The Sauvginon Blanc Seduction (Courtship Rules)

Long courtships can be magical. But most of us, microwave-minded Americans, wouldn’t know that. Sauvignon Blanc has courted me for years, but I’ve been evasive, secretly snubbing the Sancerre bottles colleagues have deemed royalty. I’m a Viognier-girl. I’m a Marsanne and Roussanne-girl. When I think of Sauvignon Blanc, I think, “white grapefruit.” Big deal. But, this last year I’ve stumbled into some truly intriguing bottles of Sauvignon Blanc. It’s like the guy or girl who’s been asking you out for years and you’ve repeatedly declined. Then he or she says or does something that makes you take notice. Maybe, he references Frida Kahlo, who is your favorite artist of all time. Or maybe, he references a Psalm that you absolutely adore. Suddenly, they’re not as corny. The 2010 Grgich Hills Estate Napa Valley Estate Grown Fumé Blanc is not corny. Apricot, white peach and lavender aromas emerge from white grapefruit, lemon drop, lychee and white pepper flavors. I love the saltiness at the finish, that beautiful minerality that beckons ceviche, yellowfin sashimi and oysters. It’s absolutely delicious and three days later with no fancy wine preserver, it’s still unraveling on my palate. I paired it up with the savory, sweet escovitch fish my father bought from a seaside port in Kingston and it was the promise of an amazing food and wine pairing fulfilled. As I enter 2012, I think of the promises I’ve made to myself but have failed miserably. “This time, I won’t let him…” But I did. And so I make another promise to myself to consider the long courtship over the corny, one-palate wonder.

Sorrel Scandal

Sorrel season is a scary time of year. Relationships can be broken. Some are even terminally altered. In my family, aunts feud over this luscious, holiday drink made from an herb that turns into a gorgeous, violet color when it’s ready to be picked. The herb is then transformed into a rich, spicy scandal juice. Jamaicans love sorrel, and it’s typical for family members to offer empty, white rum bottles filled with sorrel as holiday gifts to other family members. Each family member has his or her own style. Some make sorrel with dramatic amounts of sugar (Think 80s Kool-Aid). Some use piercing amounts of ginger. Some use lime. Some sorrel juices have the consistency of rhubarb syrup. But really well-made sorrel always has a few splashes of Wray & Nephew White Overproof Rum. Recently my mom has been using me a scapegoat in evaluating the sorrel that pours in during the holidays. “Dinkinish is a food critic,” she will say sneeringly to her sister who may have neglected to send my mother her yearly batch. “She said that yours was very, very sweet last year.” My cousin just sent my mother a batch that was super lime-y. I decided to pour it into a flute glass with some Cava, but the lime assassinated the Cava. But I’m not giving up. I’m sure a more sugary sorrel is sure to work. My mom asked me what I thought, phone in hand, but I learned my lesson. “It’s good,” I responded flatly.

Christmas Booty & Fresh Greens

God drew a heart in the sky for me this morning. I’m serious. I just finished 100 downward dogs, my derriere feeling rounder than the fullest moon. And as I lay down for shavasana, a cloud appeared in the shape of a heart. Whenever possible I go to the free yoga class at Bayfront Park. It’s perfect weather for bending, breathing, straddling the wind and glancing at the woman whose derriere looks like it could hang neatly from a Christmas tree. With all this airy introspection, I decided to eat a simple, mixed green salad. I stumbled into Organic Girl Good Clean Greens at Publix and was taken with the beautiful, bright lettuce that stood out among the other bags filled with dewy, brown leaves. Don’t you hate spending $4.99 for a bag of organic greens that look like they were picked from a sewer garden? It’s been a while since my palate perceived the spicy, earthy, fresh nuances in the ubiquitous spring mix. I had some Gran Queso that I grated for the salad. The cheese is like a Manchego meets Parmigiano-Reggiano in flavor and in texture. I tossed in some dried cranberries and drizzled a little Makoto Ginger Dressing.  The salad was calling for a nice Sancerre, a Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc or a yummy sparkling wine—Graham Beck, maybe. But I never have two things that match. I had a 2007 Allegrini Palazzo Della Torre that was leftover from last night, so I just sipped that. This wine is delicious. Dried, dark cherries and raisins downward dog the palate. It gets jammy after it sits in the glass for a while. It’s brick red and super juicy like many of the yogi-dudes who insist on practicing topless.

Happy Birthday, Jesus. I know you’re sipping the good stuff:)

Bareback in Vacqueyras

I’ve been in smorgasbord-heaven for the last five days. I deserve it. The year is ending, taking with it the pangs and woes, victories and defeats, answered prayers and unanswered prayers, good bottles and bad bottles. For me, it’s been a year of staring mortality dead in the eye, leaping bareback into oblivion and emerging like a ravenous tiger. I know you know what I’m talking about. You lost jobs. You found jobs. You lost loves. You found loves. You paid bills. You didn’t pay bills. You slept. You haven’t slept. You passed exams. You failed exams. You lost faith. You found faith. But you’re still here—sticky-fingered, messy, pissed-off, and rejuvenated. So am I. Enough sermonizing. What about the wine? At first, the 2006 La Cuveé du Président Vacqueyras tasted like a 40 year old man on the brink of a mid-life crisis. The dark fruits were still there, but they were dull and sluggish, like they were hanging on to lives already lived. But I was patient. Most men need coaxing, right? So I decanted it and waited 45 minutes. Those repressed dark fruits began to emerge with flavors like mushroom and black pepper. There was some dark chocolate, and the body wrapped around my palate like cashmere. But I do believe this wine is in its last and closing days of time. But you aren’t. And that's what’s important. 

Brunch, Booz and Djon-Djon

What do you get when you mix lightweight ex-girlfriends, a slightly intimidated baby daddy, tabbouleh and a yummy Zinfandel? Brunch. Today is my best friend, Sandy’s, birthday. We’ve known each other for over 23 years (Stop trying to figure out my age lol). Since she was in Haiti for my birthday, we decided to celebrate together. Now that we’re grown-ass women, we don’t see each other as much even though we live in the same city, so this was a special moment. Sandy’s stunningly gorgeous Haitian neighbor—Titu made the tabbouleh, and Sandy's mom made my favorite rice in the world—diri ak djon-djon (Haitian black rice). This luxurious dish is made with black, sun-dried mushrooms indigenous to Haiti though there are bootleg versions you can find in local, Caribbean markets. Having had the dish many times, I can tell the difference, and I can tell Sandy’s mom splurged on the real mushrooms (Thanks, Ma). Oh, but the pièce de résistance was the Haitian pineapple upside down cake jeweled with candied prunes. This is Sandy’s specialty. It’s moist, buttery and sweet, like Jamaican rum cake without the rum. I know the Zinfandel sounds random. You were thinking Bordeaux or even a Chinon for the mushroom-y rice, right? I know, but that’s what I had, and it wasn’t the big, jammy, purple-tooth showdown I was expecting. The wine had aromas of roses and anise and flavors of black cherry, loads of dark chocolate and black pepper. It was a flirty wine appropriately named Macchia Adventurous, ’09 vintage from Linsteadt Vineyard. Sandy drank Riesling…from the blue bottle lol

Gourmet Squatter Video

This is my debut video for Gourmet Squatter. I'm so excited and am looking forward to doing more of them. Squat, Sip, Savor...

Moon Over Sinner Food

 

Church food is the best food. Why? In black churches, cooks aren’t just cooking for anybody. They’re cooking for God. And God loves flavor. My church is celebrating its 25^th anniversary banquet, and so my family’s house has been like a pressure cooker for the last 48 hours. Each year, my mother drags my father all over Miami, looking for the best cuts of goat meat and chicken. Prep work is serious. My mother massages chicken with obscene amounts of garlic, thyme, onion, and Nature’s Seasoning. She cleans the goat meat with vinegar, seasons it similarly, but she also adds a bright-flavored Jamaican curry for curry goat. Voluptuous women named Sistah This or Evangelist That pour into the house with smoked, country hams, brown stew chicken, Haitian macaroni au gratin, potato salad, and rice and peas. Most of them are Nurses’ Aids and have just completed double-shifts, but you wouldn’t know it if I didn’t tell you. They have ceaseless energy, offering these gifts with hands that have bathed the sick, comforted the dying and borrowed a necklace or two from the infirmed. But my mother secretly deems her food the best. This year, her sous chef—a new member we’ll call Sistah Jerk, has won the golden jerk award. Guys, her chicken is worthy of heaven’s table—tender, smoky, sweet-spiced, Jamaican jerk perfection. I’m talking glossy-lipped-chew-the-bones perfection. I watched her melt the coconut cream into the gungo peas and rice, and it, too, made the angels lick their fingers clean. Tonight’s full moon will bring in all types of church folk and quasi-church folk. They’ll emerge from dusty bibles. The pungent smell of Holy Ghost stew (manish watah) will lure them in. Most won’t buy dinner tickets, but request juice instead of ginger ale. I’ll serve them. That’s my job—church waitress.

Salt Snob

In 2007, I visited a salt plantation in La Rochelle, France. It was one of those gourmet squatter jaunts that pop up out of nowhere. Anyway, I got a couple bags of salt to take home. One had coarse, gray nuggets that I sprinkled on my organic ground sirloin and pearly racks of lamb and the other was like little speckles of broken, white diamonds I used on salads or to enliven my dips (The peppadew cream cheese is simply amazing). I broke up with Morton and became quite the salt snob. But last night, I used the last of it. Another beautiful relationship ended as I doubt I will be returning to La Rochelle to buy salt anytime soon. Aaaah, but what an intoxicating affair.

Better Than Bedroom Bacon

I woke up with meat on my mind—applewood smoked bacon or chorizo wreathing a soft pile of scrambled eggs seasoned with scallion and red peppers. Maybe a couple slices of toasted and buttered hard dough bread? The perfect gourmet bed bash. But I was in a rush, and I never keep that type of the stuff in the fridge. I raced out of the house, a McDonald’s sausage egg McMuffin-mirage on the edge of the street. I haven’t had McDonald’s in forever. It would be just this one time. The conscious, anti-fast food police would never know. I want to buy the vegan, tofu scrambled eggs with homemade, apple soy sausage and coconut buttered whole wheat toast, but I just don’t have $9 to drop on breakfast right now. As I take that sharp right and head down the boulevard, my car piercing through the Krispy Kreme crack, Taco Bell and Subway-street walkers, I turn into the parking lot on the right. What am I doing here? I’m being led. I know it. The gourmet squatter angels are guiding me. I walk into the restaurant to find Mr. Carrot hard at work. “You’re hungry?” he asks in his Rafiki-in-The-Lion-King voice. He flashes that charming, goatee-framed grin and disappears. He emerges from the kitchen 20 minutes later, hands me the tofu special in a paper bag—McDee’s style. “Go forth. Be great,” he said.

Barefoot Lies

My mother loves Manischewitz Concord Grape wine. To her, it is grander than the most distinguished Sauternes or luxurious Pedro Ximenez dulce. She called me yesterday, her voice as sugary as her favorite wine because she bought a bottle of Barefoot Sweet Red for under $6 and was wondering what I thought of it. My mother is the godmother gourmet squatter, a master at discovering the most sophisticated gourmet fare at half the price. She’s skilled at budgeting in such way that she can enjoy luxurious treats like wild smoked salmon and freshly made turkey sausages. I acquiesce to her ability to sniff free gourmet samples from miles away. But we don’t share the same wine passions. Still, I joined her for a first taste of her new find. It wasn’t tragic. Actually, it was the kind of base I’d use for a summer sangria or as an ingredient for Jamaican black cake. She loved it, smiling at me from underneath her colorful, paisley tie-head. “You like it?,” she asked in her roaring, Jamaican twang, her excitement mirroring that of a child skipping away barefoot on a sugary sand beach, the world and all its pretensions lost in the dawn’s light. “Yes,” I responded. “You too lie,” she said, rolling her luscious, brown eyes at me.

Gourmet Squatter Jingle

Still Hungry

Still like The Blue Lagoon in Port Antonio, Jamaica

I am still recovering from the turkey binge. I feel heavy as it’s a busy time, the specter of  spent money looming overhead. It’s that time—the closing of the year draws closer. It is the end of things that never began and the beginning of things that never ended. I’m busting at the seams, the guilt of still wanting more and more when there are so many who have nothing. I go through my fridge, foil-wrapped throw-aways staring back at me—the turkey leg, the Basmati rice from four weeks ago, the funky cheese I forgot about and the three year old kremas (an amazing Haitian drink). Yet, I complain about having nothing to eat, my inner-spoiled brat sadistically unquenchable. I drive down North Miami Beach Boulevard, sad faces draping the day with cardboard signs like, “I have cancer, and I have no food” or “Laid-off and Hungry.” Sometimes, I give. Other times, I look away, annoyed, still caught up in my own hunger for quietness, stillness and maybe, more cookies.

Kiss My Morbier

Muenster, flour, bell pepper, scallion, carnation milk, & butter 

Woe betide the creature who steps into my garden when I’m cooking Thanksgiving dinner. For me, cooking is a deep, meditative journey and to prepare for such an adventure, I must nourish my spirit with secret treats that will get me through the congested parking lots, frequent jaunts to Walmart and Whole Foods, chopping, massaging, and leaky onion-eyes. These treats are not on the menu. They’re in my gourmet squatter stash. This year I hooked myself up with a quarter pound of morbier and Boar's Head Prosciutto Piccolo. The prosciutto piccolo tastes like a knock-off Proscuitto di Parma with its yummy, salty bite. And it’s way cheaper. I love morbier funk—the detestable, French cheese aroma that’s comparable to sweaty armpits. I grabbed some Jamaican water crackers from my mother’s cracker jar since they were there. These crackers are thick and can handle the most creative topping towers. I made this crazy dip with mayo, finely chopped rosemary I pulled from my garden, ground black pepper and a spike of scotch bonnet pepper sauce. Increíble. And, of course, there’s the wine. I bought an Australian Grenache not worth mentioning and ended up sipping some Korbel a cousin gave me as a gift. It’s not Champagne, but it served its purpose. I was ready to work. It’s taken me eight whole years t0 master the art of making a creamy mac-n-cheese. Inspired by Haitian cooks’ amazing macaroni au gratin, I subbed whole milk for carnation milk. I also subbed sharp cheddar with Finlandia aged Muenster which is reminiscent of a gorgeous, sharp British cheddar. It was a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner. My father told Jamaican duppy (ghost) stories that had us cry with laughter. I watched my family chew bones, their eyes licking the plates. When my mother wandered into the kitchen, I stuck a piece of piccolo-wrapped morbier into her mouth. “Mmmmm. Where did this come from?,” she asked.   

Cooking for the Jam-American Sadists



A black pepper dry salami mixed green salad precedes this year's gluttony showdown



In my family, I’m considered “The Black American.” If I do anything distinctly un-Jamaican, my mother, an old-school, Jamaican kitchen-magician is quick to explain my peculiar behavior: She was born in this country. You know how dem stay. I’m a first generation Miamian, and so for my pre-dominantly Jamaican-born family, I’m usually the go-to reference for all things black American. My mother loves to hear the southern, ghetto, black American idiosyncrasies that drip from my mixed Jamaican-Brooklyn-Miami-white-girl twang. She loves when I precede our now adult conversations with: Girl, she said this or he said that. That said, Thanksgiving is considered my holiday. I took the cooking-torch from my mother back in 2000, vowing to bring black America to our Kingstonian table that usually begat dishes like curry goat, rice and gungo peas and jerk turkey. As a child, I secretly envied my friends whose Thanksgiving tables boasted macaroni-n-cheese, honeymoon salad, homemade buttermilk biscuits, peach cobbler, sweet potato pie, and those turkeys that looked like the ones in the Crisco commercials. I hated our desserts which consisted mainly of “puddin’ ”—a dense sweet potato dessert that I’m still not crazy about. But there’s a lot of pressure to please these Jamaican flagged palates that can season meats blindfolded and transform the blandest dish into a boisterous score of rhythmic flavor. My mother and aunts are amazing cooks, and if you don’t meet their expectations, they’ll growl in disapproval. A few years ago, a very dear friend joined us for Thanksgiving and had a full-on, face-buried-in-my-sheets panic attack when presenting her crab stuffing to the flavor sadists. It was a hit, though they complained about having to wait so long for its completion. My cooking reviews have been good though my mother would never entrust her beloved rice and gungu peas to me.

Tigers & Callaloo



Yoko Sugiura  


Nurse: Are you an organ donor?

Me: Um, well, I’m using my organs right now.

Nurse (Laughs): I mean in the event that something happens…

Me: Sure. But try not to kill me. It would be really inconvenient if I died right now.

I had major surgery this year. It was the scariest experience of my life. The surgical procedure was super-risky and major blood loss was highly probable. So was death. The surgeon, a fellow Jamaican-American, advised me to eat obscene amounts of callaloo as it was critical that my blood was iron-rich for the procedure. Callaloo is like a spinach-meets-collard greens vegetable. It’s a classic Jamaican dish that is usually served with boiled yellow and white yams, dasheen, fried dumplings, and ackee and salt fish. My father makes exquisite callaloo and when he heard what the doctor said, he planted callaloo gardens all around his house. In the weeks that preceded the surgery, he pulled, stripped and chopped his fears into edible pieces, seasoning the callaloo with yellow onions, scallion, salt and pepper. He served the callaloo with Jasmine rice that was perfumed with dried shrimp. He offered this dish to his only daughter with all his heart. The day before my procedure was super-intense. What if the doctor accidentally leaves a blunt inside of me? (My brother, a physician, says that many doctors smoke a little ganja). What if I lose my sense of smell and can’t recall the dreamy aromas in that 1997 Bertani Amarone? What if I lose the ability to weave words? I lied on my parents’ couch, the sun frozen between my legs as I chatted with God. I asked him to choose the nurses, the anesthesiologist, even the table I would lay on as they carved into me. I asked him to choose the surgical utensils and to give the surgeons exactness and wisdom with every incision.  That morning daddy and I prayed together. “You’re going to emerge from this like a tiger,” he said as he pulled callaloo from the earth.

Calaloo is very cheap and available at most West Indian or Caribbean supermarkets. If you don’t have these markets in your community or city, consult your nearest Jamaican who may actually be growing some.   

Gourmet Squatters' Guide Through Thanksgiving Snobbery

We, Gourmet Squatters, have some nerve. Even though we squeeze our bite-size budgets for every frivolous,  gastronomical adventure, we have the audacity to look at our family and friends’ Thanksgiving tables with closet-disdain. Oh no—is that the canned, string bean casserole? Could the turkey be any drier? Store bought apple pie with the not-fully-baked crust? And the worst—Arbor Mist. Gourmet Squatters all over the world must be prepared for such atrocities. So whether you’re a zucchini-zealot protesting the cock massacre that defines your family’s table or you just don’t celebrate the mass murder of Native Americans, here are some suggestions for the uppity, financially-demure, food snobs during this holiday season.

Anti-Turkey Carnivore Snobs—If you don’t do the gobble-cock, Caribbean Express’ oxtail stew is sweet, savory, juicy, supple perfection ($10, $12.46). Their curry goat captures the earthy and sweet spice flavor profile that distinguishes Jamaican curry from curry experiences in countries like Trinidad and India ($9, $11.18). My father said their fluffy rice and red peas is almost as delicious as  my grandmother’s. 

Caribbean Express, 6033 Miramar Pkwy., Miramar, 954-981-4989.

Vegan Snobs—These colossally ill-shaped zucchini, pineapple, sour cherry muffins are moist, tasty and look so homemade, you almost want to buy Owner and Baker, Hakin Alexander, baking molds. But their messy shape is part of Alexander's bucolic charm. He balances the earthy zucchini with jewels of sour cherry and pineapple sweetness ($4.50 each). Alexander is always experimenting, so there are other yummy combinations like banana, cherry and walnut and blueberry and pineapple.   

Vegetarian Restaurant by Hakin, 73 N.E. 167 St., North Miami, 305-405-6346.

Wine Squatters Choice—Click here: http://www.miami.com/november-wine-month-article

An Ode to The Overweight Lover

So the overweight lover, Heavy D, has crossed over. Damn. I used to jam to Heavy D & the Boyz. Back in the days I was part of a dance troupe called the “Sensational Supersonic Six” (I know. What were my friends thinking in letting me get away with giving us such a name?) That’s when those MC Hammer Let’s-Get-It-Started pants were in and we thought we looked so fresh. Last night, a friend (an old school sommelier) and I discussed Heavy’s possible cause of death while munching on Michy’s Bread Pudding. Heavy was a big dude, so my first thought was heart disease. I know two young men who died of heart disease. One was 19 (I used to be his babysitter), and the other one was 32. Eating healthy and living in the moment can be arch enemies. Should I have passed up this warm, luxurious, custardy, chocolate-chunked slab of decadence for an apple? And did I mention the 2009 Domaine La Tour Vielle Banyuls Rimage? My friend recommended this dessert wine, and it was, hands down, one of the grandest food and wine pairings I’ve had all year. This wine has aromas and flavors of prunes, raisins, molasses, and sweet tobacco (He threw in the “sweet tobacco” description. I have no idea what it smells like lol). When paired up with the bread pudding, it was like the perfect wedding happening in your mouth—the perfect arrangement of music and colors and no unwelcomed guests. It was a sweet mystery that didn’t need to be solved, just enjoyed. I tried to pour a little into the ground, so Heavy could enjoy a sip. He isn’t buried yet, but I know his spirit is fluttering around. The sommelier protested (He was buying).  

Michy’s, 6927 Biscayne Blvd., Miami, 305-759-2001.

The Chocolate Brownie Break-Up

I will always love Paul. Ours was a love affair defined by bacon, pancakes and the moistest, most decadent chocolate brownie in town. I met him a few years ago at an outdoor yoga class. It turned out he read the food and wine column I used to write for The Miami Herald called “The Promiscuous Palate.” But Paul just didn’t offer you’re-such-a-great-writer feedback. If he didn’t get something I wrote, he let me know. I loved that about him. And he was a great writer. His emails would make even the most tawdry novelist, blush. He was a horny, old, gay man and he didn’t give a damn who knew it. But underneath the peace sign tattoos wreathed with age spots lied a lonely spirit. He wanted what we all want—to smell the fresh funk of day-old love making in his sheets, the sweet perfume of morning armpit welcoming the first morning stretch, burnt pumpernickel toast, and the security of love that is found and kept even when it leaves for the afternoon. His love never returned. Didn’t even leave a note. And I could see it hurt him, and while I never pitied my accomplished painter-mat buddy, it was hard to love him. Our relationship took a shift when he found out I was Christian. He didn’t approve, and he let me know that. It was either him or Jesus. Funny—Jesus never asked me to make that choice. I now enjoy my La Provence brownie by myself. The texture is like sticking your fingers into a velvety, black beach. It’s chocolate perfection. I miss you, Paul.

La Provence French Bakery & Café, 2200 Biscayne Blvd., 305-576-8002.

In The Whole: Ghetto or Organic?

The cooked food buffet at the Aventura Whole Foods is ghetto. Have you seen the chicken wings swimming in grease? Even Wing Stop has its limits. All you see now is a sea of dried out rice and beans, pastas covered in cheesy pimples, and oily vegetarian dishes with cultures like India and Thailand haphazardly tagged to them. Is this stuff really organic or even all-natural? I bought a vegan blueberry muffin and the oil soaked through the paper bag. I hate to sound like such a sour puss, but if I'm going to spend $1.79 for a vegan muffin, I want some illusion of good nutrition. Nowadays, I stick with the simple delicacies. I had a long, perilous affair with the vegan chocolate chip cookie, not the dull-colored chunkie one, but the dark, crumbly one. I used to fantasize this beast of a cookie that was so rich and yummy, I often wondered if I was better off eating Oreoes? I loved dunking pieces in Blue Diamond Vanilla Almond Milk while watching some pointless Lifetime TV Network drama about a woman who's sleeping with her best friend's father's brother's son who's a murderer and a psychic. Have you had the vegan chocolate chip cookies?

Dating Mr. Carrot Part 2

Half veggie and half Portabello mushroom and goat cheese

If you’re just joining me on my Mr. Carrot adventure, let me give you a quick round-up: Had a crush on a guy who looked like Moses (post “Let My People Go”). Mr. Carrot owns a Seven Day Adventist vegan restaurant in the hood. He’s a bit of a carrot-fascist, but he has a beautiful heart. I’m no vegan. I’m food-agnostic. I swing from seitan to steak, but I really wanted to impress Mr. Carrot, so I threw myself into that whimsical world of dried seaweed snacks and astronomically-priced wheat grass shots. He invited me on a date to Andiamo’s—my favorite pizza joint in Miami and then things took a turn for the weird. He had a mini tantrum about the pizza cutter that had been infected with cheese particles. He professed his distaste for wine, and he didn’t know any of the lyrics to Frankie Beverly & Maze’s “Before I Let Go,” which we heard through the patio speakers. We ordered the Ratatouille, a large pie topped with eggplant, zucchini, roasted red, green and orange peppers, caramelized onions, and tomato sauce. Hold the mozzarella and Portobello mushrooms (sigh). The pizza was so pristine, it looked like it belonged in a museum. And it was absolutely delicious, all those fresh ingredients romping around my mouth like naked people going skinny dipping for the first time. But we needed wine. Chianti or a Super Tuscan, perhaps? As I sat there gobbling away, I realized that Mr. Carrot and I had limited romantic prospects. He was way too strict, and he started to fall asleep at the table. I’m serious. He started nodding off. I thought his dredlocks were going to fall into the pie. Turns out he’s narcoleptic. I wanted to shout, “Brother, have a steak!” But that would have changed the mood.       

Andiamo Bricken Oven Pizza, 5600 Biscayne Blvd., 305-762-5751.

Dating Mr. Carrot (A Carnivore's Confession)

Vegans can be so self-righteous. You know who I’m talking about. Those burlap bag-toting, tofu Nazis who scope out your basket for meat-contraband as you navigate the Whole Food aisles filled with cashews that were supposedly hand-picked by Brazilian leprechauns. Mr. Carrot was no different. But I liked him. He was the typical wheat grass-renegade-holy-roller with his part-the-Red-Sea-style beard and raggedy, burning bush-slacks that swallowed his dried seaweed-thin frame. Veganism was his calling, his gospel, and his Miramar vegetarian restaurant was like a cool church that could have easily been confused for those vegetarian weed spots back in Harlem. Mr. Carrot looked more Rasta then Seven Day Adventist with his thick, long, gnarly-vine-looking dreds. Anyway, so I visited his spot a few times because I loved his passion for pushing healthy food lifestyles in poor, black communities. And I thought he was sexy. He finally asked me out and I was thrilled when he suggested Andiamo—my favorite pizza joint in Miami. I’m food-agnostic. I can hang with the carnivores and the herbavores, but for the past few months, my culinary romps have taken place in the land of almond milk and barbecue seitan. That Saturday night he picked me up in his wilting Winnebago and I imagined us camping in the woods eating grassy pizza while I took the occasional swivel of sparkling wine I had hidden in my purse. No such luck. When we arrived, Mr. Carrot had several demands: #1 He didn’t want the pizza to be sliced with the same cutter that was used to cut cheese pizza. #2 He didn’t want mushrooms on our sparkling veggie pizza. #3. He inspected my soda order for…I don’t even know. And he’s anti-wine. So how does the evening end, you ask?

Andiamo Bricken Oven Pizza, 5600 Biscayne Blvd., 305-762-5751.