By David Minsky
By Nicole Danna
By Sara Ventiera
By Candace West
By Emily Dabau
By Doug Fairall
By Candace West
By Laine Doss
The Mitchells and Ireland maintain that the trademark shape of the inn's main building call it midcentury undulant was just an inspired accident: "It was designed that way [by builders Ed Sarr and George Waddey] so more rooms could have a view of the ocean," Kathy says. "They got the idea because my dad was standing there with one of those wiggly rulers." And the ingenious "shark's tooth" balconies? Picked up from a friend who happened to have them lying around at his concrete and motor repair business. Listen to Kathy Mitchell and it sounds like the only antique worth saving on this oceanfront property is her grandmother Lillian, who founded the hotel with her husband, Bill, and is still "sharp as a tack;" the old lady turns 100 this year.
The city will hear the Broward Trust for Historic Preservation's case to spare the building on May 1; in the meantime, a photo show of MiMo (Miami Modern) architecture titled "Going, Going, Gone?" clearly timed to fan the flames of controversy is running at the Broward County Main Library through April 29 and includes glossy photos of Ireland's Inn. Whatever the outcome, you and I may want to slot in as many meals as possible in the year or so before the restaurant closes. Kathy Mitchell says that whether the building stands or falls under the wrecking ball, Windows the restaurant the décor of which is more turn-of-the-century Irish pub than midcentury anything is going to have to relocate from its old spot.
We may be looking at a good stretch of time with no Windows. And the thought of it makes Lauderdale beach feel like a small, hot, airless room. I like this restaurant a lot, not least because of its now rather ironic refusal to adopt anything that looks like change. The place is terminally unhip. The cool people are all down the road at Trina; don't say I didn't warn you. From the sweet, elderly hostess to the easy-listening stylings of pianist Leslie Butler, who plays every night but Monday; from the waiters in their starchy white shirts and tuxes to a menu of fresh calves liver, scampi, fried chicken, and hearts of palm salad; from a sedate clientele of locals and hotel guests to the vintage dinner prices (there are still many entrées well under $20) and those sweeping ocean views Windows is a nostalgic trip. My parents hauled my siblings and me through restaurants like this one throughout the swinging '60s. While everybody else was dropping acid, we buckled up our patent leather shoes, ran a comb through our pixie haircuts, and trundled out to eat shrimp cocktail, caesar salad, and ice cream. The planet was imploding, but we were learning how to handle a fish fork. The servers (we called them waiters back then) were always really nice, as if these restaurants existed in a vacu-sealed, eerily apolitical bubble.
Same vibe at Windows, right down to the cheery, clean-cut waiters. It's been a while since I had anybody working at a restaurant regard me with such easygoing, straightforward, and apparently sincere enthusiasm at Ireland's, apparently, the eating class is not yet at war with the serving class. Come the revolution or the demolition that will probably change, and the consciousness of the staff, many of whom have worked here for years, will be permanently raised. From what I understand, the Mitchells hope to have a hotel group come in to manage the place post-construction. For now, though, the waiters are still smiling. And waxing poetic, as our waiter did, about the night's specials, which he'd sampled earlier and could describe in detail. The service here is patient, thorough, unhurried, and unstuffy just lovely. When we asked about breakfast, served daily on the outdoor decks to as many as 500 on weekends, our waiter told us which station he worked and urged us to sit in his section next time we came back.
Windows is built on two levels, expansive but intimate, and both rooms have water views. The décor tends toward dark carved woods, lots of glass, and plushy furniture. Tables are spaced at a civilized distance, draped in white linen, topped with flower vases. Upholstered chairs are made for sinking into. Sounds are muted, as if these rooms were wrapped in layers of Irish wool.