in Sarasota, a man who knows as much about Italian wine as
anyone I know. And, so what? His enthusiasm is immeasurable,
Homeric in scale. This is his lair.This is Andrea himself; I chose a photo that still leaves
some of his irrepressible energy to the imagination.So little in Florida is predictable to the outsider; Andrea
in a strip mall on a wide road in Sarasota. Similarly, in
a narrow storefront off Calle Ocho in Miami, Ozzy's domain.
Twenty Priorats to choose from and coffee you would cover
half the city for. In Fort Myers is a restaurant suffused by the personalities
of its two chefs. Passion is a pale, washed-out word for what
they bring. Entering their restaurant is somehow a combination
of coming home and being captured and held hostage.Tampa has a pirate prince. Chef-fisherman himself, he takes
you to the new restaurants of aspiring chefs, who open just
for you and him. His reputation is unparalleled; his modesty
and generosity dumbfound. He drives a van home from fancy
dinners—but not in some show of false modesty or blue collar
affectation. He lives his his own history every day and leaves
nothing behind—including a vehicle always able to move food
and wares, deliver fish, cater a wake.In the middle of old Pensacola, a Babylonian city of happy
pleasure. It is so large and varied that is has neighborhoods
within it, but each one is friendly, full of happy denizens,
who welcome a stranger with warmth.
One hesitates to speak too much about a single
place. But Florida is central to the commercial success of this
enterprise—who would have thought that this state would have a
rapid and so far unquenchable thirst for (what one empero-puveyor
of fancy steak and fancier cabernet would call) fucked-up Sauvignon
Blanc? And in what way is Florida a single place? It is not vast
like Texas, but it spans what feel like several countries; certainly
3 or four cultures.
There is evidently no soil in Florida. An impenetrable shelf of
limestone that ends in sand at the shore and sometimes has water
standing on it, and sometimes the shallow roots of palms. Yet the
place feels oddly deep to me. I am moved by the warmth, enthusiasm,
and frienship I have felt. I am moved by unstinting and instant
hospitality everywhere from Grayton Beah to Calle Ocho. The depth
of a secure and welcoming harbor.
