Turn down a breezy side street and catch the scent of roasting pork. Follow it, and you’ll find a family-run Cuban café slinging slow-cooked lechón and strong café con leche. Or maybe you veer toward the waterfront, where docked yachts sway beside a Thai kitchen serving lemongrass-laced curries with a canal view. Around the corner? An upscale izakaya. A Haitian bakery. A speakeasy behind a freezer door.

Welcome to Greater Fort Lauderdale—a sprawling, polyglot community where more than 4,000 restaurants reflect the 147 languages spoken across its neighborhoods. In North Lauderdale, Haitian puff pastry patties crinkle under your fingertips; in Wilton Manors, you’ll find Laotian-style sausage with sticky rice at a queer-owned supper club. Even the Michelin Guide has started paying attention, finally catching up to what locals have always known.

As a native Floridian, I’ve watched the area grow from a spring break hotspot into a vibrant, cosmopolitan destination. Over the years, I’ve chased down griot on Sunrise Boulevard and found omakase menus tucked into strip malls. I’ve wandered streets, cruised canals, and driven through off-the-beaten-path neighborhoods, always letting my appetite guide me. Here’s what I found.

Pirate Republic

400 South West 3rd Avenue
(954) 761-3500

Down by the New River, I followed the aroma of coconut milk and dendê oil to a dockside hideout where silver-haired chef Roberto Guerios rules the galley. Born in Brazil and raised in Italy, Guerios channels Bahian flavors in dishes like moqueca bubbling with fresh-caught grouper, creamy shrimp bobó bright with cilantro, and vatapá so rich it coats the spoon like velvet. The nautical dining room feels like a ship mid-voyage, flags fluttering overhead, spices perfuming the air. It’s flavorful, sun-soaked, and a little bit wild—exactly how a pirate would want it.

The Katherine

723 East Broward Boulevard 
(954) 807-8022

On a quiet stretch of Broward Boulevard, chef Timon Balloo cooks from memory, blending the flavors of his Trinidadian-Chinese heritage with flavors from the places that shaped him—Miami, San Francisco, Bangkok. His chowder fries are pure alchemy: Belgian frites topped with clam chowder, bacon, and herbs. I followed them with mom’s Trini oxtail, slow-braised until it collapses under a fork, and served with Haitian pikliz to cut through the richness. And don’t get me started on the “torrejas” French toast dessert—save some room, you won’t regret it.

Little Cuban Café

3433 Griffin Road
(754) 216-1266

The cafecito line was already three deep when I arrived at this no-frills family-run spot. The sound of vaca frita crackling with garlic and lime and the smells of sofrito and ropa vieja fill the air. Yuca con mojo comes past me steaming and tangled with sweet onions. Locals greet each other by name, and the counter staff moves with the ease of people who’ve done this for decades.

Shuck N Dive

650 North Federal Highway
(954) 462-0088

The smell of blackened seafood and the brassy lilt of Dixieland jazz guided me into this Victoria Park creole outpost, where Mardi Gras arrives in Greater Fort Lauderdale. Walls lined with beads and vintage beer ads set the tone, but the food delivers the real NOLA energy: crawfish étouffée with a slow-building heat, golden fried oyster po’boys, and a gumbo so smoky it lingered on my tongue like a backbeat. 

Larb Thai-Isan

6234 North Federal Highway
(954) 368-8863

In a low-slung strip mall not far from downtown, I found some of the fiercest flavors in the region. Chef Suksamran’s Larb Thai-Isan delivers khao soi bathed in golden broth and crowned with crunchy noodles, and som tum snapping with fermented crab and spicy bird’s-eye chile. The duck salad, dotted with crispy skin and tossed in sweet chili and lime, is a master class in contrast. Come hungry, bring friends, and prepare to wait—it’s worth every second.

Foxy Brown

476 North Federal Highway
(754) 200-4236

Stepping inside Foxy Brown is like walking into your favorite sitcom kitchen—cozy, familiar, maybe a little retro. “We’ve grown alongside families and regulars, pioneering Fort Lauderdale’s brunch scene since 2012,” says director of operations Sasha Formica. The menu riffs on nostalgia: Green bean fries arrive tempura-crisp with sriracha aioli; the beef-a-roni marries tender short rib and creamy local ricotta tossed in casarecce pasta, just like the canned version of my latchkey childhood. But the sleeper hit? A banana bread grilled cheese with nutella and brûléed banana.

Greek Islands Taverna

3300 North Ocean Boulevard
(954) 565-5505

Whitewashed walls, clinking glasses, platters the size of hubcaps—Greek Islands Taverna doesn’t do subtle. The pikilia platter alone is a meal: tzatziki, melitzanosalata, skordalia, and tirokafteri are all begging for torn pita. I followed those with lamb chops adorned simply with lemon, oregano, and olive oil still sputtering from the grill. The hospitality brings me back to the mountainside villages on Crete that I love, where it doesn’t matter what language you speak because food and friendship are universal. Come hungry and come early because they don’t take reservations.

Tulio’s Tacos & Tequila Bar

2150 Wilton Drive #A113
(954) 530-5523

In Wilton Manors, where rainbow flags line the sidewalks and the music never stops, Tulio’s hums with energy and mezcal. “Tulio’s creates a welcoming space where everyone feels at home,” owner and founder Brian Parenteau tells me. Sweet claw meat and bright roasted corn salsa overflow the lobster tacos; the birria—pull-apart short rib folded into crisp tortillas—is served with consommé I’d drink by the mug. 

Heritage

903 North East 5th Avenue
(954) 635-2335

Tucked just off of Flagler Village, this spot pulses with energy. Rino Cerbone, part chef, part rock band front man, pours heart and heat into his Italian American menu. “I wanted to be the one to change the game [in Greater Fort Lauderdale],” Cerbone says. “People see it. People feel it. They know in these four walls something awesome is happening.” The razor clams beckon, still sizzling under a layer of breadcrumbs and Calabrian chile. Handmade pastas and pizzas, crafted with his family’s secret dough and blistered in the wood oven, draw me in every visit. But the staple for Cerbone? “The pizza I grew up making with my father, the fresh tomato,” he says. “It’s five ingredients. Nothing to hide behind, just simple and delicious.”

Takato

551 North Fort Lauderdale Beach Boulevard

On a gusty stretch of Fort Lauderdale Beach, this Japanese-Korean fusion spot doesn’t shy away from flavor: Short rib jabche melds glassy sweet potato noodles with galbi cooked sous vide to trembling tenderness; duck baos arrive pillowy and bursting with hoisin heat. “Takato is more than just a restaurant—it’s where tradition and passion come together to create flavors that tell a story and bring people closer,” says general manager Paul-Antoine Fabre.

The post Why This Waterfront Community in Florida Should Be Your Next Culinary Destination appeared first on Saveur.

There’s the sight of the colorful spread. The sounds of laughing friends and the crunch of crispy lechón skin. The smell of garlic wafting above the sinangag. And the complex, contrasting tastes and textures dancing on your tongue. Welcome to kamayan, the Filipino feast that stimulates the senses—especially the carnal, intuitive one many Western meals overlook: touch.

Kamayan (from kamay, “hand,” in Filipino) refers to the pre-colonial ­tradition of eating without cutlery. Sixteenth-century Italian scholar and explorer Antonio Pigafetta, who documented Philippine history during the Magellan expedition, noted that natives used wooden spoons for serving and cooking—but not for eating.

Nowadays, kamayan is synonymous with a communal feast of rice, grilled or roasted meats, seafood, and fruit, all laid atop a banana leaf-lined table, floor, or ground. The bounty is often enjoyed on beach outings or at home on special occasions such as birthdays. Today, Filipino American chefs are bringing the tradition into their restaurants.

Chef Lordfer Lalicon, who helms 2024 James Beard Award-finalist Kaya in Orlando, Florida, likes that kamayan partakers are essentially forced to put their phones down. “You’re eating together, you’re talking together. You can do nothing but enjoy the food in front of you because you can’t touch anything else,” he laughs. “You’re enthralled.”

The feast is typically a family affair, but any strangers quickly get acquainted digging into the same pile of food. “Eating with our hands grounds us and creates a more intimate connection with the ingredients,” says Eric Valdez, executive chef and partner at Filipino restaurant Naks in New York City, which offers a kamayan tasting menu. He adds, “The taste changes … You feel the ingredients more, and the emotion coming from the food.”

The hands-on format is sometimes intimidating for those more accustomed to eating with cutlery. But there is a method to what may seem like madness. Yana Gilbuena-Babu, chef and founder of SALO Series, a 50-week, 50-state kamayan pop-up, explains, “There’s etiquette in dining with your hands. It’s not just shoveling food into your mouth.”

Gilbuena-Babu created the SALO Series to both reclaim her culture and share Filipino cuisine with others at its most traditional and accessible. Until recently, she recalls, many in the food industry were seeking to “elevate” Filipino food. “That kind of rubbed me the wrong way,” she says. “When you say you want to elevate something, it connotes an inferiority to something else. I don’t want to elevate Filipino ­cuisine. I would rather celebrate it.”

While some refer to kamayan as a ­“boodle fight,” participants aren’t supposed to tussle for their meal. According to Gilbuena-Babu, the move is to “pick, pack, push.” You pick up some rice and the dish you want to try. Then, you pack everything into a ball using your fingers (not your palms) and push it into your mouth. Etiquette dictates that your fingers should never pass your lips. Some diners designate one hand for eating, and the other as a “­serving spoon,” or to hold a plate or a drink.

Kaya co-owner and general ­manager Jamilyn Salonga-Bailey agrees with Gilbuena-Babu’s approach and often persuades hesitant diners to ditch utensils, which she feels take kamayan participants out of the experience they signed up for. It’s important, says Salonga-Bailey, to “release the stigma of having to eat ‘­properly’ according to Western standards.”

The importance of kamayan also lies in its historic resilience. As different countries laid claim to the Philippines over the centuries, spoons and forks were introduced, and the very existence of this traditional meal was under threat. “It suffered some erasure,” says Gilbuena-Babu. “We were made to think that we were savages or uncivilized.”

Still, Filipinos preserved the practice through more than 300 years of Spanish rule, nearly 50 years of U.S. colonization, and three years of Japanese occupation. Whether diners realize it or not, kamayan is an act of anticolonial ­resistance. Here are some tips for channeling that spirit in your own home. 

No Plates, No Problem

Instead of plates and utensils, line a clean surface with butcher paper or newspaper, then lay banana leaves on top. The leaves are available frozen or fresh at many Asian, Latin American, and African grocery stores.

The Foundation

The only non-negotiable at any Filipino feast is rice. Place steaming mounds at various intervals for easy access. Any plain rice is fine, but many Filipinos will tell you that ­sinangag, crispy garlic rice, is a must.

Main Characters

Consider dishes guests can grab easily, such as marinated meats, pan-fried fish, lumpia (fried spring rolls), skewers (sweet pork barbecue is always a hit), and grilled squid or prawns.

Panoply of Produce

Steamed bok choy and green beans are always a good idea, as are vegetables cooked in coconut milk. Sliced fresh fruit—mangoes, pineapple, and tomatoes, for instance—up the visual appeal.

Dip or Douse

It’s fun to serve a variety of sawsawan (dipping sauces) and other salty, acidic, and spicy accouterments (such as toyomansi). Traditional condiments include vinegars; soy sauce; fish sauce; fresh calamansi (or bottled calamansi juice); and raw chiles, onions, and garlic. Some also like to put out bottles of sweet, tangy Mang Tomas pork liver sauce and ­umami-packed Maggi seasoning, or more elaborate accompaniments such as atchara (pickled green papaya relish) or bagoóng (deeply funky fermented shrimp paste).

Recipes

Garlic Rice

Get the recipe >

Humbà Beets

Get the recipe >

Fish Bistek

Get the recipe >

Ginataang Squash

Get the recipe >

Chicken Tocino

Get the recipe >

Toyomansi

Get the recipe >

The post Make Your Next Dinner Party a Kamayan appeared first on Saveur.

Ever since Cuban exilios began arriving in Miami in 1959, the city has been synonymous with the island’s cuisine. In fact, Cuban food is so ubiquitous here—there are more than 700 restaurants to choose from—that I often struggle to answer the simple question: “Where can I get the best Cuban food?”

Thirty years ago, when I began critiquing restaurants for Miami New Times, writing a list of the city’s essential Cuban restaurants would have required categories: cafeterías (diners), bakeries, takeout spots, by-the-pound steam tables, ventanitas (coffee “windows”), juice bars, white-tablecloth restaurants, and more. Cuban food was everywhere. Even my local hardware store was dishing out ropa vieja, the saucy stew of shredded beef and tomatoes flavored with a base of sofrito (sauteed pepper, onions, and garlic). 

But as rents rise along with the sea level, many of those mom-and-pop places have shuttered. I can’t recall, for instance, the last time I walked by an inexpensive food-by-the-pound place. Even so, every visitor to Miami should seek out the survivors. In Cuban neighborhoods like Westchester and the (more touristy) Little Havana, you can find a variety of reasonably priced, swear-by eateries including La Carreta, El Pub Restaurant, El Palacio de los Jugos, and, of course, the slightly more elevated Versailles, as famous for its conservative political leanings as for its daily specials (go on Sunday for the braised goat). Scattered around the city, other venerated businesses endure despite gentrification, such as Enriqueta’s Sandwich Shop in Edgewater and Puerto Sagua on South Beach.

Yet Miami’s Cuban food scene isn’t all decades-old hangers-on. Second- and third-generation chefs, raised in their predecessors’ kitchens, learned the classic recipes—and then went their own way. The result is a rarefied mix of traditional Cuban and fusion food that can only be discovered here. Cuban ice cream flavors such as caramel flan or plátano maduro (sweet plantain), scooped at Azucar Ice Cream, are but one example. What follows is a list of my favorite Cuban dining spots, whether you’re looking for conventional Cuban sandwiches, Japanese-Venezuelan-Cuban dishes, or anything in between.

Amelia’s 1931 

13601 SW 26 St.
(305)-554-4949

Amelia’s 1931 is a family affair: Chef-Owner Eileen Andrade named it after her grandmother. Located in the same shopping plaza as her grandfather’s famous Cuban restaurant, Islas Canarias (est. 1977), Amelia’s imbues homestyle Cuban dishes with Asian, South American, and French savoir-faire. I’m eager to return for the pork belly with homemade sweet chili sauce and fried queso and for another plate of escargot dressed with umami butter and served with Cuban toast points for dipping.

Café La Trova

971 SW 8th St.
(786)-615-4379

Chef Michelle Bernstein, who won a James Beard award in 2008, runs this Little Havana gem where reimagined classics reign. There are pumpkin-filled empanadas, Maine lobster croquetas, and skirt steak ropa vieja with avocado cream. Café La Trova often graces lists like “The World’s 50 Best Bars,” both for its cocktails, shaken by the city’s best cantineros (professional bartenders), and for its namesake “trova” music (a style that originated in the 19th century), which gets everybody up on the dance floor. Don’t be surprised when the cantineros whip out brass and percussion instruments from behind the bar and play along.

Caja Caliente

808 Ponce de Leon, Coral Gables
(786)-431-1947

Don’t let the Pepto Bismol-hued walls and run-of-the-mill high-top tables fool you: There is a great vibe at this inconspicuous neighborhood joint. It’s all thanks to Chef-Owner Monica “Mika” Leon and her Cuban-Mexican tacos, burritos, and nachos, which amp up those Mexican staples with Cuba’s most famous roasted, stewed, and pan-fried proteins. To me, there’s nothing better—or maybe bigger—than a platter of Caja Caliente’s nachos: plantain chips topped with black beans, tomatoes, pickled red onions, black olives, cheddar cheese, jalapeños, chipotle crema, and vaca frita (fried pulled skirt steak). In close second is the enormous tamal cubano, whose sweet corn body is blanketed with crisp fried pork nuggets, pico de gallo, avocado, and swirls of house aioli.

Chug’s Diner

3444 Main Hwy., Coconut Grove
(786)-353-2940

If Miami-style Spanglish–a distinctive mix of English and Cuban Spanish–were a diner, it would be Chug’s. Named for the childhood moniker of Chef-Owner Michael Beltran (of Ariete fame), this breezy indoor-outdoor eatery offers whimsical dishes like arroz con leche blintzes (yup, that’s rice pudding in there), mango milkshakes, and Pop’s Frita, a Cuban patty melt leveled up with blue cheese salsa, mojo ketchup, and papitas (shoestring potatoes). Insider tip: There are no reservations, so get there early to avoid the crowds. 

La Cumbancha

6743 Main St., Miami Lakes
(305)-456-5972

When I don’t feel like battling tourists at Café La Trova, I head to its suburban sibling. Here, you get the same live Cuban music and Julio Cabrera cocktails, but it all comes with an intriguingly different menu. Part of the reason for this is the pizza oven left by the former owners, which delivers crunchy, rustic bread that the restaurant serves with olive oil and three types of salt (white, black, and pink). Many regulars come for the pizza, but I’m all about the Cuban favorites such as seafood empanadas, arroz con pollo, and a pork chop that gets the vaca frita treatment (read: braised, shredded, and pan-fried). Whatever main you land on, save room for the roasted Manchego flan.

Doce Provisions

541 SW 12^th Ave.
(786)-452-0161

This Little Havana eatery adds local and seasonal twists to Cuban American dishes. The goat cheese croquettes, for instance, are garnished with sweet-tart marmalade made with guavas picked only 45 minutes away. I recommend following those up with birria de res “quesatacos,” made with short rib meat for fatty richness. The homey gastropub interior leads to a colorful outdoor patio featuring walls painted by artist Krave. Outside is ideal for sharing a mixed grill or another staple, the fried chicken, served with a sweet plantain waffle, pickled peppers, and Sriracha honey. A quaff of a hometown craft beer, such as the J Wakefield El Jefe Hefeweizen or the Wynwood La Rubia, rounds out the experience. Keep in mind that the space is small, so if you’re one in a crowd, check out the second location in Doral. 

Havana Harry’s

4612 S. Le Jeune Rd., Coral Gables
(305)-661-2622

You’d be forgiven for thinking this metropolitan neighborhood favorite is all about trendiness—what with the build-your-own lunch bowls, flamboyant cocktails, and 40-item dessert list—but make no mistake: Havana Harry’s also delivers on classics such as Imperial rice, braised oxtail, and shrimp in zesty Creole sauce. A community staple since 1995, the neon sign-lighted Harry’s serves local office workers and University of Miami students alike. 

Kuba Cabana

3450 NW 83rd Ave. Ste. 140, Doral
(305)-800-5822

Filled with decorative, jewel-toned flamboyance (including a classic car parked right outside the entrance!), Kuba Cabana transports guests to Cuba’s heyday. Live music and dance performances elevate dinner to a foot-stomping spectacle. Fusion dishes like “Yuca-lote”—fried yuca topped with mojo crema, cotija cheese, and chile-lime seasoning—and smoked half-chicken, swimming in spiced guava jus, exemplify its Old World-meets-New ethos. Despite opening during the pandemic, Kuba Cabana is thriving and recently debuted a second location in Bayside.

Little Havana

12727 Biscayne Blvd., North Miami
(305)-899-9069

Born and raised in Miami, my kids judge every Cuban restaurant by its black beans. Little Havana—which is neither little nor in Havana—makes their (and my) favorite rendition, spiced with cumin and bay leaves. We gobble down our frijoles while suited waiters dash around the dining room, swiping Cuban roll crumbs off the tablecloths between courses. Be prepared for extra-large portions of strictly old-school fare. We favor the pounded chicken breasts or steak, which you can enjoy simply grilled and garnished with onions or breaded and covered with ham and melted cheese. Either way, you’ll be presented with proteins that practically drape over the edges of the dinner plates. Enjoy them with separate side dishes of buttery white rice, sweet ripe plantains, soft boiled yuca, and—of course—those beans.

Old’s Havana Cuban Bar & Cocina

1442 SW 8th St.
(786)-518-2196

If it’s a classic mojito you’re after, Old’s is the place: The mint is abundant, fresh, and bruised just enough to let the flavor seep out into a tall glass filled with white rum, soda water, and lime juice. The red banquettes match the servers’ ties; outside on the terrace, the greenery looks like larger versions of what’s garnishing your drink. As you wait for your pork ribs glazed with sour orange sauce, groove to the live salsa music and peruse the vintage advertisements and antique car parts that comprise the decor. Later on, spring for a torreja, or Spanish ‘French’ toast, for dessert, or go all-out with a cigar when the cigar roller is on the clock.

Original Rio Cristal Restaurant

9872 SW 40th St.
(305)-223-2357

One word: retro. Or 15 words: “The Famous Original Steak and Black Beans from a Small Town in Cuba Called Güines.” This down-to-earth diner was established in 1974, and it looks it—in the best way—with Formica booths and a terra cotta tile floor that have been the same since I can remember. But in addition to stews like the shredded ropa vieja (so-named for its resemblance to “old clothes”), the dish to order here is the “Super Bistec,” fried steak smothered with onions and a pile of thin french fries served with an overflowing bowl of black beans. Don’t worry, the waiters have already marked you as a regular and will remember your order for next time.

Sanguich de Miami

2057 SW 8^th St.
(305)-539 0969

The age-old Miami questions: Who makes the best Cuban sandwich, and can the classic be improved upon? Sanguich, conceived and operated by husband-and-wife team Daniel Figueredo and Rosa Romero, answers both by making most of the sandwich fillings themselves. They sous vide the meats, pickle the cucumbers and onions, make their own mustard and aioli … you get the picture. Don’t sleep on the trademarked Sanguich de Miami, stacked with turkey, hand-cut bacon, and Swiss cheese. The green-walled, mosaic-tiled space is handsome but narrow, with a counter on one side where you can watch the staff press sandwiches and whir batidos, and tables for two on the other. If you have limited time or the line is long, try ordering at the ventanita (window).  

Tinta y Café

1315 Ponce de Leon Blvd., Coral Gables
(305)-285-0101

Sure, there’s “café” in the name, but this isn’t a spot for digital nomads: There’s a strict “no laptops” policy to discourage lingering. You can see why. The suburban space has just a few oval wooden tables. You can eke out a few more spots in front of the window and at a free-standing counter, which gives off thrift store-meets-bookstore cafe vibes. There’s almost always a snaking line of work-from-home professionals, yoga moms, and the post-pickleball crowd grabbing breakfast and lunch. But the pressed sandwiches and overflowing salads are worth the wait. Tinta’s take on the Cuban sandwich, called the Patria, adds mortadella to the usual ham, pork, Swiss cheese, pickles, and mustard. It’s divine, as is the Francesita if you like a salty-sweet combo (ham, cream cheese, and strawberry preserves on media noche bread). In total, there are 20 sandwiches, and it’s impossible to go wrong—unless you bring your laptop.

Recipe

Cuban Picadillo

Get the recipe >

The post Where to Find the Best Cuban Food in Miami appeared first on Saveur.

Beaches and balmy weather aside, there’s nothing more synonymous with Miami than a Cuban pastelito. Spanish for “little pastry,” the pastelito is a flaky, turnover-like treat that can be sweet—typically filled with coconut, or guava and cream cheese, and shaped into squares or triangles—or savory, stuffed with seasoned beef, chicken, or ham and formed into circles. In the Magic City, you’ll find them in many bakeries as well as ventanitas, walk-up windows attached to Cuban restaurants that act as pedestrian-style drive-throughs.

The origins of the pastelito are hazy. Some claim its creator was a Lebanese immigrant trying to duplicate the baklava, while others credit the Viennese for bringing it to Cuba or have theorized that it was invented by slaves working in Spanish and Cuban sugar mills. Pastelitos first arrived in Miami with the influx of Cubans after the rise of the Castro regime, quickly becoming a fixture in the city’s culinary landscape. Today the treats are everywhere, including the Miami International Airport, where they serve as a welcome to the city.

Up until now, you’d be hard-pressed to find one pastelito spot deemed “the best.” Some have been in the limelight more than others, like the Little Havana landmark Café Versailles, which has become a requisite stop for visiting politicians and presidents. But most are neighborhood businesses that turn out comfort food (and a dose of nostalgia) conveniently packaged in a handheld pastry. Recently, one baker has started shaking things up and turning heads.

Giovanni Fesser was raised in a pastelito-eating family: His grandfather Henry (a Havana native) would walk to the local bakery to procure them on the regular. “He did that every other day until I was old enough to explore the neighborhood riding my bike. Then, all our friends used to go to the bakery and get pastelitos.”

Fesser, now 38 and the sous chef at the popular Coconut Grove restaurant Ariete, recalls growing tired of the limited variety. “It got to the point where we go bored of those flavors and wondered why they didn’t make different ones.”

On a sleepless night watching reruns of Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives, inspiration struck. The idea of creating pastelitos with inventive fillings sent him on a nightlong quest researching as many existing variations as he could find online. He found only two bakeries tinkering with the traditional fillings, one by adding Nutella, the other, mango. When he ventured out to try them and others, he was unimpressed by the quality of ingredients: “I could tell right off the bat they don’t make their fillings.” Sensing an opportunity, Fesser approached his boss, Ariete’s chef-owner Michael Beltran, with the idea of making pastelitos and received an immediate thumbs-up.

The first pastelito Fesser made was the frita pastelito, a play on the frita, or Cuban burger, that teamed seasoned beef with chorizo and a generous heap of shoestring potatoes. Next came the peanut butter and jelly, and eventually spicy chicken and blue cheese, oxtail stew or rabo encendido, and lechon—the citrus-mojo marinated pork dish central to Cuban festivities. His apple pie pastelito receives a drizzle of cream cheese and condensed milk glaze and a sprinkling of graham cracker crumbs. “I wanted the pastelitos to be Cuban first then American—the best of both worlds.”

Fesser, who named his resulting business Pastelito Papi, is gaining a cult following in the area for his creativity as well as his from-scratch ethos. The filling for his traditional guava pastelito, for example, is sourced from a local exotic fruit company called PG Tropicals and is noticeably fresher, more floral-tasting, and less gummy in consistency than the canned guava paste many bakeries use. “Others add cornstarch to thicken [the fruit preserves], which is why they get away with charging $1 for a pastelito,” says Fesser, who makes his guava pastries square to incorporate even more filling. “[Ours] is the real deal.” He also relies on nearby Knaus Berry Farm for strawberries and even used a friend’s massive haul of ripe backyard mangoes last year. This year he plans to expand Pastelito Papi’s offerings to papaya, guanabana (soursop), and mamey, a tropical fruit native to Cuba.

Of course, using local produce and choice ingredients means a higher price. Pastelito Papi’s pastries average between $3 to $4 each. The restaurant’s recent three-year anniversary party sold Cuban sandwich pastelitos (baked pork, ham, house-made pickles, and mustard) at $5 a pop. All 150 quickly sold out.

Pastelito Papi, which has grown through word of mouth and social media, has received praise from the likes of Thomas Keller, and Fesser has even turned down places wanting to carry his pastries, including heavyweights like Nordstrom, due to his small-batch operation. Despite all the attention, Fesser remains laser-focused: he still works full time at Ariete and comes in on his days off or stays after his shift to work on pastelito orders, selling about 300 a week.

He is also busy collaborating with other food purveyors on items like a reuben sandwich pastelito using Babe Froman’s Montreal pastrami. He has set the laudable goal of tapping into as many countries as he can for filling inspiration.

“I think that’s a great way to connect with Miami since we’re so many mixed cultures down here. Pastelitos don’t have to just be Cuban, you know? We can put every country inside of them.”

The post The Chef Behind Some of Miami’s Best Pastelitos appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to Hawk’s Illustrated America, a monthly series following illustrator Hawk Krall’s journeys through the back roads of the U.S. in search of our country’s most obscure and delicious regional specialties.

Call it Floribbean food: the unique mix of Southern and Caribbean coastal cuisine you only get in Florida. Cuban sandwiches, grouper tacos, and Cuban-Sicilian tomato pie are all alive and well down here, distinct from anything else in the South, with South American and Italian-American influences for good measure. Plus a bounty of fresh local seafood that comes together in sometimes ridiculous but often incredible ways, much like the state of Florida itself.

Over the past few years I’ve gotten to know the Tampa area and its many Floribbean dockside spots. There are frozen drinks, crab fries (take fries, add crab, and something creamy to sauce it), and smokers in parking lots cranking out of smoked mullet fish for dip.

Many of these restaurants do great work, but for a real taste of local culture, you have to head inland and truck along the endless expanse of gritty, triple-wide highways lined with vape shops and strip malls, where the locals actually live.

Now an antique tradition even in its home state of Florida, this fall delicacy of gently smoked oily fish is well worth seeking out

This is where you’ll find real-deal Cuban, Spanish, and Colombian food, along with some Chinese-Peruvian fusion for good measure, and of course Casper’s BBQ, a shack on the side of the road that fits this column so well it almost seems like I dreamt it up. I first hit Casper’s on a quest for the state’s best smoked fish dip, and boy I found it, and a whole lot more.

On a nondescript stretch of commercial highway on the outskirts of St. Petersburg—between a dollar store and a trailer dealership—you’d miss Casper’s if you weren’t looking for the boats and smokers scattered about the property. Skip past the darkened entrance and follow the signs and yard decorations to a small hut towards the back, where you’ll find proprietor Dan Cantera (a.k.a. Casper) holding court and serving barbecue and smoked fish. An array of menus for fish, barbecue, catering, specials, and sandwiches is dizzying, so do what I do and ask Dan for the lowdown on what’s good that day.

On my recent visit, that meant ribs, assorted smoked fish, and smoked cabbage—a delicious and unexpected recipe Dan picked up from an old hunting buddy. But the real star of the show is the that fish: local amberjack, mullet, salmon, or whatever Dan has caught lately, smoked and served whole, or chopped up and mixed into the local delicacy of Florida fish dip.

Locals may take Florida dish dip for granted, but I’m obsessed with this smoky, creamy wonder. It’s reminiscent of Jewish whitefish salad but decidedly Florida, made with mayo, relish, or even Miracle Whip, and served with saltines, hot sauce, and ideally an ice cold beer. Dan’s is the smokiest, creamiest, and most generally excellent version I’ve had.

Dan is especially proud of his smoked salmon, available whole, sliced, or as a dip. “We only have white fish down here [in Florida],” he explains. “I never saw a red fish until I went up north. But the northerners that come down love it, I can’t keep it in stock. Up there they do a cold smoke, but mine is different. More of a Southern thing.” The salmon is great whole—flaky, smoky, and rich—but it really sings as a dip, whipped into a pink, almost mousseline-like substance, dotted with celery, and gracefully seasoned.

“Casper” entered the steel business after college, and worked the job for 25 years with a group of friends who hunted and fished during their down time. They developed a weekly tradition of raging parties every Wednesday where everyone brought their catch of the week and downed beers while Dan cooked it up—venison, ribs, fish, whatever.

Over the years, Dan perfected his technique at these weekly feasts, reading up on barbecue every chance he got, and trading recipes and tips with locals, other hunters, and barbecue enthusiasts. His current recipe for baked beans, spiked with just a touch of smoked pineapple, came from an old timer at the local Elks Lodge. They are wonderful.

The steel business is a dangerous one, and after several of his friends died on the job—and then also, tragically, his wife—he left to join the food industry, selling pulled pork and burgers from a truck outside the local Motocross track.

Known as a local barbecue and smoking expert, Dan was soon offered a job running the smokehouse of Graham’s, a 40-year-old small produce market that just happened to be located on the grounds of Dan’s grandparents’ former home. For a couple years he cranked out smoked mullet and amberjack dip for the market’s take-out business, and when the business closed a few years later, they offered Dan the run of the entire building, and Casper’s BBQ was born and built into what it is today: six smokers on-site for everything from ribs to whole smoked fish, bring-your-own turkeys on Thanksgiving, and of course several varieties of delicious Florida fish dip.

“People ask me what style of barbecue I do,” Dan says. “Is it Memphis? Carolina? I always tell ‘em, ‘T&E BBQ. Stands for trial and error!’” He’s a pitmaster with a style all his own, borrowing from various Southern styles, local Florida culinary traditions, and tips he picks up from fellow smokers.

That extends to the wood he smokes with. “For the regular barbecue it’s pecan or oak,” Dan notes, “but for the fish I use mangrove whenever possible.” According to Dan, Mangrove is the original wood used by Tampa Bay fisherman to smoke fish. “The old school guys would smoke it right on the beach at night,” a nugget of knowledge he picked up from a 70-year-old mullet fisherman. Mangrove is native to Tampa Bay but legally protected, so it’s hard to come by unless you have a mangrove trimming license. Dan’s got a guy for that of course, a loyal customer and friend who keeps him supplied.

Dan is similarly loyal to his customers. As we talk he can’t stop expressing gratitude for them and the network of pit folks and fishing buddies that helped turn his hobby into a thriving business. He also attributes Casper’s success to his daughter, who runs his Facebook page and does promotion for the business.

Despite the off-the-beaten-path location, Dan has a loyal following among locals and vacationers alike. “October to April is really our busy season down here” he says, telling me a story of a guy from Maine who calls in his order over the phone and drives straight to Casper’s from the airport. “Ribs and a whole smoked salmon, takes two slabs with him in a suitcase. One time he brought me a whole Maine lobster and I threw it in the smoker. Outstanding.”

Casper’s Express BBQ
5745 54th Ave N, Kenneth City, Florida
(727) 776-5596

Hawk Krall is an artist, illustrator, and former line cook with a lifelong obsession for unique regional cuisine, whose work can be seen in magazines, newspapers, galleries, and restaurants all over the world. He focuses on editorial illustration, streetscapes, and pop-art style food paintings.

The post Blink and You’ll Miss One of the South’s Best Barbecue Joints on a Florida Highway appeared first on Saveur.

Disclaimer: What I am about to tell you is all true…ish, though names have been changed to protect the guilty. I’ve fact-checked where possible, combing through newspaper archives to find evidence that supports the claims made within. But even now, months later, I still find myself questioning whether any of this was real, or if it was some kind of bizarro-world fever dream. So take everything in the account below with a grain of salt; treat it as my attempt to record a memory before it evaporates entirely.

Cruise control is a colloquialism, but it’s also a very real setting on the convertible I’m driving down US 41, also known the Tamiami Trail, which connects Tampa and Miami by cutting straight across the Everglades. It’s empty on the road, so I’m set at 75 and cruising, top down, through the 2,000 square miles of rivers, lakes, and mangrove forests that make up what writer and environmentalist Marjory Stoneman Douglas described as a “River of Grass.” There’s not much to see beyond blue and green, and the occasional billboard advertising airboat tours with guaranteed gator sightings!!! (Emphasis theirs.)

My unlikely companion is my mother, and we’re on our way to Everglades City, Florida, a tiny town on the edge of Everglades National Park, population 402. We happen to be visiting south Florida on the first day of stone crab season, and I’m on a mission to eat as many as possible, as close to the source as possible.

Stone crabs are gnarly bastards, and commercial crabbing is a tough gig. Big boxy traps are baited with pig feet, then strung out on lines and hauled in some 24 hours later, ideally filled with angry crustaceans whose claws are strong enough to cause serious damage to unlucky human fingers. Stone crabs aren’t killed when they’re caught; if their claws are large enough to meet state requirements, they’re ripped off by hand, and the newly-disarmed crab bodies are tossed back, where they will slowly regenerate new claws in the off-season.

The fresh “green” claws are kept in seawater, then brought to shore and cooked at 212 degrees for precisely eight minutes before immediately being chilled in cold water to prevent the meat from sticking to its shell. The next day, the claws are weighed and graded by size, then shipped off to restaurants and distributors around the country. Eventually, they find their way to customers like me, who pay a premium to greedily rip their sweet, meaty flesh from inside the rock-hard claws and dip it in honey-mustard sauce.

We’re en route to Everglades City because it is, according to the residents of Everglades City, the stone crab capital of the world. Dozens of crabbers are based there, supplying much of the country from October to May every year. Joe’s Crab Shack in Miami, arguably the most famous crab restaurant in the country, is the town’s biggest customer, and owns multiple crab houses there to ensure a steady supply.

Despite this illustrious reputation, Everglades City isn’t much to look at. It’s what a Yankee like me would call a one-horse town, a drive-by. Residents of south Florida and trivia buffs may have heard of it for other reasons; we’ll get to that in a minute. Point is, I didn’t know diddly-squat about the place except that it was filthy with stone crabs, which is how found ourselves at Triad Seafood, a rickety crab shack surrounded by funky-smelling traps on the muddy Barron River.

The start of stone crab season is kind of a big deal, and I’d called several restaurants only to discover that the first batch wasn’t yet ready, or worse, had already sold out. Triad was one of the few places in town with any left.

Mom and I are interlopers, and it shows. The middle-aged waitress eyes us suspiciously before granting us access to a rickety table with plastic chairs. The menu is printed on an 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper, but we barely look at the thing—we’re here for the stone crab special, listed by claw size on a dry-erase board, with a side of hushpuppies and coleslaw, please.

Two men are at the table adjacent to ours, smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze over a platter of fried fish. They’re in their mid-50s, both with rawhide skin and shaggy hair, plus baseball caps and heavy working boots despite the 80-degree heat. They notice us. We smile politely but curtly, deferring to our place as both outsiders and unaccompanied women in this rough-around-the-edges seafood joint. We don’t want to talk to them—I can feel my mother’s mental ‘danger’ antenna picking up frequencies in the air. But the taller of the two comes over to us anyway.

“Y’all kin?” he asks, smiling.

No one talks like that where we’re from. People would ask if we were related, sure, but “kin” is a particular regional vernacular, and it catches us off-guard. “I was trying to figure out if you were sisters or mama-daughter,” he continues. We nod in agreement, yes, we are one of those things, and it’s clear he wants to keep talking.

“I’m 10th-generation Evergladesian, part Indian in my blood, and I can tell. I grew up here, went to high school right across the street, fished here all my life. Name’s Will Clarkson—they call me Captain Will—and I run these boat tours if y’all ever want to see the Glades with a real local,” he says, sliding a flimsy business card our way.

I’m relieved—okay, he’s just shilling his tours, no harm, no foul. I figure I should ask him about the stone crabs—how they’re caught, how they’re processed, and so forth, to see if Everglades City has fully earned its reputation. “I worked on crab boats for years,” says Clarkson, motioning to the pile of traps on the riverbank. “Let me show you how it works.” He walks me through the process, demonstrating with his hand how the crabs fall into the funnel-shaped top in search of food, then can’t get out. “It’s hard work, going out before sunrise, out there all day,” he says. His buddy laughs: “That’s why you quit doin’ it!” Clarkson tells us there are 90,000 traps in Everglades City, making it the largest producer in the U.S. Sounds right.

Our claws arrive back at the table and we figure that’s the end of our conversation. But Clarkson pulls up his chair and announces he’s going to show us how to get the most meat out of the claws. Sure, a tip from a local—this will be good for the story I’m already drafting in my head. He places the claw atop his open palm, then whacks it with the back of a spoon. The shell comes splintering off in big pieces, revealing a thick nugget of sweet, juicy meat. I thank him for his service.

Clarkson pulls up a chair. “You ladies know anything about Everglades City in the ‘80s?” he asks. I shrug. My mom, however, apparently does. “I remember reading something about the War on Drugs,” she says. This is the right answer. Clarkson leans in close.

“I have $10 million in movie rights on my name,” he says. “I ran this town. I had condos, planes, a recording studio in Nashville. I had 14 kids—not all of them biological, maybe, but I took them in as my own and supported them. Not bad for a sixth-grade flunkout,” he goes on, slapping his thigh.

It all started, Clarkson continues, when he was 16. His daddy, a fisherman, was too sick to go out on the water, and so Clarkson, who had indeed been kicked out of school in junior high for setting off cherry bombs in the toilet, was out looking for mullet in his stead. As a 10th-generation Gladesman, he knew every curve in the mangroves like the lines on his palm—all the best spots to fish, to take shortcuts through the tall grass, to catch some shade under the unrelenting midday sun.

One day, young Clarkson was out on the boat when a well-dressed man with the nicest sunglasses Clarkson had ever seen motored up to him in a little dinghy. “I need your boat,” said the fancy man. “Well, I need my boat too,” said Clarkson. “If I don’t catch enough fish to make at least $100, my daddy will kill me.” The man laughed. “If you give me your boat for 24 hours, I promise I’ll give you enough money that your daddy won’t even remember the fish.” And so, 24 hours and a manila envelope fat with Benjamins later, Clarkson was officially in the drug-running business.

It worked like this, basically: The big importers were in Miami. The marijuana was from Jamaica and Colombia, loaded onto big ships just waiting to be picked up in the Gulf of Mexico. The importers needed guys like Clarkson, who had boats and knew the knotty waterways in their blood, to run the product between the motherships and back to shore under cover of night. They did it with false-bottomed fishing boats with fast motors—on a good trip, says Clarkson, he could make it to a pickup in Jamaica and back again in 24 hours. He didn’t get involved in the sales or distribution of the drugs, but he did get his brothers, cousins and father in on the transportation racket.

Everyone in town knew about it. Clarkson (whose family name is actually Davis changed his middle name to his surname; more on that in a minute) was far from the only guy the slick-talking dealer had approached. One local policeman estimated that “250 to 300 of the 534 village residents fish for a living, with ‘half, maybe three-quarters” of them suspected of taking part in the illegal enterprise,” reported one 1982 New York Times article about the burgeoning Everglades City drug trade.

“But I used my money for good,” insists Clarkson—who is loudly talking at the restaurant in plain view of anyone who cares to listen—“I made sure the church was taken care of, the hospitals. When my neighbor hit hard times, he wanted in on the business, and I told him, you don’t want to get involved in this stuff, but here’s $40,000. Just gave it to him, no questions asked.”

The waitress walks by and rolls her eyes at Clarkson’s friend, who has returned to his table to continue chain smoking, alone. My mother and I are glued to our seats, unsure of what to make of all this. Is it complete bullshit? It has to be bullshit. There is no way what this man is saying is true, but there’s no easy way for us to get out of his story, plus, it’s pretty entertaining (albeit slightly terrifying). And so he continues rattling off a list of his material goods and properties, boasting about “never hurting nobody,” and waxing nostalgic for the (many) women he once knew and loved.

Of course, all good things must come to an end, and Clarkson tells us, fleetingly, of getting caught. He’s vague with the details of the bust itself, perhaps viewing it as a personal failure he didn’t want to dwell on. He talks about sacrificing himself so his brothers could get less time, and of transferring his many assets to his many children so his exes couldn’t bleed him dry. Ultimately, he did 12 years behind bars, in federal, state and county jail for tax evasion.

He came home after that, back to Everglades City, where everyone knew what had happened and no one talked about it. He got married, then divorced. He had some more kids. He found religion—not quite God—but a spirituality of some sort, that allowed him to never have a bad day, to let things pass through him without leaving a scar. He took a guest stint on the Netflix series “Chasing Monsters,” about fishing ugly sea creatures in the Everglades. Eventually, he started his airboat operation.

At this point, we’ve finished our crabs, and, having run through polite disbelief, shock, and awe, we’ve just about run out of ways to react to Clarkson’s tale. We’ve been at Triad for nearly two hours and we’ve gotta get out of there. Perhaps sensing our agitation, Clarkson leaves our table by staring directly into my eyes, announcing, somewhat menacingly, that he can see through me, and telling us to check out his boat tours when we’re back in town. Shaken, we skedaddle when he’s in the bathroom, not wanting him to see our license plate number.

Back on the highway, we try to process. I don’t believe anything Clarkson said, but start furiously searching “Everglades City + drug smuggling + Will Clarkson Davis,” just to see what happens. It doesn’t take long for results to start popping up: “Everglades City Shifts from Fishing to Drugs,” reads one 1982 headline; in 1983 and 1984, the DEA executed two highly-publicized predawn raids in the tiny town as part of “Operation Everglades,” which lead to the seizure of 580,000 pounds of marijuana with an estimated street value of more than $252 million, and the arrest of nearly 80% of the adult male population of Everglades City. One article details the Davis brothers in particular, noting that agents seized six parcels of land belonging to the boys: Collier County, land in Tennessee, two condos, two planes, and four boats. I exhale slowly: He wasn’t lying.

At least not entirely.

Further reading reveals that there’s a long history of smuggling in Everglades City, dating to the turn of the 20th century, when residents smuggled in endangered animals, then later rum-running in the Prohibition era, and finally marijuana, in the ‘70s and ‘80s, as the National Park Service enacted ever-stricter laws on commercial fishing, the previous mainstay of the local economy.

So it’s far from a black-and-white situation: a working-class town in the middle of nowhere gets squeezed out of its major source of income; tight-knit locals turn to illegal activity to survive; everyone knows, but no one talks. Gives a deeper meaning to the word “kin,” when you think about it.

The post The Crab-Fishing Drug King of Everglades City appeared first on Saveur.

Sugar-fine white sand beaches along the sparkling Gulf of Mexico? Check. Shopping and charming pedestrian thoroughfares? Double check. A bumping restaurant and bar scene that hits every pleasure point, from down-home barbecue to high-end Persian? Triple check; over and out: Naples and Marco Island, Florida, have it all.

Neatly situated along the Gulf Coast in southwestern Florida, these sister towns have all the beachy charm you want on vacation, but more of the real-world amenities and activities that keep them from feeling too small. It’s true that Naples and Marco Island have a reputation for a bit of glitz (high-end shopping and finer-dining options abound), but there’s plenty of off-the-beaten-track local favorites to explore, too. Take New Smyrna Beach for example. Here’s a look at what to do, where to stay, and, of course, what to eat and drink when you visit.

Where to Eat

Grouper and Chips

This family-run, two-decades-running seafood spot in a strip mall just outside of downtown Naples specializes in its namesake: battered and expertly fried local red grouper and chips (a.k.a. french fries). Owners source fresh catches daily from fishers in nearby Cape Coral, and while there are only a handful of tables, the restaurant buys the second-highest amount of grouper in all of Collier County (behind only the Ritz-Carlton). Expect a line out the door in season for fried baskets, plus seafood pastas, fish tacos and housemade key lime pie.

Grouper and Chips
338 9th St N, Naples

Bill’s Café

With vintage rock and roll albums and Harley-Davidson paraphernalia lining the walls, Bill’s Café is a change of pace from the glitzier side of downtown Naples. Open only for breakfast and lunch, Bill’s makes a rich, peppery corned beef hash, and thin, oversized “European” pancakes with beautifully lacy edges and a healthy dose of cinnamon in the batter. Mutton-chopped, leather-clad owner Bill Calley cooks it all to order, and if you miss breakfast, his BLT (with extra B) is worth traveling for.

Bill’s Cafe
947 3rd Ave N, Naples

Fernandez the Bull

The Fernandez family, first-generation immigrants from Cuba, opened the first of their Cuban restaurants in Naples in 1985 to great success, and recently expanded to a second location across town. Family recipes provide the backbone for their large menu, and standouts include their “Cuban nachos” (tostones topped with meat and molten cheese sauce), the grilled “El Torito” rib steak with chimichurri, and a half-dozen variations on the Cuban sandwich. Take a moment to digest with a freshly-pulled colada (Cuban espresso brewed with sugar) in the airy space, adorned with oversized vintage “Varadero Cuba!” posters.

Fernandez the Bull
1201 Piper Blvd #10, Naples
3375 Pine Ridge Rd, Naples

7th Avenue Social

This newly-opened hotspot has live music in a cozy space decorated with bits of vintage Americana and nautical knickknacks, and a menu that fuses South American with Southern American to success. Try the ceviche featuring local rock shrimp and fried-to-order malanga chips, churrasco-style grilled beef shoulder with yucca hash and sour orange chimichurri, and shrimp and Anson Mills grits with housemade chorizo, guava moonshine barbecue sauce and roasted red pepper jam. It’s one of relatively few late-night options in town, and after-hours, dancing very well might accompany the band.

7th Avenue Social
849 7th Ave S #101, Naples

Cracklin’ Jacks

Don’t be alarmed when Google Maps sends you down a quiet-looking residential road: here lies Cracklin’ Jacks, purveyor of rib-sticking Southern cooking with a dash of Everglades. That translates to excellent cornmeal-crusted fried catfish, hickory-smoked baby back ribs, and fried frog legs with classic sides like mashed potatoes with peppery white gravy and braised collards with bacon. The exposed-beam interior and checkerboard tablecloths enhance the down-home vibe.

Cracklin’ Jacks
2560 39th St SW, Naples

Bha! Bha! Persian Bistro

Situated at the beginning of the 5th Avenue South main drag in Naples, this chic Persian spot is decorated in turquoise and maroon hues that lend the space a sultry, lounge-y feel. Ingredients like pomegranate, dates, and wild barberries make frequent appearances in dishes such as the kashke bademjune (fried eggplant) topped with caramelized onions and feta, braised lamb khoresh with plums, butternut squash and tomato-pomegranate sauce, and adas polo rice with lentils, apricots and raisins. Don’t skip dessert—the housemade baklava is delicate and delicious, while the upside-down squash cake with cardamom ice cream was the sleeper hit of the night.

Bha! Bha! Bistro
865 5th Ave S, Naples

Hobnob

One of the newer restaurants in Naples and the brainchild of noted local restaurateur Michael Hernandez (Handsome Harry’s), Hobnob has a warm Southern vibe with reclaimed wood tables and rustic detailing plus a bumping bar adjacent to the main dining room. The New American menu includes updated takes on comfort-food classics, like deviled eggs with sugar-cured bacon and sweet tomato jam; snapper poached in “crazy water” (tomato broth and fish sock) and served over luxuriously creamy polenta with roasted fennel and tomatoes; and rich braised Meyer lemon short ribs with lemon risotto, roasted escarole and zippy pine nut gremolata. The services is friendly and fast, though lingering at the table is encouraged.

Hob Nob
720 5th Ave S #101, Naples

All American Shake Shop

In a retro-looking A-Frame on Route 41 that once housed a Dairy Queen, this zero-frills roadside stops serves up soft serve, sundaes, and a ‘Tornado” (their take on DQ’s famed Blizzards); along with a surprisingly broad menu of regional American fast food favorites, including Chicago, Atlanta, and New York-style hotdogs, Iowa-style breaded pork tenderloin sandwiches, fried chicken, pulled barbecued pork and more. Your seating options consist of entirely of picnic tables outside.

All American Shake Shop
410 Tamiami Trail N, Naples

Where to Drink

D’Amicos Continental

Located in quaint Old Naples, the lush outdoor patio space at Continental (which is also a steakhouse) makes it a popular place for after-dinner drinking and dancing, courtesy the live band that sets up shop on weekends. Craft cocktails are organized by spirit and given cheeky names (the “PS, It’s a Champagne Cocktail” features Bloom gin, Maraschino, and sparkling rose); or you can order “Out of the Orb”—the giant glass orbs dangling behind the bar that contain the bar’s most popular spirits. Try the tropically-inclined Blind Tiger from that section of the menu, with tequila, Carpano Bianco, lime, Angostura, and peach bitters for a kick.

D’Amicos Continental
1205 3rd St S, Naples

Bar Tulia

Adjacent to Osteria Tulia, chef Vincenzo Betulia’s buzzy Italian restaurant, Bar Tulia offers a sprawling cocktail menu (plus Italian wine, beer, and a full menu). Divided into “Craft,” “Classic” and “All Spirit,” thoughtfully-developed cocktails incorporate housemade tinctures, bitters and liqueurs, put to good use in drinks like The Last Dragon in St. George, with Terroir Gin, St. George Bruto, passion fruit, lime, and sage; or the Bitter Mai Tai with Smith & Cross rum, orgeat, lime and Campari poured over a mountain of crushed ice. The space has an inviting, Old World feel, complete with wood-burning oven and exposed brick walls.

Bar Tulia
466 5th Ave S, Naples

The Parrot Bar & Grill

Located just outside of the Tin City marina and boardwalk, this Key West-themed bar is a laid-back locals hang, open until 2 a.m. nightly. It’s about as close to a dive as downtown Naples gets, so expect the game on the TV, a jukebox full of classic rock, and cheap drinks served in plastic cups, all in an indoor-outdoor space on the marina with a lovely cross-breeze from the harbor blowing through. It’s not fancy, but the bartenders are friendly, the drinks are strong, and the price is right.

The Parrot Bar & Grill
1100 6th Ave S # 6, Naples

Quinn’s on the Beach

One of relatively few casual bars/restaurants with beachfront access in Marco Island, Quinn’s has been open for nearly 40 years, making it a favorite among hotel guests (it’s technically a part of the Marriott) and locals alike. Grab a patio seat to catch the sunset nightly (and the shirtless fire breathers that accompany it) while sipping on classic tiki cocktails and a surprisingly robust list of local beers, like the Orange Blossom Pilsner from Orange Blossom Co. in Lakeland, Florida.

Quinn’s on the Beach
400 S Collier Blvd, Marco Island (inside of the Marriott Beach Resort)

Where to Stay

The Inn on 5th

There is arguably no more centrally located option than this stylish midsized hotel, renovated in 2012. Located in the heart of downtown Naples, the Inn on 5th provides incredibly easy access to the myriad shopping, eating, and strolling along 5th Avenue South and the surrounding areas, including public-access beaches. The 80-odd spacious rooms are done up in a contemporary black, white, gray, and red color scheme; and the property has a spa, rooftop pool (currently under renovation), and fitness center on-site.

The Inn on 5th
699 5th Ave S, Naples

Marco Island Marriott Beach Resort

This sprawling (726 rooms!) Marriott Resort in prime Marco Island beachfront territory is done up in a festive Polynesian style, complete with four lavish pools, a tropical spa, indoor-outdoor dining and tiki bars, two Championship golf courses, and balcony suites facing the pristine white-sand beach just steps away. In 2017 the hotel will complete its $320 million renovation to transform into a JW Marriott property (making it the only JW beachfront resort in the continental U.S.), which will include another 94 rooms, oceanfront pool, and high-tech indoor entertainment center.

Marco Island Marriot Beach Resort
400 S Collier Blvd, Marco Island

The Ritz-Carlton Naples

Situated a few miles outside of the hustle of downtown Naples and directly on the Gulf of Mexico, this AAA Five Diamond resort helped usher in a new level of luxury when it opened in 1985 (it was renovated in 2013). The 450 rooms have a warm blue-green-gray palette inspired by the Gulf, and the property has eight on-site restaurants, two pools, a snazzy spa, pools, tennis, golf, and three miles of private beachfront to meander and collect seashells upon.

The Ritz-Carlton Naples
280 Vanderbilt Beach Rd, Naples

Hyatt House Naples

One of the newest hotels in Naples, this hotel is designed as an extended-stay hotel with resort-like amenities in the Gordon River section of Naples Bay. Within walking distance to 5th Avenue South, the hotel has 183 rooms and suites with fully-equipped kitchens, some with lanais and river views. There’s also a pool, fire pit, grilling area, and on-site boat and paddleboard rentals, and their Latitude 26 Bar & Grill is a popular happy-hour hangout for downtown types.

Hyatt House Naples
1345 5th Ave S

What to Do

Palm Cottage

For a break from shopping and sunning, head to historic Palm Cottage in charming Old Naples, the city’s oldest house, for an hourlong tour of the property. Built in 1895 out of a local cement called tabby (crushed seashells and sand), the charming grounds have been preserved with many original features intact, including pinewood floors, a kitchen outfitted with retro appliances, and a sprawling oval garden out back. The docents from the Naples Historical Society are sweet and knowledgable about every last nook and cranny of the house.

Palm Cottage
137 12th Avenue South, Naples
Tours run Tuesday-Saturday 1-4pm, $13/pp

Audubon Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary

About half an hour east of Naples, this Audobon Society-run swamp sanctuary is home to the largest remaining old growth Bald Cypress forest in North America, and teeming with wildlife (including alligators, otters, turtles, and dozens of birds). The leisurely 2.25-mile trail (on an easy-to-navigate boardwalk) passes through six habitats, including marshes, cypress, wet prairie, and pine flatwood; helpful signs dot the path to point out plant and animal species (keep an eye out for the ultra-rare ghost orchid), and massive cypress trees are named after prominent historical figures in the fight to preserve south Florida’s wetlands.

Audubon Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary
375 Sanctuary Rd West
Open 7am-5:30pm daily, $14/pp

Marco Island Beaches

Marco Island and Naples are beachside towns, and the sprawling white-sand beaches on Marco Island are particularly lovely. South Beach and Tigertail offer public access and easy parking, and many of the hotels and resorts in the area have private beachfront property as well. Beachy activities abound–local shops and hotels offer rentals on everything from sailboats to stand-up paddleboards to jetskis, or you can engage in a more low-key local favorite: shelling, aka combing the beach during low tide to collect seashells from the crystal-clear Gulf of Mexico waters.

Down South Airboat Tours

For a day trip outside of Naples/Marco Island, head about an hour southeast to the heart of the Everglades for a private airboat tour from the sixth-generation Everglades family behind this relatively new operation. There are several airboat operators to choose from in Everglades City, but Down South offers a personalized experience, and is the only company with access to the privately-owned freshwater areas, nicknamed “The River of Grass.” The friendly, knowledgeable captains chat history and ecology over two-way headsets while deftly whizzing across the surface of the wetlands at speeds up to 35 mph, slowing to point out wild attractions (yes, there are gators) along the way.

Down South Airboat Tours
tours from $200; location determined upon booking

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These days, vacationers in Florida treat themselves to all manner of seafood: crab cakes, blackened grouper, sweet-battered coconut shrimp. Many popular items, like snow crab legs, aren’t even caught in Florida waters, arriving frozen in cardboard boxes from thousands of miles away.

On the Gulf coast, though, you can still find a genuine made-in-Florida treat that you likely won’t see anywhere else: smoked mullet. Right now, in fact, we are in prime mullet season, which runs from early fall until Christmas. And no, this doesn’t have anything to do with haircuts.

The Smoked Fish of the South

The striped or black mullet is a sleek, silver fish with black markings. Small in size (typically between one and three pounds,) it lives in estuaries and the waters just off the shoreline, where it swims in large schools and leaps energetically from the water.

Marlin and swordfish love to eat mullet, so the latter are often used as a baitfish, but people in Florida love to eat mullet, too. The fish has a high oil content, so it doesn’t stay fresh for very long, but that also makes it perfect for smoking. Properly smoked mullet has a rich, nutty flavor unlike any other seafood.

When prepped for the smoker, a whole mullet is butterflied down the back and folded open, leaving two filets joined at the belly and the backbone running down one side. To eat the finished fish, you lift away the spine and discard it then use the tines of your fork to slip the meat from the bones that remain. It takes a little work, but it’s more than worth the effort.

That smoky flavor is a great foundation for dips and spreads. In a typical recipe, chunks of smoked mullet are blended with cream cheese and sour cream and seasoned with salt, pepper, and a dash of tabasco. Some cooks go for additional ingredients like onion and jalapeno, but there’s no need for excessive adornment. Served with saltine crackers and lemon wedges, smoked mullet dip is simple but delicious.

Unfortunately, few outside the state of Florida have discovered the virtues of this slow-smoked delicacy. Smoked mullet served over grits is a staple in the Gullah/Geechee community on Sapelo Island off the Georgia coast, but that’s about as far north as it goes. Mullet is sometimes sold in South Carolina fish markets, but the locals there tend to toss them in flour and pan-fry them they way they do other small, inexpensive fish like whiting. Most everywhere else, mullet is sold only as bait fish, if it’s even sold at all.

The Modern Mullet Recession

Even in Florida, smoked mullet is about as trendy as the hairdo these days. In the mid 20th century, vast schools of silver torpedo-shaped mullet swept through the waterways in and around St. Petersburg. Fishermen waited atop bridges to snatch them up with bamboo poles rigged with multi-barbed hooks, and they hauled them in using cast nests from the decks of shallow-draft boats. The abundance of mullet—and of fishermen catching them—kept prices low and made it a popular budget fish.

Back then, many Floridians had homemade smokers in their backyard, and they would butterfly the fish, soak them in salt water, and smoke them slowly over Florida hardwoods like hickory, red oak, or buttonwood. In the years after World War II, many of these enterprising fisherman started selling some of their catch to locals and tourists alike along the roadsides.

By the 1980s, though, the mullet populations were dwindling, exacerbated by a spike in demand for mullet roe from Asian markets, which drove prices up and sent armies of fishermen out onto the water. In 1995, the state of Florida banned the use of gill nets, and many of the fishermen who once netted big schools of mullet and smoked a little on the side turned to other lines of work.

Commercial mullet landings are now a quarter what they were before the net ban, and smoked mullet is getting harder to find. In the 1980s there at least 15 restaurants in Sarasota serving smoked mullet; by 2004, writers for Sarasota Magazine could find only one—Walt’s Fish Market and Restaurant (which still serves it today).

Consumer tastes have shifted, too, and diners increasingly shy away from darker, oilier fish on the bone in favor of leaner, thicker, lighter-flavored filets. Ted Peters Smoked Fish in St. Petersburg used to sell just two items: smoked mullet and smoked Spanish mackerel, but in recent years they added pricier salmon and mahi-mahi.

A True Local Delicacy

But visitors to Florida shouldn’t shy away from smoked mullet just because it’s unfamiliar. In fact, that’s precisely the reason that mullet matters so much today.

You can get New Orleans-style gumbo in Boston and Baltimore-style crab cakes in San Diego, but smoked mullet is one of those rare regional delicacies that can still be found almost exclusively where it originated. It’s also a splendid example of how a little-prized fish can be transformed into something delicious and wonderful through nothing more than smoke and time.

More than anything, smoked mullet offers a small taste of the fading world of old Florida—that brief period between the end of WWII and the opening of Disney World in 1971 when the automobile and post-war prosperity transformed the landscape of a once-rural state. Long before the corporate glitz of movie-themed amusement parks and chain restaurants, mullet shacks vied with alligator farms and fresh citrus stands for the dollars of families heading south for a week in the sun.

Back then, vacationers filled their car trunks with boxes of oranges or grapefruits to bring home as presents for family and friends, something no one would think of doing today. Perhaps instead we should load down our coolers or carry-on bags with dry ice and a couple of pounds of whole smoked mullet. It’s too wonderful of an American regional food tradition to let slip away.

Where to Find Smoked Mullet Today

Ted Peters Smoked Fish
In 1951, Ted Peters opened a small restaurant selling smoked mullet, German potato salad, and cold draft beer to the tourists heading out Pasadena Avenue to St. Petersburg Beach. They’re still at it today.
1350 Pasadena Avenue South, St. Petersburg

Walt’s Fish Market
Walt’s is a full service fish market with a large selection of local fish and shellfish, which they cook and serve in the adjoining restaurant and tiki bar. Each guest is greeted with a complimentary cup of smoked mullet dip with saltines to get them started.
4144 South Tamiami Trail, Sarasota

The Mullet Shack
On Saturday afternoons in Apollo Beach, a food trailer called the Mullet Shack opens for business, selling smoked mullet, fried mullet, mullet spread, and whole fresh mullet for customers who want to cook it themselves. In a throwback to the old tradition of roadside mullet stands, Steve Fagen and his son, Stephen, Jr., catch their fish in Tampa Bay on Fridays and smoke them Saturday morning so they’re ready for the lunchtime crowd.
Currently setting up at Green Nursery, 7075 North Highway 41, Apollo Beach

Skipper’s Smokehouse
Since 1980, Skipper’s Smokehouse has evolved from a small take-out smokehouse to a combination oyster bar and live music venue occupying a collection of ramshackle wooden buildings. You can enjoy a smoked mullet dinner indoors at the old wooden bar or outdoors on a picnic table beneath century-old live oaks.
910 Skipper Road, Tampa

Star Fish Company Dockside Restaurant
A wholesale and retail seafood market dating back to this 1920s, the Star Fish Company added a restaurant two decades ago where patrons can dine dockside on picnic tables overlooking the water. White cardboard boxes are filled with french fries and hushpuppies and the fish of your choice, including smoked mullet.
12306 46th Avenue West, Cortez

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On Miami’s Calle Oche, the busy throughway that traverses the heart of Little Havana, nestled between a cigar factory and Latin dance club, there’s a pastel blue building dedicated to Cuba’s favorite food: ice cream. In Havana, wolfing down 15 scoops of ice cream in about as many minutes is commonplace; that’s why ex-banker Suzy Batlle decided to open Azucar Ice Cream Company, Miami’s first store dedicated to Cuban spins on the frozen treat.

“The Latin people want their Latin food,” Batlle says, “and Cuban people love their ice cream.”

Miami has been a home to Cuban exiles since the 1960s, and there are plenty of places around Calle Oche to pick up bechamel- and ham-stuffed croquetas, guzzle a counter-top cafecito, or sit down to a towering frita sandwich. Though if you wanted a cone to keep you cool in the humid Magic City, there weren’t many options.

With a chalkboard menu of more than 50 rotating flavors, Azucar scoops all-American classics like mint chocolate chip and rum raisin, but you’d be remiss to step inside the shop and not pick out a distinctly Cuban flavor. More likely than not, that’ll come in form of the best-selling Abuela Maria—a vanilla base flecked with guava paste, cream cheese, and tea biscuit-like Maria cookies—that pays homage to a classic Cuban mid-afternoon snack. Or you could opt for a scoop of golden mantecado, the island’s version of French vanilla that Batlle put on the menu after men filtered in from Domino Park one afternoon, asking her if she could please supply them their favorite childhood flavor—one she had never heard of. But with her degrees from Penn State’s Ice Cream Short Course and St. Louis’ Frozen Dessert Institute, she got to work.

The research paid off. Once late afternoon hits in the shop, Batlle prioritizes testing new flavors, even though the shop always has a steady influx of customers. Mantecado—a term that refers to crumbly, buttery cookies but also a vanilla-though-not-quite-plain vanilla ice cream—was the first. The secret lied in the addition of nutmeg and cinnamon, lending a standard vanilla base more fragrance and nuance, which she found digging through old recipes and interviewing the domino players about how the ice cream should taste.

“I think the men really just liked watching me walk back and forth, though, which I did 20 times a day,” she jokes. But today, mantecado is among the shop’s most popular flavors.

For Batlle, the ritual of eating ice cream started in her early childhood—she remembers eating it every night after dinner. While she’ll argue that all Cubans love their ice cream, the penchant for turning high-fat dairy from liquid to solid actually runs in her family. Because her grandfather worked as a sugar mill engineer, he spent a good deal of time in his native Cuba, but also all over South America. As a consequence her grandmother did a lot of traveling as well, discovering local fruits in unknown lands, and because of that dessert-making penchant, she used them to make ice cream. With ripe fruits like ruby-red guava, custardy mamey, and papaya, she didn’t even need to add sugar.

Battle is also big on far-flung fruit at her little Havana shop, and she’ll continue the practice when she opens two new stores in 2017. She gets avocados, beets, plantains, and the majority of her produce from markets in Homestead, even though it costs her “a fortune”—though she says the trouble to seek out extra-ripe quality fruit makes a difference, as she doesn’t need to add sugar to many of her fruit flavors. While some flavors, like her quatro leches (the fourth leche is the ice cream itself) aren’t dependent on produce, many of Azucar’s daily offerings highlight whatever Batlle found to be extraordinarily ripe at the farmers’ market.

“I’ll buy 1,000 pounds of mamey at a time,” she says. “And if I see beautiful limes, I’ll make something with limes.”

Which is, perhaps, the best way to answer the core question that might be nagging you: what is Cuban ice cream? If you Google this question, you won’t find any recipe formulas; if you ask Batlle, she’ll laugh. Unlike the technical differences between custard, Philly ice cream, or gelato, there is no ingredient-plus-ingredient-equals-Cuban-ice-cream standard. Instead, what makes an ice cream Cuban, if you ask Batlle, is a prioritization of Cuban fruits and flavors—mantecado over vanilla, platanos maduros over strawberry.

Or, as she may put more simply: “What makes an ice cream Cuban is that I’m Cuban and I make it.”

Read more stories from Ladies First, a column about people doing amazing things in the food world who happen to be women »

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Way out in Miami’s western Flagami neighborhood, far from the activated almond milk-selling vendors in Coconut Grove’s organic market and South Beach’s tourist-packed Lincoln Road Mall, lies the one the market an outsider is most likely to miss, but the one that definitely shouldn’t be ignored: El Palacio de los Jugos.

An open-air food market that attracts everyone from Ferran Adrià to Martha Stewart to 22-year-old Midwestern girls like myself, El Palacio de los Jugos translates to “The Palace of Juices” but it’s more of a palace of every edible Latin good. Crowds of people squeeze through narrow aisles to get to the various food stands, calling to the cashiers in Spanish and pointing to fatty chicharrones, mounds of pea-flecked arroz amarillo, and stewed ropa vieja. In the middle of the market, a man with a shopping cart full of green coconuts hacks off their tops, seemingly carelessly but always precisely, and inserts a straw into the cavity, passing them off to customers waving dollar bills. It’s a spectacle but no one cheers.

Upon arriving, I wandered for half an hour and I still felt like I hadn’t seen it all. It’s not a big area, but food stands with piles of fruit and stacks of dulce de leche are all packed together; it’s overwhelming like a multi-page restaurant menu, but all the dishes are right in front of you, only a few dollars and minutes away. Surrounded by foods I didn’t recognize and a language I don’t speak, I could do nothing but follow my instincts.

Before deciding on what I wanted to eat, I went up to the central juice stand and went for mamey, the custardy, starchy fruit that produces a red-orange nectar that tastes like a cross between sweet potato and papaya. It was musty, thick, and unlike any juice I’d ever known, but one of the best I’d ever had.

And after spending much time deliberating what food I wanted, at the Pescado y Mariscos stand, I ordered seafood paella and plátanos, and the woman behind the counter piled scoop after scoop into a styrofoam box, which bent under the weight. The total: $8, and enough food to stretch for two or three meals.

As I dug into the paella, my fork hit various concealed bits of seafood: clams, shrimp, half a whole fish, squid. The experience was reminiscent of digging through a sandbox and finding a shovel, except the shovel was a pink filet of salmon.

El Palacio de los Jugos
5721 W Flagler St., Miami (plus seven other locations)
(305) 262-0070

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