

Elvis Duran on the Y-100 Morning Show tried to make light of the situation and remind listeners that it’s Friday, and normally on Fridays we can all be happy because it’s the start of the weekend. But just because it’s the weekend doesn’t mean the hurt or the sorrow, no matter how great or small, goes away. In the real world, there is no such thing as “your week self” and “your weekend self”. And everyday problems or upsets will still affect you at night, in the morning, at coffee get-togethers, during dinner and when you try to sleep. You’ll push out all the bad and invigorate yourself with the good memories, while still really getting nowhere, but spinning your head in circles by thinking about the past.    

Funny how life works. The underlying symbolism is undeniably uncanny. A brief look at this week’s weather forecast in South Florida promises scattered thunderstorms for at least the next ten days. And it’s as much the end of an era for Michael Jackson as it is for me right now.

Sometimes we just have to leave the pieces, walk away and bank on our instinct that the heart of life is good, even after devastation, shock and hurt.

Yes, rocky road can be an obstacle….but I’ll take it as an ice-cream flavor. With a crew of friends and a smile, I can make it disappear. 

Kitchen Blitz

Take back the dim lights, the coordinated table settings, the big and little forks. Skip the cloth napkins, the white tablecloths, the detailed plate placement, the perfectly selected wine lists. Forget about getting dolled up because the likelihood of you running into someone you haven’t seen in awhile and might want to look great for probably won’t show up. Heck, you can show up in your PJs if you really want.

As nice as dining out is, there’s nothing quite like a homemade meal. If your family is anything like mine, eating in is a treat in and of itself. The rich smells of a heavy red and mushrooms simmering and filling the kitchen, the clank of glasses taking ice from the freezer ice dispenser, the gentle (or not so gentle) bickering of loved ones scrambling to finish up. Sure, there are no waiters or extensive menus, but a dimmer solves mood lighting, background music is replaced by satellite radio from the TV and an every-so-often tablecloth will dress up the kitchen table. What’s best is, seconds are readily available and gratis.

While some families see holidays as the apropos time to seek a special meal out, mine takes it upon itself to cook in. Where better to celebrate family than the heart of it all – the home?

But good food is a sport.  It requires patience, practice, the ability to read plays in the form of recipes and an inkling to know when to change up the action when runs aren’t going your way.

Just ask my not-so-little little brother, Mike, who tackles the kitchen in addition to his high school football field. Instead of watching tapes, Mike watches Alton Brown. Warm-ups include going to one or two or even three grocery stores. Two-a-days are the days of preparation it takes to craft the main dish. And practice comes in the form of making multiple side dishes.  

For Father’s Day, Mike, who's just as big a fan of the Food Network as I am, decided he wanted to barbecue in honor of my pops (very manly!). Being a high school football player/soon-to-be U.S Coast Guard student and athlete, “too fattening” isn’t a concept brother bear needs to dote on. When he cooks, you know you are in for something delicious, but just as he does on the field, Mike likes hearty. He’s a real man’s man. A “gimme-steak, skip-the-veggies” kinda guy. So his menu for Father’s Day – a day to celebrate being a man – my brother decided to do a double play on an all-American favorite: the burger.

Gorgonzola and sun-dried tomato burgers (1/2 lb. each), served with a sautéed onion and mushroom topper on lightly grilled, pesto-painted French bread rolls

Honey Dijon broccoli slaw with chopped celery, crispy bacon bits, sweet raisins and almond slivers

Iced Tea

Mike's burgers, made from ground chuck, chopped onions, crumbled Gorgonzola and thinly sliced sun-dried tomatoes, are hand-packed and grilled to a medium-rare perfection on a charcoal grill. The cheese crumbles inside the burger make for a mouth-wateringly interesting take on the cheeseburger. It is so good, in fact, that it has to be served not on a regular hamburger roll, but on a spongy French roll.

In place of ketchup, Mike makes a homemade pesto, which he spreads on both sides of the bun, from fresh, blanched basil and toasted pine nuts. For the onion and mushroom toppings, he sautés the fresh veggies in red wine and the oil left over from the bacon that was used to make the broccoli slaw.  Talk about one football-field-sized burger!    

The caveat is you have to have it his way. No ifs, ands or buts…buns and pesto and all. Usually, I prefer my burgers without buns because I’d rather savor the meat, but with the fluffy French bread rolls and the garlicky pesto, there was no way I could resist. (Sir, yes, sir I will eat everything you prepare and take one for the team!).

The summery slaw, with its tangy, yet sweet Dijon dressing has just the right amount of crunch from the raw broccoli, the almond pieces and the fresh bacon bits.  It compliments the heavy, barbecued burger, but stands on its own as a cold, refreshing side that need not remain in the sidelines.

I'd be hard-pressed to find a restaurant that could provide the food and fabulous company we had this Father’s Day. No upset here. Mike’s well-thought-out meal was a touchdown if I ever tasted one. 

Alta Cocina lives up to its namesake

Miami-style dining means skinny white jeans, flowy blouses and large hoop earrings are nightly staples, and eating dinner is more of an event rather than an existence ritual. South Florida, known for its beautiful people and beaches, is also home to world-renowned chefs and modish restaurants. Whether it’s delicious food, exquisite presentation or a trendy atmosphere, most Miami restaurants promise a unique dining experience, hyped by word-of-mouth buzz and buttressed by a hefty price tag. More often than not, however, most places succeed in only one of these characteristics – be it charming atmosphere, stellar food or great service – but rarely will I find a place that can thrive in every aspect.

Alta Cocina – meaning haute cooking in Spanish, or high-class cooking in layman’s terms – was a pleasant surprise. On Sunset Strip, the rather subdued entrance would make the restaurant easy to pass, but it would be a shame to skip a meal here. The owners, a husband-and-wife pair originally from Trinidad and Guatemala, serve “global fusion” cuisine with a Latin flair. The crisp, white tables under the low-key lighting contrast eloquently with the black pillars supporting the restaurant and the abstract, ruddy artwork on the walls. The silverware is heavy; the wine glasses vary in size based on which fine wine you select; and the tweed-like menu is adorned with simple, yet bold metalwork.  The modernesque bottle display, featuring horizontal wine bottles behind the bar, serves as the restaurant’s focal point upon entrance. On a Saturday night, the low murmur of voices does not soil the intimate atmosphere, making Alta Cocina equally ideal for an evening with friends or family or a special someone.

The wait staff is well-versed in the extensive wine list and is eager to help make pairing suggestions based on meal selection. Because every option on the menu sounded tantalizing, Andrew and I asked our waiter, Noah, for some help. (Who else better to ask than someone who knows all the food from personal experience?)    

To begin, we selected the pulled short-ribs served atop seared, melt-in-your-mouth scallops sitting on a dollop of leek confit. Andrew and I split the petit portion, knowing that we each had our own meals coming. Though a bit small, the taste was big, yet not overly creamy and wet our palates for the rest of the meal. I’d return to Alta Cocina for this dish only, but I’d be sure to order the full portion next time and eat it all myself.   

For my main course, I chose the Thai sea bass served with flash fried bok choy in a zippy coconut broth with long-grain white rice on the side, but only under the premise that Andrew would give me a bite of his. He ordered the grilled rack of lamb with wild mushroom risotto and lamb jus for his entrée.

Unlike the appetizer, the meals were filling portions (Andrew even had to take some of his meal home!). My sea bass had a crispy top layer, yet was flaky on the inside and easy to eat. My only complaint was that is was practically drowning in the almost overly empowering spicy, soupy broth. Though the rice helped to cut the zing, I did not want to lose the tasty fish in a mouthful of plain white rice. The bok choy, however, was a light vegetable that complimented the fish without stealing its thunder.

Andrew’s lamb was tender and nearly slid off the bone. Likewise, his risotto was delicious and lived up to our waiter’s proclamation that this entrée is heavy and full, yet delicate. I would certainly order his instead of mine.  

Though for dessert our waiter who had been dead-on with all of his suggestions told us to try the white chocolate raspberry bread pudding, Andrew and I selected the only true chocolate choice on the menu (he knows my chocolate sweet tooth!) – the bittersweet chocolate cake with el ray chocolate sauce and vanilla bean ice cream. Served warm in an upside-down soufflé mound, the moist, uber chocolatey, molten-chocolate-cake-like dessert with cold ice cream was just the sweet I needed to complete my relaxed, hour-and-a-half dining experience.

Alta Cocina, as its name suggests, proved to be high-class in every sense – from the décor and ambience to the food, the waiters and even the other guests.       

"Summer, Ft. Lauderdale" – a twist on Billy Joel

They say that these are not the best of times, but they’re the only times I’ve ever known.

With the economy getting worse, more and more houses foreclosing, gas prices increasing daily and people getting laid off, life’s tough. Let’s face it. From the millionaire on Wall Street down to the hourly worker at the local fast food joint, no one can seem to catch a break. People are looking for second and third and fourth jobs to afford hovering bills and responsibilities. Meanwhile, they are spreading themselves so thinly that they can’t seem to balance anything. Friends that once meant the world now mean dittily squat. Jobs are wearing us ugly.

And I believe there is a time for meditation in cathedrals of our own.

To cope with it all lately, I’ve been running. I joined a gym to lose some lingering, yet very much unwanted European weight, but mostly, to keep my sanity. Day in and day out, I observe heartbreaking court hearings – of parents rightly separated from their children, of children who are criminals, of people who can’t get their acts together to be responsible. On top of it all, I am attempting to balance a paying job, an internship, LSAT review, family time, friend time and general life (whatever that means).

By the time I pull into the gym parking lot, I am already thinking about my playlist for the day. Will it be hardcore rock for the treadmill, Top 40 for the elliptical or house for the StairMaster? No matter what it is, I can assure you it will be ear-shatteringly loud and it’s gonna push me to push myself until my bones are rattling under my skin, my face is as red as a cherry and my sweat is drenching my clothing. With the assistance of my iPod playlist, my thoughts from the day give me an extra “umph” to literally go that extra mile.

I run for every child whose parents can’t complete simple case plans. I run for those who are stuck in shelter because child advocates don’t follow through with court orders. I run for the kids whose parents are just unwilling to take care of them. I run for the frustration of mixed messages. I run for the traffic that holds me up on Broward. I run for myself. To ease the pain of those who have hurt me, who have forget to call or text when they say they will, who keep things secretive, who have forgotten about me, who have returned to ex-girlfriends, who have used me, even though they say they feel awful about it.

And now I have seen that sad surrender in my lover’s eyes, I can only stand apart and sympathize.

While I run and blow off steam, bouncing in my Nike Shocks to the beat of whatever’s beating in my ears, I come to terms with the fact that the world is simply too big for me to conquer completely. People will let you down, parents won’t complete their case plans, friends will be the ones to hurt you most and excuses saturate courtroom hearings, e-mail inboxes and text messages. Though I can’t justify it, I can recognize it.

Often, though unknowingly, we set ourselves up for failure. Our high expectations are not even on other’s to-do lists, and actions that seem too good to be true, typically are. We are told to expect the unexpected, but more common than not, it’s the usual expected that we get.

As I run, I can remove myself from me and fairly empathize with myself, accepting that occasionally people will shock you, but until then we have our iPods blasting music and our own two feet. It’s almost symbolic. On the elliptical, I run nowhere fast. The wheels are spinning – on the machine and in my head - many miles in 45 minutes. By the end, I have accepted that you can’t change anyone but yourself, yet I feel accomplished, even proud, of the strides I have made myself and in trying to.

For we are always what our situations hand us. It’s either sadness or euphoria.