D-Dog House – Miami

Like so many singles nights in steamy Miami, my night started at a happy hour and ended in D-Doghouse. Unlike most people, I actually chose to end up there. I imagine most people commit a ridiculous blunder of hour-long happiness. That’s circumlocution for “I did not get drunk and do something stupid”.

They call Miami the “gateway to the Americas”, and I couldn’t agree more. So in the spirit of Miami, I ended my night with a Columbian. A Columbian Dog. I know what you were thinking. It was not that kind of happy hour. The Columbian Dog is a cheesy sauce-n-slaw-drenched hot mess which takes at least 3 bites to unearth the huge slice of bacon wrapped around a hotdog. A tiny, delicate, cracked-into-a-Sapporo-by-Japanese-businessmen-in-designer-suits quail egg tops if off, a ludicrous little blip of Humpty Dumpty on a wall of coleslaw.

The Pari is way better than sub-par. It’s the same thing as the Columbian Dog except it’s vegetarian and the best cold coleslaw –sloppy Joe I’ve ever had.

I wouldn’t begin a night at D-Doghouse. It’s definitely the kind of food that tastes better at the end of a night, and the flavor is undoubtedly positively correlated with the lateness of the night. Wait as long (and happily) as you can. That shouldn’t be hard in Miami.

Ghastly Gigi – Miami

When it comes to food, I’ve savored the good, I’ve sampled the bad, and I’ll try the ugly at least once. I’ve broken into a baguette warm from a Parisian oven, and I’ve broken bread with people all over the world. I’ve bitten into buffalo mozzarella in the heart of Tuscany, and I’ve pecked at Peking duck in the restaurant of its birth. Some say I’ve sampled some of the best things on earth while others wrinkle their noses and say I’ve supped with savages. But I’m hardly a braggart. I tell you this so that you comprehend the full meaning when I declare Gigi the worst restaurant I’ve ever visited.

This Midtown establishment was declared to be tasty and reasonably priced by most Yelpers. But there is nothing reasonable about charging for a bottle of tap water…per person. I understand that it’s filtered water, but I need a filter for my mouth more than I need one for my water. This is Miami, not Mexico.

Guard your water with your life. Mine was stolen off my table with no reasonable explanation when I went to wash my hands. My food was sitting on the table, but my water was nowhere to be found. It took 20 minutes, two reminders, and dehydration-induced delirium to get more water. It was 80 degrees outside.

I started with my comfort food. Pork Buns are the equivalent of the bodies of male soccer players - I’ve never seen one I don’t like. Until I tried the pork buns at Gigi. I guess the dry shreds of tasteless pork were a welcome contrast to Miami’s humidity.

When I was 12 years old, I was diagnosed with an overbite. That’s 2 years of expensive dental work, some of which went down the drain after I found bones in the last two of my five slices of Hamachi. Hamachi is yellowtail, but my server didn’t actually know that. So I had my five rubbery slices of lukewarm raw yellowtail on a bed of radioactive sweet potato. Though I’ve never bitten into the tread of a well-worn truck tire, this dish gives me a pretty good idea of what that would taste like. The bones even looked like pebbles after I dislodged one from my gums. I complained about the bones and was told that “some cuts have bone. It comes like that”. Do not order this dish unless you and your dentist have a serious score to settle.

I’m no expert on how to run a restaurant, and I can’t begin to comment on those challenges. But I assume it’s wise to settle the bill before the customer dies of old age. I gave my card to the server before I got the check because I had already waited so long. Big mistake. I was charged $15 for the $14 hamachi. My server snapped, “SIGH…I’ll ask” and glared at me. I said forget it and left. This is the first time I’ve ever paid a restaurant to let me leave.

Staying with family in rural China, ordering andouille in France, tasting Thailand’s street food, and chewing on Chinese street-corner skewers has given me a taste of the good, the grotesque, and both. Accordingly, I’ve recovered unscathed from bi-annual episodes of food poisoning, and I maintain that every episode of food poisoning combined was better than this one meal at Gigi. The food is terrible, and the prices are an abominable. The service is the worst I’ve ever experienced, and I can’t think of any restaurant that fails as miserably as this one.