By David Minsky
By Nicole Danna
By Sara Ventiera
By Candace West
By Emily Dabau
By Doug Fairall
By Candace West
By Laine Doss
As for his public life as a master restaurateur, which has always seemed charmed, that too appears to have suffered. Last year Max unloaded almost all his signature Max's Grilles, including the popular Weston venture and the location in Las Olas Riverfront. He split with a subsidiary company formerly known as Sforza, which had operated several previous Max properties (Sforza and My Martini Grille) before that corporation, now known as S.E.I., decided to embark on its own. And his long-time partnership with the nationally known Aspen chef Nick Morfogen disintegrated after five years, along with their restaurant Nick and Max's (formerly Maxaluna's) in Boca Raton. Morfogen is now wowing regulars at 32 East in Delray Beach.
Feeling sorry for Max? Don't bother. However desperate his situation might seem, Max has never been one to take losses any way but in stride. And his stride is in top form -- confident, even cocky -- at the Addison in Boca Raton, a phoenix built on the ashes of negative publicity.
On the other hand, bad word of mouth might not stop there. See, I'd even go so far as to call the attitude that pervades the new eatery arrogant. The Addison, a six-month-old restaurant and banquet facility for functions of fewer than 80 people, is located in the house of the celebrated turn-of-the-last-century architect Addison Mizner. Mizner was responsible for introducing the Spanish-Mediterranean style to Boca Raton, and he designed his own personal dwelling with an eye for courtyards, loggias, Jerusalem tile floors, mosaics, and "pecky" cypress ceilings. (He's also dubiously honored in Boca Raton by having a shopping center named after him.)
Fast-forward a hundred years or so, and you'll find that the sprawling Mizner den has been subdivided into several businesses, of which the restaurant is one. Formerly an Italian eatery, it had lain dormant for four years. Max's restaurant company, Unique Limited, had the challenge of renovation and restoration, which it undertook in accordance with the guidelines set forth by the local historical society. Yet manager Fred Gushue has the gall to claim that they've "improved upon Mizner's dream." He also tells me I "can't write an article about it until [I'm] shown around" -- as if dining there weren't sufficient. I hear Mizner redesigning in his grave as I write, and I'm about ready to flip, too.
For as much as I hate (read: love) to nitpick, Gushue's imperialism is beyond pretentious. He wouldn't give me the names of Max's partners, though they're no doubt a matter of public record. He was indignant when I asked about the restaurant's barely visible sign, located at the top of an archway after you turn into a compound that looks more like a school campus than a place to eat. (Forget about finding it at night.) Even simple questions like how many seats the multiroom place had resulted in pregnant pauses, as if he were weighing the value of the information and my worthiness to receive it.
Unfortunately the haughty manner doesn't end with him. Gushue calls the Addison an à la carte, reservations-only restaurant, which is fair enough if the place intends to honor reservations or to hire enough staff to deal with a full or overflowing house. But on a recent Monday evening, we waited more than 30 minutes for our table, and when we approached the hostess to inquire about the holdup, she snapped something like "You'll know your table is ready when I come and get you." Ten minutes later she found us to inquire, "Are you sure you don't want to dine outside?" as if we'd already been asked our preferences; we hadn't. Can you say "uppity snit"?
I'd also expect a place like the Addison, with a restaurateur like Dennis Max behind it, to be prepared. But the hostess explained on the way to our table that only two waiters were serving our particular room. The restaurant had actually left tables sitting vacant because the staff couldn't keep up, and when you're talking main-course prices that range from the 20s to the $50 mark for certain specials, that's just not acceptable. Nor were the sweat that had formed on the upper lip and brow of our particular server, the 15 minutes it took to get our drinks (iced tea and club soda, despite a fairly priced and internationally varied wine list), the 20 minutes we waited for bread, and the half-hour delay before we ordered. And I don't know what kitchen management was thinking at the time, but after the waiter proudly announced the $51 market price for the two-pound Maine lobster stuffed with crabmeat and spinach, a house specialty, he confessed that the restaurant had ordered only two such crustaceans for the evening. He needed to check first to see if they were still available. I'm sorry, but two? For a 200-seat restaurant? C'mon. As it turns out, he misquoted the price of the lobster, which was $52 on our bill, and he neglected to bring shell-crackers, a bowl for discarded parts, and a cloth to wipe our hands afterward until we requested them. For $26 per pound, I'd expect more professional treatment.