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.