By Sara Ventiera
By Laine Doss
By Nicole Danna
By Doug Fairall
By Sara Ventiera
By Nicole Danna
By David Minsky
By Sara Ventiera
You've really got to feel sorry for the wait staff at Latitudes Beach Café. They're trying so hard to make the best of things these adorable 20-somethings with their Eastern European accents and their cheery good looks. I wish I could wave my magic wand and transport them elsewhere to the set of some indie romantic comedy, to the NYU campus in Manhattan or a J. Crew catalog shoot, to an internship at Jane. Anywhere but here. Because if Latitudes were a war zone, these handsome kids would be on the front lines facing a formidable enemy without armor, radios, or bullets, at the mercy of commanders who... oh, never mind. At any rate, they're marching to orders from a kitchen they have zero control over, and it's a kitchen that decidedly does not have their backs.
Something has gone horribly wrong behind the scenes. Latitudes has everything working for it otherwise like one of the most beautiful beachfront settings in South Florida. There are a thousand restaurants that would kill for this location at the Marriott on the Hollywood Broadwalk; it's just unutterably romantic. If you arrive around sunset and sit on the patio, you'll see the ocean, stretching infinitely on three sides, change from gray-blue to turquoise to robin's egg speckled with gold, and from there to navy and thence to black, while a sliver of moon crawls up the sky and the horn player wails through bossa nova standards behind you. The refurbished three-mile Broadwalk is as snazzy a beachfront promenade as I've seen anywhere with its new pavers, benches, and iron lamps, it rivals Santa Monica or Nice, with maybe a little bit of Jersey shore thrown in (those patched-up '60s motels and trinket shops) to keep it real.
I know the restaurant had a bumpy start reports of botched breakfast omelets and martinis served in wine tumblers were coming fast and furious when the place opened last summer. I can't speak for the omelets, but the Marriott crowd is now sipping its cocktails from real martini glasses. I'd also heard that the servers were completely untrained back then too, but they've evidently been schooled since. Our guy knew the wine list and the menu backward and forward, and he couldn't have been more solicitous. If the food at Latitudes were even halfway edible, this place would rock.
2501 N. Ocean Drive
Hollywood, FL 33019
I'm willing to give a chef a lot of rope when it comes to experimenting with flavors and textures it turns me on to see that somebody cares enough to want to surprise and delight me, to issue a challenge, to show off a little magic. So I wasn't necessarily put off by the description of a "white tomato cappuccino soup" ($6), the first item on this vaguely Caribbean menu, even though it sure enough sounded different: "Bisque of vine ripened tomato, cream, shallots, garnished with a basil cinnamon froth." OK, so, cream of tomato soup with basil, the obvious pairing, livened up with a little cinnamon. Since basil tastes something like cinnamon anyway, this could work, right? No reason to think I was necessarily stepping into the gastronomic equivalent of the Twilight Zone.
Sure, there were some flavor pairings on the menu that might have given us pause a shrimp and hearts of palm "fondue" made with blue cheese, key lime-infused frisée, and Italian white truffle oil. Or seared ahi tuna with a sweet orange-mint dipping sauce. Salmon with roasted fennel, cipollini onions, and lemongrass butter. Chicken breast stuffed with mango and chicken mousse. Or a "savory lobster cheesecake salad." If these concoctions sound vaguely disgusting, I was willing to give the kitchen the benefit of the doubt. Look, if crazy famous chefs like Wylie Dufresne at WD-50 can serve eggnog ice cream topped with caviar and pumpernickel croutons, far be it from me to throw cold water on the Marriott's resident genius.
My lawlessly wedded spouse was less sanguine. She smelled trouble from the second she poked her nose into the list of "First Tastes."
"I've worked in hotel kitchens," she declared. "I think I know what's going on here. I have one word for you. Flav-R-Churn."
My spouse has never fully recovered from the years she spent serving commercial butter substitute to geriatric banqueters at a resort in the Poconos. The banqueters hated the food, the wait staff hated the banqueters, and at the end of every service, the whole staff, the tables, the carpet, everything was slick with a greasy layer of trans fats. Something about the Marriott was bringing it all back in a rush. "Are you sure we have to eat here?" she begged plaintively. "Can't we just walk down and get some real Caribbean at Sugar Reef?"
We argued back and forth for a while about who was going to eat what. We decided to split the damage. I'd brave the tomato cappuccino if she'd try the portobello fries with roasted garlic sauce and herb oil ($8). And I'd agree to spring for the "prime, dry aged, grilled bone-in strip loin" ($34) if she'd eat the "Rasta Pasta" ($22), which promised jerk chicken with parpardelle. It would help, obviously, that we were both starving a healthy appetite goes a long way toward softening most culinary blows.