There's an etiquette to drinking tea that one absorbs by osmosis, which is why you won't generally find tea house customers fiddling over laptops or screaming into cell phones. More likely, they're conversing in hushed tones over cups of liquid that smell like new-mown hay and jasmine blossoms. Or reading. Or just staring into space. Coffee hops you up, tea slows you down, and the Vietnamese proprietors at One Tea Lounge, Hoan Dang and Roger Tran, have made all the right moves to induce beta waves and belly breathing. The dozens of tea varieties purveyed here, from India, China, and Japan -- Chunme and Lucky Dragon, Russian caravan and Moroccan madness, Orange Blossom, Lichee, Rose, and Lapsang -- are good for body (full of antioxidants) and soul (tea rituals restore balance and equanimity). And then too, the stuff just tastes so good. Lap it up in surroundings conducive to cognitive breakthroughs.
Anyone who's ever dissed British food has never sat down to an English cream tea, an entity exactly as decadent as it sounds, in a very proper way, of course. Or put it this way: An English cream tea makes you want to plunge your face directly into the dish of clotted cream, strawberry jam, lemon curd, and scones (a biscuity cookie-cake) and sort of, well, roll around in it. But you and the ladies who lunch at Serenity Gardens Tea House will have to keep your lascivious thoughts to yourselves, because the delicate frippery that decorates this old Florida house (the rosebud swags, the tea cozies, the demur, unmatched cups, the upholstered ball-and-claw chairs) would never stand for it. Nor would proprietor Sylvia Price, who has put together a sophisticated luncheon menu that ranges from Waldorf chicken salad and stuffed tomatoes to the full tea service ($17.75 per person, and you have to make a reservation) of petits fours, nibbles, and cucumber sammies. Price's array of teas, including organic greens and Earl Grey, is mind-boggling, but the one to try first is her homemade Chai, a wake-up call of a drink redolent of spices and orange rind.
Michael McElroy
Like drag racers whose extreme speed sustains yet may destroy them, chicken wings live and die by grease. What are wings without it? Scalding orange lipids turn ordinary chicken into one of the great blessings our world has to offer. Yet who among us has not winced upon being served a plate of wings whose drippings could be mistaken for those in his oil pan? The wing should spark, the wing should burn, the wing should sting. The wing, however, should not pop like a boil between your teeth. The wings at Tarpon Bend, on their best days, hit this chord precisely. While they're not spicy enough to truly warrant the label "hot" (which rightly ought to mean "unpleasant"), they are crisp without oozing grease, fleshy without getting bland. They confer all the joy of spicy, buttery fowl fat without choking you on it. Bonus points for unusually flavorful celery sticks on the side.
If you've never eaten falafel, you're missing an entire world. Literally. Falafel, a fried ball of spiced fava beans or chickpeas, is arguably the number-one food in the Middle East, sold everywhere from street vendors to fancy restaurants. Mandoah "Manny" Ebaid, a tireless, friendly, Egyptian-born restaurateur who runs Hollywood's popular Exotic Bites, provides a menu that highlights the versatility and healthiness of falafel. "This is healthy food that tastes great," Ebaid explains. "It's also a way to introduce people to my Egyptian culture." At Exotic Bites, you can eat falafel as an appetizer with toppings and pita bread ($4.95); as a main course served with hummus, tabouleh, and pita ($7.25); or as a sandwich in a pita wrap with the falafel broken into pieces and mixed with salad and sauce ($5.25). "A lot of people have tried falafel here for the first time, and I will bet that every single one came back a second time," Ebaid says. Chances are, considering how good the falafel is at Exotic Bites, you will too.
Here's a fad we hope lasts longer than celebrity knitting and mood rings: small plates. Because if ever we Americans needed anything badly, it's limited portion sizes. Never mind that you can get around the problem of "never enough" by simply ordering a lot of them -- you'll have a hard time limiting yourself to just one at the Cottage. The atmosphere here, a breezy outdoor patio jammed with cute people, is ultraconducive to downing many novelty cocktails while noshing on sirloin sliders with horseradish and chive jack cheese (served with smiley face fries), grilled eggplant salad with salty capers and olives, kung pao calamari salad, and beggar's pouches filled with pear and gouda and drizzled with brown butter. Even better, most of these minuscule delicacies are priced at or under a tenner. You'd have to sit for a long, long time to eat or spend too much. Still, it's not outside the realm of probability.
"Ah, now that's a bagel! It's just like New York!" Why is it that every favorable bagel review, whether from a food critic or just the chump next door, has to reference New York? It's always Manhattan this, Brooklyn that. Try peddling that line at the Boston Bagel Café. Sure, the name says New England, but the café is pure Fort Lauderdale, locally owned and operated; there's actually not an original location in Boston. The bistro has no shortage of bagel flavors -- 21 in total, from the standards (poppy seed, pumpernickel, onion) to the more gourmet varieties (spinach quiche, jalapeno cheddar, wild berry). A single bagel costs 79 cents plain and 85 cents toasted; three-packs cost $2.35; a baker's dozen (that's 13, you know) costs $6.99. Of course, plain bagels are no fun -- not when cream cheese ($1.88) comes in flavors like honey walnut raisin and Dutch apple cinnamon. Either way, if your order's more than seven bucks, there's free delivery. Just think, you could have your newspaper and breakfast delivered to your door. Maybe then you'll stop thinking of Boston as Beantown.
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows... but my love is fairer than any. In the soft downlighting at this chic eatery, your paramour will compare favorably with the gigantic floral portraits lining the walls. Lovers both gay and straight rely on Flowers for its cozy, pillow-strewn booths, the respectable distance between tables, and its perfect balance between lively babble and subdued buzz. Which means you can pretty much say anything, between spoonfuls of your Longchamp sweet pea soup or crab chowder, without being heard by your neighbors -- and you don't have to shout your terms of endearment (so unsuave). The menu at Flowers is sophisticated enough to inspire the kind of relaxed, intelligent conversation that leads to other things, but what's your hurry? You'll want to bide your time over house specialties like smoked salmon blinis and pasta moneybags filled with pears and cheese, and luscious desserts served with mini-tumblers of liqueur.
Given the ubiquity of the bagel nowadays, the self-esteem of its fellow Polish-Jewish baked goods might be suffering. Though West Boynton's Bagels & produces a good version of its namesake, let's get one thing clear: Pletzl! Bialy! We love you too! The bialy is the Jan Brady of Polish-Jewish personal breads, flour-dusted things without holes. When made right, as these are, these flat-bottomed cousins of the bagel have a softer crust where a bagel has crunch and an airy rather than dense inside, but they still manage to be chewy. They're best heated and slathered with butter. Better still are the pletzls. The brainchild of some bygone bagel baker with a serious case of the munchies, the pletzl, another import from 19th-century Poland, takes the characteristics of the ideal bagel -- chewy, crunchy, dense -- and amps them up. Covered in toasted garlic, poppy seeds, onion, rock salt, and whatever else, the flattened discs are not sandwich bread. Don't even try splitting a pletzl open. Tear it apart, or cut it into strips or something. Or go ahead and just gnaw on it.
Your Northern cousins arrive on your doorstep with four kids, 14 bags, and their heads full of dated, nostalgic drivel about discovering the "real Florida." It's no use explaining that "real Florida" is that line of hotels blocking their view of the beach, the 12 hours they just spent bumper-to-bumper on 1-95, the highest restaurant prices in the country, and a property-tax bill you'd be all too willing to split with them. Just suck it up and take them over to Joe's Grille for dinner. Somehow, Chef Joe Cascio and his wife, Erica, have managed to spin the fantasy, even after Hurricane Wilma wrecked the place last year, that we Floridians spend the bulk of our time sitting outside under jaunty umbrellas, forking up grouper cheeks, slurping from big bowls of fish chowder, and watching pleasure boats chug placidly by. Let the cousins keep their illusions; we all have so few left. Send them home loaded up with stories about how the line-caught swordfish in rum sauce was the best they've ever tasted and how the view of the harbor lit up under a full moon was the prettiest thing their sore eyes have ever beheld.
If you've never had a good black-and-white cookie, you won't understand why anyone would want to eat one. We've all been tempted by the two-tone discs the size of UFOs topped with dark-brown and white icing that call to us from behind the counter at every diner. But what's to like about a powdery, crumbly dome topped with a tasteless sugar glaze? Family Bakery, an outpost of Jewish Brooklyn and Queens circa 1965, produces a wonderfully moist, spongy marble cake, sweet and toothsome rainbow petits fours, and flaky bearclaws. Snowbirds who haven't seen a proper corn rye bread in years find it here. And the place has the best black-and-white cookies south of Sheepshead Bay. The icing's chocolate hemisphere is rich with cocoa, the white hemisphere a creamy vanilla. The big cookie underneath is a little lemony, a little cakey, but firm enough to hold up to a glass of milk. Take a number, take your place at the back of the line, and salivate in anticipation.

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