Mariscos de Miami
I had a work trip to Miami recently. First time I had been in twenty-one years, almost exactly to the date. And I can't say that previous trip was a genuine representaion of the town as it was purely for Super Bowl XXXIII. I was also only thirteen years old at the time. But now, I was excited to get a taste of the true Miami experience, to say the least.
Unfortunately, the trip was to be real brief. Fly in late Thursday night, work nonsense all day Friday, another work event on Saturday night, and then fly out on Sunday. However, if I planned right and did some research, I could fit in a little The Layover-esque seafood focused tour. I needed to do Miami a little culinary justice from the shitty corporate conference meals I knew I'd be having. Think of the most mediocre chicken-or-fish wedding you've been to. That's basically every business conference meal I've ever had.
The hotel was located in South Beach and my first impressions were the standard. Beautiful beaches, palacial looking palm trees, sultry weather and women. Merengue music blaring from every club on Ocean Drive as street vendors hustled Cuban cigars. Multichromatic deco hotels everywhere and luxury sports cars cruising by at four miles per hour. Miami's South Beach is one of those few places that feels exactly like the stereotypes you know and expect.
A couple of things did surprise me, though. I had no idea there was such a Middle Eastern influence in the area. Every other storefront seemed to have a hookah lounge, and pretty legit looking döner kebabs or shwarma shops were on every block. The other odd thing was that nearly every menu I looked at had a Philly cheesesteak. Cuban place, cheesesteak right under Cubano in the sandwich section. Italian restaurant, Philly cheesesteak. Late night dining options, cheesesteak, cheesesteak, cheesesteak. Philly cheesesteaks were more ubiquitous than all the bulging biceps and bronzed buttcheeks. Perhaps for all those foreign tourists trying two-bird-one-stone it while in the States.
Anyway, with most of my work obligations out of the way on Friday, I woke up bright and early on Saturday to get down to the real business. I had a few specific destinations in mind, but only half a day and so many other possibilities. What should I go for? White table cloth or economical? Classic or eclectic? Try and focus on oysters or go for any and all seafood? Every tourist town poses a real challenge in terms of finding solid cuisine. World renowned dishes specific to a region often get exploited, being overpriced, poor quality, and frequently both. Miami is certainly no different. I had to be careful to avoid the city's culinary equivalents of Pier 39's chowder in a bread bowl. So, with a loose plan, an immense appetite, and company plastic in hand....let's get it!
First stop was of course the famous Joe's Stone Crab. A South Beach instituion serving all things seafood to the community since 1913. As Delmonico's is to Manhattan, Union Oyster House is to Boston, Tadich Grill is to San Francisco, Peter Luger's is to Brooklyn, and so on, Joe's Stone Crab is to Miami. One of those historic "see-and-be-seen" type places that celebrities, athletes, and the rich frequent. Apparrently Lady Gaga was in just the night before my visit, according to the manager. No need to go into all the history as the link provides that. Joe's doesn't take reservations either and given my limited time, I wasn't going to wait in line for ninety minutes just for glitz and glamour or pomp and circumstance. I was just there for the namesake: Florida stone crab claws. Fortunately, Joe's has an adjacent takeaway place that's open from 7:30am to 10pm. So, I was able to get my day started early and right. 
Stone crab claws are an interesting fishery. One, the season is only from October to May the following year. Not an uncommon practice for most wild fisheries. Joe's isn't even open the other months. Two, and the curious part, is that the whole crab isn't harvested. Fishermen trap catch the crabs, pull them up, break off one of their claws if being ethical, both if being assholes, and throw the crab back. The crab will live and be able to regenerate its claw(s), often up to three or four times in its life. I've had stone crab at several places I've worked in the past, and I have to say it's certainly the sweetest crab you can find. At Joe's they were no doubt some of the best I've had. Not exactly the most budget friendly of meals at $25 per claw for the jumbo size, but definitely worth the once in awhile treat. Served alongside a creamy mustard sauce, drawn butter, and plenty of lime wedges, I cracked and ate right by the water in South Pointe Park, watching boats and early morning joggers pass by.
With the perfunctory but pleasant Joe's Stone Crab under my belt, it was time to head to the next destination. From 100 plus years of service at Joe's to less than 100 days at the next, INTI.MO is the newest establishment in Juan Chipoco's Peruvian-Japanese fusion restaurant empire. Chipoco not only celebrates his Incan roots in decor and cuisine at INTI.MO, but also in his restaurant group's imperial takeover of Miami's dining scene. Guy is the hottest thing in South Florida since guayabera shirts. And luckily, at a block and half away in South Beach, this new location was only a stone crab claw's throw away from Joe's. Dad jokes always crush it.
Tiraditos and tatakis, ceviches and causas, sushi rolls and sashimi, plus everything in between. All sorts of mishmashed items littered the seemingly overwhelming menu. I didn't even ask what the "sushi bomb" was. I decided to stay classic. "Ceviche mixto, please, and one of those fruity cocktails rimmed with chili salt." When in Miami, right? It was good. Cubed corvina, squid, shrimp, and octopus. A simple citrus forward leche de tigre with a floral habenero heat balanced out by sweet hominy (choclo), crispy corn nuts (canchas), and blistered sweet potato. The dish lived up to the ostentatious decor and Andean gold ornamentation, and came with a side of nice conversation I had with one of the sous.
Mignonette seemed to be one of the city's oyster bars held in the highest regard, and was included on Eater Miami's Essential 38, so I figured it the best place for my bivalve fix. The establishment itself was gorgeous. Retrofitted 1930s gas station with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the City of Miami Cemetary. Staff was as nice, informative, and welcoming as could be. The only thing that rubbed me the wrong way was, I guess, just the general concept of the place. It felt like it was trying too hard to be a NYC or Boston raw bar. You're in Miami, so be a Miami raw bar. It is possible. Out of six oyster varieties, not a single one was from Florida, or even the South, despite it being January and about as peak oyster season as you could get down there. The chef I chatted with briefly said he simply couldn't find good Florida oysters. Maybe locavorism hasn't hit Miami yet? I doubt either are true. And if you are going for a reputable North Atlantic style raw bar, dubious Blue Points and listless Hood Canal Quilcenes aren't the way to get there.
The crudo and baked oysters I had were delightful, though. Thinly sliced amberjack, jalapeño, and chives dressed with olive oil and blood orange juice and topped with spiced brioche croutons. Simple, refreshing, and spot on. The baked oyster line up consisted of:
Oysters Rockefeller - spinach, parmesan, breadcrums, and pernod
Oysters Frank - manchego cheese, applewood smoked bacon, and sherry
Oysters Bezos - foie gras, mushroom duxelles, and marsala
All three were well done. Cheers for the bacon and oyster combo on the Oysters Frank - salty pig parts and shellfish always hit home. The foie gras oysters were damn tasty too and I can't help but applaud their titular whimsy. Oysters Rockefeller, at their advent in 1889 New Orleans, were described as so rich that they had to be named after the wealthiest man alive, John D. Rockefeller. Foie gras packs that same richness, so only our contemporary Amazon mogul would be suitable for the name. Thumbs up.
I also admit I'm not being entirely fair in my criticism of Mignonette's concept. It did have a great menu of classic and creative dishes, several locally focused or paying homage to the South's regional cooking styles. It was an objectively nice dining experience. I think I was the asshole at fault in wanting something a little more Miami in my oyster bar.
So, with my reactions to Mignonette's style and approach, I was clearly getting sick of the higher-brow Miami restaurant scene I'd experienced so far. Noted. Time to get farther West to Little Havana's La Camaronera. Jumped in a cab and off I went. Immediately, I started feeling better as the fancy gardens and gaudy hotels made way for Tigo Móvil signs and joyerías or casas de empeño. I even got to dust off my decade old Spanish, mostly with my Venezuelan Uber driver and in my search for a cajero. La Camaronera is cash only. No se aceptan tarjetas. I can appreciate that. An old saying I heard was confirmed, as well. Years ago, while in Panama, a local described Panama City as "the Miami of Central America, only we speak more English." That was definitely true of Miami's Little Havana.
Fresh fish market and fry house, La Camaronera is a 40 year-old Cuban seafood joint from the famed Miami fishing family, The Garcia Brothers, dating back to 1976. Long story short, several of the Garcia brothers immigrated to Miami in 1966 and worked as fishermen, a trade they'd learned as kids in their native Cuba. They saved up their earnings, and in a few years, opened their own wholesale and retail fish market. A few years later, they threw in a deep fryer, added some standing counters, and La Camaronera was born. It's also seen as kind of a crossroads of Miami culture. A place where everyone from Coral Gables billionaires to Liberty City gangsters can be seen queueing up for a fried shrimp basket or caldito de cherna.
Similar to Joe's Stone Crab, the establishment is best known for one item in particular: the pan con minuta or fried red snapper sandwich. Straightforward in concept, it's a butterflied and deep fried red snapper filet served on a lightly toasted Cuban roll topped with chopped onions, ketchup, and tartar sauce. Can't deny that the tail on presentation adds major bonus points to the experience. It was as tasty as I'd imagined and exactly the direction I'd hoped my crawl would turn. Step aside ham, pork, pickles, and mustard...there's a Cubano de pescado that's definitely one-upped you in my sandwich book.
So, with my reactions to Mignonette's style and approach, I was clearly getting sick of the higher-brow Miami restaurant scene I'd experienced so far. Noted. Time to get farther West to Little Havana's La Camaronera. Jumped in a cab and off I went. Immediately, I started feeling better as the fancy gardens and gaudy hotels made way for Tigo Móvil signs and joyerías or casas de empeño. I even got to dust off my decade old Spanish, mostly with my Venezuelan Uber driver and in my search for a cajero. La Camaronera is cash only. No se aceptan tarjetas. I can appreciate that. An old saying I heard was confirmed, as well. Years ago, while in Panama, a local described Panama City as "the Miami of Central America, only we speak more English." That was definitely true of Miami's Little Havana.
Fresh fish market and fry house, La Camaronera is a 40 year-old Cuban seafood joint from the famed Miami fishing family, The Garcia Brothers, dating back to 1976. Long story short, several of the Garcia brothers immigrated to Miami in 1966 and worked as fishermen, a trade they'd learned as kids in their native Cuba. They saved up their earnings, and in a few years, opened their own wholesale and retail fish market. A few years later, they threw in a deep fryer, added some standing counters, and La Camaronera was born. It's also seen as kind of a crossroads of Miami culture. A place where everyone from Coral Gables billionaires to Liberty City gangsters can be seen queueing up for a fried shrimp basket or caldito de cherna. Similar to Joe's Stone Crab, the establishment is best known for one item in particular: the pan con minuta or fried red snapper sandwich. Straightforward in concept, it's a butterflied and deep fried red snapper filet served on a lightly toasted Cuban roll topped with chopped onions, ketchup, and tartar sauce. Can't deny that the tail on presentation adds major bonus points to the experience. It was as tasty as I'd imagined and exactly the direction I'd hoped my crawl would turn. Step aside ham, pork, pickles, and mustard...there's a Cubano de pescado that's definitely one-upped you in my sandwich book.
Four stops in less than six hours was probably respectably sufficient, no? But thankfully, I still had one more to go. Even before my trip to La Camaronera, I felt I was missing something major. I'd checked off most of the main places on my list, but I hadn't had that one maverick experience. You know, that culinary wildcard where you just stumble across a cool looking spot, enter with no expectations, and have one of the best meals of your life. True hidden gems. Obviously, they are few and far between and you can't force them. They just happen when they happen. But I definitely wanted to try and find something akin, free of TripAdvisor and Yelper opinions. Also, there are large Haitian and Bahamian populations in Miami. Why hadn't I looked into that? Where were the lambi and bannann peze or the conch fritters? Admittedly, we do need to be sensitive to the conch's populations and over-fishing, or better yet, "conchservation" (read the article, I can't take credit for that one).
So, I decided to start asking around, in short, "where can I get some good cutty Caribbean cuisine." The shucker at Mignonette, without any hesitation, had said "Chef Creole's Seasoned Kitchen. But careful, you gotta be sure to go to the original on 54th Street. That's the best." Ok, I looked into it a little. My initial impression was that it couldn't be good or what I was looking for. Basically a local chain with six locations, a massive catering service, and even an online retail store for sauces and swag.
Then, I asked the La Camaronera cashier the same question. She was very nice and gave me a few options, and Chef Creole's was on that list. It was even nicer when she started ignoring a long line of customers waiting to order so she could call her "chef friend" and ask for his recommendations, on speaker phone no less. You don't find personal service like that often. He immediately said "Chef Creole's Seasoned Kitchen, but the original one on 54th Street," as well. Ok, there had to be something here. Three completely unsolicited, industry veteran responses of "Chef Creole's." That's more than enough evidence for me, chain or not. Google doesn't have the answer to everything sometimes. Enter Uber ride number three of the day and away we go.
The Little Havana landscape gradually gave way to what can be best described as the residential scenes from a Trick Daddy music video. And as soon as I arrived at Chef Creole's, I knew I was in the right place. It consisted of three parts: a walk-in takeaway section, a drive-thru, and an outdoor cabana dining area. Bright yellow, bright blue, and Chef Creole branding covered every door, sign, table, employee, catering van. Chinese takeout-esque photos of braised oxtail, red beans and rice, fried shrimp, and pork griot lined the walls over ice chests filled with Cola Lacaye. The only regret was that I had no stomach real estate left for a proper Chef Creole feast. It was tough to decide as I defintely couldn't handle a full plate of garlic lobster and crab with all the sides. So, I went with the conch salad. Quick cash exchange for a pre-packaged pint of the salad, styrofoam cup of Hawaiian Punch, and out to the cabana I went to enjoy the beautifully balmy weather of Little Haiti.
Conch is a damn tasy meat. Kind of like a marriage between crab and octopus in flavor, but with the firm texture of geoduck siphon. I would have loved to find a Bahamian Conch Chowder or tried the stewed conch at Chef Creole's, but perhaps that's for next trip. The salad was legit, though. Diced up conch with tomatoes, jalapeño, and onions mixed with ample amounts of lime juice and salt. Tough to beat. Whatever the hell you want to call them: ceviches, salads, cocteles, crudos...if you're mixing citrus, shellfish, peppers and alliums, I'm always game. And I couldn't remember the last time I'd had Hawaiian Punch. Talk about a nostalgic sip. Too bad red sugar water is out of favor cause that shit is delicious. All in all, the conch salad at Chef Creole's was the perfect ending to my Mariscos de Miami tour.
Actually, that's a lie. I was able to sneak in one last ceviche at a South Beach farmers' market right before I left for the airport on Sunday. Like I said, I'm always game.
Cheers,
The SF Oyster Nerd