Jun. 17th, 2014 10:14 am
Mesa familiar
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muckefuckAs we were packing to leave Chicago, I Googled "florida poutine" on a whim and discovered a gourmet poutinerie just about a half hour south of where we were staying. I knew I couldn't convince anyone to go there (the Old Man hates the stuff), but it tickled me to find it all the same. At the local grocery store (a fancy new Publix on the mainland) I found a single aislecap devoted to "English foods" and seize a tiny jar of Marmite to wave in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monshu's face. Unfortunately I didn't have the presence of mind to pick up any clotted cream for the scones my sister made.
The food was as we expected: not great and not terrible. I was a little appalled the day of our arrival when I went down to the grill to keep my BIL company while he cooked and find that he had chicken breasts in the package straight from the refrigerator and was about to plunk them on the grill the same time as the steak. To my surprise, even the thickest of them cooked through without the outside turning completely to char and even remained juicy. The next evening, my older brother made us all reubens and was doing quite well until he was undone by hard butter because he managed to overlook the margarine.
In both cases, I was annoyed to find they'd both been entrusted with feeding seven people and then been abandoned to their own devices. Especially Crazy Brother, who was so disoriented from everything that he didn't even notice he hadn't turned the [shitty electric] burner on until I pointed it out. You don't mess around with my mealtime like that. For similar reasons, we also insisted on coming along on the food-shopping expeditions.
I also did more research on local restaurants this time since part of our agenda was meals out with Sis and BIL and with my parents. We found a nice French-style café just up the road for brunch with the former. The quiche was so good the Old Man bought a whole one for his upcoming day of abstinence, but the loaf of bread we got there was disappointing. (Floridians appear not to understand the meaning of the word "crusty" when applied to baked goods rather than old men.)
For dinner that night, we went to a fish place nearby called "Cod & Capers". It started as a fishmonger's and that's still half the store, and that seemed like a guarantee of quality to me. I liked almost everyone else's dish more than mine.monshu's grouper was first-rate, Stepmom's risotto was overcooked but loaded with lobster, the pieces of calamari were the biggest I've seen and tender as anything, but my conch steak was tough and chewy. Now I understand why it's usually made into fritters.
Friday evening,monshu took things in hand and made a massive batch of pork and chicken en mojo--both orthodox and "allium-free" for the sake of my garlic- and onion-intolerant sister. My family being my family, the pork was snarfed up like cream puffs, but there was more than enough chicken left for a massive salad the next day. That was also when we made our one other foray to the grills--in the rain--with a stack of hotdogs, bratwursts, and Argentinian-style chorizos frescos.
Had I been 100% sure that would come off, I might not have had a wild boar burger at the gourmet fast-casual joint Dad spotted on the Dixie Highway coming back from West Palm City Center, where the dining choices were disappointingly generic. The neighbourhood is called "Northwood Village", and it's exactly what we'd been looking for: a walkable street where the shops are locally-owned one-offs and not the same damn chains found everywhere. (Poormonshu ended up having coffee with Stepmom at Panera.) It was a well-cooked patty (by which I mean it was truly medium rare), but the shrimp cobb salad the GWO had was amazing, the bacon so thick Stepmom didn't recoginse it for what it was, pillowy boiled egg, and beets even I could eat.
I would've liked to have steered us toward a Cuban restaurant for a change of pace, but maybe that will come next time when Stepmom and I finally figure out where the local barrio is located. (There's an area just east of the airport called "Vedado", presumably after the neighbourhood in Havana, and I found hits for Cuban restaurants on the stretch of Dixie Highway which runs south of there.) The important thing is that we didn't kill ourselves trying to herd everyone to someplace unfindable or sit for forever waiting for overpriced mediocre plates.
monshu's face. Unfortunately I didn't have the presence of mind to pick up any clotted cream for the scones my sister made.The food was as we expected: not great and not terrible. I was a little appalled the day of our arrival when I went down to the grill to keep my BIL company while he cooked and find that he had chicken breasts in the package straight from the refrigerator and was about to plunk them on the grill the same time as the steak. To my surprise, even the thickest of them cooked through without the outside turning completely to char and even remained juicy. The next evening, my older brother made us all reubens and was doing quite well until he was undone by hard butter because he managed to overlook the margarine.
In both cases, I was annoyed to find they'd both been entrusted with feeding seven people and then been abandoned to their own devices. Especially Crazy Brother, who was so disoriented from everything that he didn't even notice he hadn't turned the [shitty electric] burner on until I pointed it out. You don't mess around with my mealtime like that. For similar reasons, we also insisted on coming along on the food-shopping expeditions.
I also did more research on local restaurants this time since part of our agenda was meals out with Sis and BIL and with my parents. We found a nice French-style café just up the road for brunch with the former. The quiche was so good the Old Man bought a whole one for his upcoming day of abstinence, but the loaf of bread we got there was disappointing. (Floridians appear not to understand the meaning of the word "crusty" when applied to baked goods rather than old men.)
For dinner that night, we went to a fish place nearby called "Cod & Capers". It started as a fishmonger's and that's still half the store, and that seemed like a guarantee of quality to me. I liked almost everyone else's dish more than mine.
monshu's grouper was first-rate, Stepmom's risotto was overcooked but loaded with lobster, the pieces of calamari were the biggest I've seen and tender as anything, but my conch steak was tough and chewy. Now I understand why it's usually made into fritters.Friday evening,
monshu took things in hand and made a massive batch of pork and chicken en mojo--both orthodox and "allium-free" for the sake of my garlic- and onion-intolerant sister. My family being my family, the pork was snarfed up like cream puffs, but there was more than enough chicken left for a massive salad the next day. That was also when we made our one other foray to the grills--in the rain--with a stack of hotdogs, bratwursts, and Argentinian-style chorizos frescos.Had I been 100% sure that would come off, I might not have had a wild boar burger at the gourmet fast-casual joint Dad spotted on the Dixie Highway coming back from West Palm City Center, where the dining choices were disappointingly generic. The neighbourhood is called "Northwood Village", and it's exactly what we'd been looking for: a walkable street where the shops are locally-owned one-offs and not the same damn chains found everywhere. (Poor
monshu ended up having coffee with Stepmom at Panera.) It was a well-cooked patty (by which I mean it was truly medium rare), but the shrimp cobb salad the GWO had was amazing, the bacon so thick Stepmom didn't recoginse it for what it was, pillowy boiled egg, and beets even I could eat.I would've liked to have steered us toward a Cuban restaurant for a change of pace, but maybe that will come next time when Stepmom and I finally figure out where the local barrio is located. (There's an area just east of the airport called "Vedado", presumably after the neighbourhood in Havana, and I found hits for Cuban restaurants on the stretch of Dixie Highway which runs south of there.) The important thing is that we didn't kill ourselves trying to herd everyone to someplace unfindable or sit for forever waiting for overpriced mediocre plates.