We’re in Miami, Bitch


I had very little idea what to expect regarding Miami. Michael C Hall wrapping serial killers in cling film and girls with better arses than I could dream of wrapping themselves in body con were all that sprung to mind. And this, I guess.

We arrived, critically hungover, on Wednesday evening and were hit by a wall of heat even a New York summer can’t prepare you for. Our friend’s apartment was in Brickell, the financial district, and as we sat outside his building sweating out the remains of the previous night’s whiskey it was hard to imagine how any of the besuited businessmen striding past ever got anything done. One cold sitting down shower later and we all headed down to The River Seafood Oyster Bar. It became immediately apparent that George, Freddie and I are all enablers of the other’s gluttonous tendencies. Scallop ceviche tostadas (which Freddie foolishly thought he would have to himself) vanished in about three seconds. Yuca fries with salsa verde. Fragrant (and surprisingly spicy) lemongrass coconut mussels necessitated a second bread basket so as not to miss a drop of broth. A crispy red snapper fillet atop a jumble of tomato and avocado would have been the best thing on the table were it not for the gnocchi. Oh the gnocchi. Poor old lactose intolerant George could only look on as Freddie and I cooed over this plate of blue crab, gnocchi, parmesan and truffle as if it was our first born child who’d just just cured cancer. If I knew nothing of the Miami food scene prior, this was a sterling start.

As the three of us wove our way home, the afterglow of a truly great meal (and a bottle of wine each) turned the humid streets sultry and soft around the edges. Maybe Miami could be my kind of place after all.

Written by Laura.

What I’m saying now.
What I’m seeing now.

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