By David Minsky
By Nicole Danna
By Sara Ventiera
By Candace West
By Emily Dabau
By Doug Fairall
By Candace West
By Laine Doss
Considering my pal's insight and my recent experience at Bin 595, a self-proclaimed "Eclectic Grille & Wine Bar" located in the lobby of the nine-month-old Renaissance Fort Lauderdale-Plantation Hotel, I suspect the corporation is not going to be happy about this.
Forget about the edible components of the repast and keep in mind that the Renaissance is an attractive, luxuriously appointed, entirely modern hotel. Bin 595, tongue-in-cheek named for both its outstanding, 200-plus-bottle wine list and its proximity to I-595, boasts curvy, Art Deco lines, colorful carpets and banquettes in '60s lime-green-type hues, polished woods and marble, and lots of columns and half-walls that offer the illusion of privacy.
1230 S. Pine Island Road
Plantation, FL 33324
Region: Davie/West Hollywood
Now consider the Renaissance Hotel's mission statement, which promises, in part, to "combine the body of a contemporary full-service hotel with the soul of a boutique... [where] guests can expect exceptional service and maximum comfort in a stylish environment." I doubt anyone in the company could interpret that to mean that, when a customer sends back a dish -- at any time, from anywhere in the hotel, and for whatever reason -- Bin 595 executive chef Eric Harmon should come out of his lair to argue about it.
Such is the scenario, which rapidly developed into a scene, that greeted me when I returned a main course of "sweet Thai glazed prawns, coconut basil rice, and mango relish." When I ordered the dish, the waiter warned me they were a bit spicy. Fine with me -- I enjoy zing on the palate. What my taste buds don't appreciate is iodine, and these shrimp, which were not prawns at all but 35 to 40 count (per pound) medium-to-large crustaceans speared by a pair of bamboo skewers, were rotten with it. Indeed, I was affronted by the tell-tale stink the minute the waiter set down the plate; my companions all agreed the shrimp should have been on their way to the compost pile. Just to be sure, I sampled one, but the hospital-room flavor forced me to spit it out discreetly.
I was somewhat surprised the staff even let it leave the kitchen, and my server, who whisked the dish away with his nose averted, seemed to agree. He immediately brought me a menu, inviting me to select another main course. I chose the roasted mojo chicken with mango-sun-dried tomato couscous and watercress.
Perhaps because the transaction had gone so smoothly, I was even more surprised about ten minutes later to be confronted by Chef Harmon. And I do mean confronted; he was arrogant from the outset. "I'm sorry you didn't like your dish," he said.
"It's not that I didn't like it," I replied. "The sauce was fine. The shrimp were bad. They're filled with iodine."
"No, they aren't," he replied. "I tried one."
Now, it is quite possible that the single shrimp he tasted from my plate was fine. But all he really had to do was take a whiff of the dish to know that something wasn't up to par. Plus, the logic should be obvious: When something tastes good, you keep eating it. When something tastes bad, you stop.
Astonishingly, he allowed the argument to escalate. "Is there anything else that's not to your satisfaction?" he asked snidely. As a matter of fact, there was. And, goaded beyond restraint, I told him so. Two of the other three entrées I had sampled, like the shrimp, appeared to be on the verge of spoiling. The crispy salmon with saffron-pepper sauce had an undeniable hint of bleach. It's an appalling trick of the trade, but I've encountered it before. Merchants sometimes soak old smelly fish in a solution of bleach and water to "refresh" it. (The philosophy is identical to the one behind including bleach in your hurricane preparations. It's there to kill bacteria in your bathtub full of water.) And the lamb chops, which appeared next to an undercooked lamb loin (an unbilled surprise that the menu never mentioned) and a lamb sausage on a mixed-grill platter, were sour with age, overcooked, and dried-out from improper storage.
As for the fourth main course, supposedly a ginger-basil-anise-crusted piece of Alaskan halibut, we honestly questioned whether the fish, topped with a burnt blanket of skin, was halibut at all. The consistency and texture seemed more like ubiquitous undersized cod -- stringy and dry rather than slick and flaky. (I would have asked the chef, but my husband was kicking me so violently under the table that my shins were swelling.) The billed "cool Viet noodle salad" that accompanied it was merely boiled rice noodles without any seasoning, and the "warm red bean salad" was a red-brown puddle of purée.