Sunday, December 16, 2007
I want to open a restaurant on South Beach called Manola's Meatballs. If I did, would you come and eat? All this talk about about food got me thinking that Jeffrey Chowderhead of Vagina Grill Management should consider investing in this deep-fried golden opportunity.
Hmm, I'm trying to think of a place with Paula Deen hospitality minus a Jerry Springer brawl. Good gourmet food that doesn't require a bank loan to afford, yet would appeal to the palate of Mario Batali. I'd love the hostess to be Anthony Bourdain in drag and I'd want Andrew Zimmerman to be the sommelier of offal. A place where a red carpet bouncer doesn't let anyone in with a BMI under 18 yet doesn't feed Mr. Creosote his last wafer-thin mint. A restaurant where cornstarch and lard are used in moderation. A hot spot that's not so hot -- kind of like McBarton G -- fast food with a xanax edge, the kind of thing Paris Hilton would eat in prison, if she were incarcerated for not buying enough art work at Art Basel. In short, a festive gathering place in between my Cuban mother's hospitality and the slickness of the Ritz, where "shut up and eat" is the motto and most importantly, no pretentious bullshit. Everybody's a celebrity at Manola's Meatballs -- we'll even say that with a hot-red neon sign!
Oh, I exaggerate! What would us regular schmucks love in a South Beach restaurant, besides meatballs? I'm serious! Leave comments.
tags: south beach, restaurant