This is where Bernstein truly gets her hooks in. You can't help but leave the restaurant feeling a change in alignment. Even if you tried to slip out of that dark foyer unchanged, back into the mysterious anonymity of the island, your waiters — that tricky lot — would stop you. All they would have to do is drop a dessert menu and a sly nod and you'd be theirs again. And so we sat, lingering over a glass of 10-year-old port and completely giving in to a plate of ricotta cheesecake with Concord grape sorbet, a purple ball of ice that was the very essence of ripe fruit. With it came vivid memories: grape jam, Italian ice, the hot Florida sun. You couldn't pry our grins away with a crowbar.
And still, there was MB's staff giving a wink. A chuckle. A friendly little "gotcha." A reminder that, even in Palm Beach, disposition trumps drama. By proving she can convert any one of us, Bernstein has made the transition from Miami's gal to Florida's woman in style. We're so lucky to have her.
