By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By Keegan Hamilton and Francisco Alvarado
By Jake Rossen
By Allie Conti
By Kyle Swenson
By Chris Joseph
By Michael E. Miller
A Hollywood Horror Story
Le Tub used to be a delicious little hideaway on the Intracoastal across from Hollywood Beach, veiled from the street by a stand of leafy palms and used bathtubs. It's still with us, of course, but it hasn't been much of a hideaway since June, when GQ magazine proclaimed, somewhat morbidly, that you must try their hamburgers "before you die."
For two months now, the place has been a destination for Land Rover-driving condo vacationers in search of a "real" South Florida experience. "This used to be a fun place to work" says John, the very image of a trusted beachside bartender, with curly graying hair and the kinds of wrinkles on his face that come from squinting into the sun too long.
But the palmy, golden days disappeared last month like loose money on a sidewalk. It happened within days of the publication of what the staff has come to call "The Article."
"This used to be a place you'd come with a girl or some buddies to meet a girl," John says. "Now we got children in strollers. I used to be a bartender; now I'm a soda jerk."
With the cranky new demeanor of Le Tub's suddenly beleaguered staff, that sense of loss often sloshes over onto the customers too. The instant fame of the place, combined with its diminutive size, means that customers frequently wait an hour for a burger. The kitchen often runs out of food by the end of the night, and for a select few patrons, Le Tub has turned downright dangerous.
When Sandi Sanfordand her friend Bianca Gonzalesvisited the place two weeks ago to celebrate Sandi's birthday, they never bargained on being used for target practice by a guy whom they say was a drunken, Australian-sounding waiter.
"He began flicking frozen shrimp at Bianca," Sandi said.
His first salvo hit Sandi's friend square in the eye. Stunned and momentarily blinded, Bianca reeled. The waiter responded by sending another prawn projectile their way. This one hit Bianca on the cheek.
According to the ladies, the waiter was reluctant to apologize but finally offered a grudging, "Sorry, I was aiming lower," and bought a round of beers.
The gesture was not enough to assuage the ladies. They confronted the cook, whom they contend was also the manager. Sandi recalls that when Bianca approached him, he wheeled on her and screamed, "What do you want, you fucking bitch!?! Somebody get this goddamn fucking bitch a beer and shut her up."
"I could see the veins popping out on his neck," said Sandi's friend, Jason Thomas,who accompanied the ladies.
So much for the joys of national acclaim.
Nobody at Le Tub wanted to comment on the shrimp-tossing fiasco except to say that they would never be mean to customers. "Rude, maybe," said one waitress, "but never mean."
As a long summer afternoon wound down recently, Le Tub was empty. It wasn't dinnertime yet. A Chet Baker number came on the juke, and behind the bar the Intracoastal was a reflected explosion of purple and gold sunset. John the bartender and a waitress danced a little to the tune while the cook kept time, rattling with the fry-o-later basket in the tiny, sweltering kitchen.
Then the song ended. "Got to get back to work," John said, nodding at a pudgy family with a scrubbed-clean look and designer swimwear. "The SUV caravan has just started."
When the big Abundant Living Ministries church began holding services on his block in Southwest Ranches a few years ago, Bill Greene got mad. Hated all those cars -- about 600 of 'em, three times a day every Sunday -- cruising past his home, slicing up his solitude. "You might as well be living in downtown Miami!" he says. "It's a goddamned mess!" So he begged the town council to let him and his neighbors hold a Sunday "block party" that starts just before mass (8 a.m.) and closes down right after church services end (5 p.m.). The town said yes, and now every Sunday morning, Greene and his neighbors rustle up an RV, a horse trailer, and some traffic cones, and they block off the entrance to Hancock Road, which provides access to the church.
"All they have to do is go around the block," snorts Greene, not mentioning the fact that blocks are awfully big out there in the country; one block adds an extra mile-and-a-half for folks traveling through town to their house of worship. Last Sunday afternoon, cars slowed to glare at the blockade partiers, a few even offering a distinctly un-Christian free finger or "fuck you!" to the barrier-keepers. Behind the barrier, the street was empty -- a lonely table with potato salad and bagels sitting in a shady front yard. No real reason for the obstruction, Greene concedes, but it sure serves its purpose -- aggravating the churchgoers.
Of course, now residents of Holatee Trail -- where the detour leads -- are regally pissed that they've inherited a non-stop parade of cars, so Greene figures his neighbors will jump on the blockade-party bandwagon too. Though the town gave him a permit valid through September for "temporary closure of vehicular access," he vows the road closures will continue as long as need be.