Until recently, I couldn't remember the last time I walked out of a restaurant without at least sampling the fare. I didn't stroll out of that little German storefront in Bay Harbor Islands where the chef quit right after we'd ordered and our waiter volunteered to cook our bratwurst. I didn't leave the Haitian joint that promised the best lambi in North Miami just because a couple of pistol-packing customers were conducting a drug deal. I didn't stalk out of the sidewalk cafe in Barcelona where a roach walked over my foot right before the paella arrived, or that place in Peru where the cooks rub the food over their bodies before they send it out of the kitchen (the pheromones are supposed to connect the diner to the cook and... More >>>