Best Of :: Food & Drink
The dapper servers at Sette Bello know the importance of empathy. That's because they aren't just glorified food runners trucking out your linguine with clam sauce or slow-braised osso buco. They're professionals who can feel the ebb and flow of a meal and somehow know your every whim almost before you do. Sit in that romantic dining room with blush walls and sheer curtains and the wait staff will go to work on you like maestros conducting an orchestra. They'll answer any questions you have with care and concern and make sure you know exactly what you're getting. Plates arrive the moment they are supposed to and are delivered and removed with careful efficiency. Your glass will never hit bottom, whether it's in need of another pour of crisp Italian Greco di Tufo or just sparkling water. And you'll never have to ask for silverware or salt or even more sauce to go with your entrée — your waiter will have it spotted and delivered to your table before you've even raised your hand. Most of all, the servers here are a direct link to the kitchen — a conduit between you and chef/owner Franco Filippone. They're his lips gently whispering the praises of local snapper Livornese and Dover sole and his ears receiving your messages and acting upon them with care and alarm. And you can't ask for better service than that.
Here, at one of the last remaining "Grand Polynesian Palaces of Tiki," the drinks are legendary. They are phenomenal, magical concoctions comprised of rum and fruit juices and time-tested mixology. Whether it's the "barrel o' rum," the piña colada, or the mystery drink (served on fire, with four straws and a personal Polynesian dance), these spirits will take you to another period in Florida's history — a simpler time, when a man with a pompadour hairdo and a woman with a flower behind her ear could stare into each other's eyes and forget about life with some tropical sounds, some twirling fire, and a sweet injection of delicious booze. Unfortunately, there's the Mai-Kai food. Starters come not from some island paradise but seemingly from freezer to fryer. The dried, fried appetizers head right into the expensive-but-bland entrées that also seem cooked during that same time in Florida's history, several decades ago. You can't wash this down with a barrel of liquor or a personal Polynesian dance.
Sometimes a waitress can be so genuinely friendly and attentive that her mere presence feels like a warm hug. If you have sat in Lori McMahon's section at Tequila Sunrise, then you can probably attest to that level of waiterly affection. If you're a regular, you've probably been on the receiving end of numerous actual hugs and countless "rock-on" hand gestures and shouted "love yas" as well as consistently topnotch service. It's impossible not to notice McMahon when dining at the locally loved Mexican restaurant, whether you've drawn the McMahon card or are being attended to by one of the other fine servers. McMahon enlivens the whole atmosphere with her high energy, New York accent, and rocker-in-disguise quirkiness. Among her many adoring fans is owner Schiller Martin. "She's the perfect employee," he said, "heart of gold... she gets along with everyone." Fittingly, it was an act of caring that brought her to South Florida. After working in the fashion industry in Manhattan for ten years, she came down to take care of a honeymooning friend's dog, cat, iguana, and bird. Now she takes care of other, perhaps stranger, creatures most nights of the week.
These days, everyone could use some comforting. And what's more calming than food handcrafted with passion and care at a decent price? That's precisely what you'll get at Bash, a homey little strip-mall café in Sunrise where nothing on the menu tops $19. Chef and owner Nikki Pettineo — a private chef for the likes of football players Renaldo Hill and Ronnie Brown — envisioned this low-cost café and wine bar as a place where even those hard-strapped by the recession can come and enjoy a home-cooked meal and a bottle of wine. Her menu has the same warming effect as a hand-knit woolen stole. There are short ribs braised in cola and pork chops with apple chutney. Mac and cheese is creamy and baked with crispy bread-crumb topping, and even the chicken wings, napped in garlic and vinegar, have a pleasant, placating effect. If any fear were left unabated after all that, the cheery staff would smooth it out with the soothing promise of a deep-fried brownie or three.
A case could be mounted that Eduardo runs the most consistently mind-blowing kitchen in Broward County. Exotic-sounding dishes — like the "Cactus Paddle Bocadillo" appetizer, herb-rubbed and stuffed with pork tenderloin — are transformed into comfort food by the house's unparalleled intimacy, the servers' incredible warmth, and the cooks' almost neurotic attention to detail. Even those dishes that gringos might fear — like an ancho chile-flavored crepe, filled with cuitlacoche, Serrano chilies, onions, asadero cheese, and squash blossom sauce — go down like something familiar, if not something entirely known. The experience is exquisitely relaxing, and in the midst of it, the last thing you ought to worry about is a bill. So don't.
You're in Florida, so if you're going to be spending Sunday morning eating French toast and sipping mimosas, shouldn't you do it on the beach? Damned right, you should. At Dune Deck Cafe, situated atop the dunes of Lantana Beach, breakfast (or brunch or lunch, for that matter) comes with a pristine view of the Atlantic Ocean, located, oh, about 30 feet to the east of your seat. In the salty air up there, the eggs just taste eggier, the stone crabs crabbier, and the bloody marys bloodier. Service is swift, and the coffee is strong. And the stuffed French toast is the sort of custardy goodness Parisians dream about. Add daily specials like Florida lobster Benedict and fresh fish plucked from the docks up the road and you've got a breakfast fit for even the most sun-baked of Floridians. Just don't forget change for the meters.