January 18, 2008--Friday in Florida: Snowbirding

We chose to winter in Delray Beach because, how to put this delicately, we didn’t want to be in a town full of alta cockas. Though I am approaching that stage in life—some would say I have already arrived—we wanted to sun and frolic amidst a diverse crowd. You know, people who want to wait until at least 7:00 to have dinner and don’t take home the leftovers in doggie bags. Or worse, the next day they actually eat the night-before’s lamb chop and half a baked potato.

Our first day here went even better than expected. Though hungry by 6:30, we forced ourselves to hold out until 8:00 before venturing into town in search of Veri Amici, a place we had read about that purportedly had “New-York quality” Italian food, light on the red sauce, and allegedly served an “international crowd.” About the latter, we had low expectations—this is Florida after all and we are at least 50 miles north of Miami Beach where things are decidedly Euro.

But we weren’t worried about finding a table. Rather, we harbored concerns that by the time we got there, in spite of what we had heard about Delray, the place would be closing up after all the early-bird seekers had trundled off clutching their Styrofoam take-out boxes. So you can only imagine that Rona and I were delighted—I think we exchanged high-fives—to see almost all the tables occupied. Some even with diners who still had menus in their hands! And virtually all the others had bottles of wine on their tables—some actually decanted.

The host greeted us in real, as opposed to restaurant Italian and the evening breeze, which had freshened, wafted various aromas our way from the kitchen, all of which suggesting that some real cooking was going on. Buena sera, Buena sera indeed.

We followed Alfredo (he had introduced himself) as he threaded his way through the closely-spaced tables that were arranged under a sprawling red awning more of a type familiar to a Mediterranean waterfront restaurante than to a back street in a Florida beach town. And as we trailed behind him, feeling better and better about our choice of places to rent and dine, we noted that at at least half the tables the conversations were in boisterous Italian. With things going this well after less than 24 hours on the ground here, I winked at Rona and said, “Maybe tomorrow we should visit some real estate agents to see what might be for sale.”

Ever practical, she said, “Let’s first see how good the food is.” But I still took this as a hopeful sign—the town had passed muster, the diversity of the crowd, and the cosmopolitan lateness of the hour; now all that was required to make our dreams come true were a good vitello tonnato, rack of lamb lightly glazed with honey and fresh mint, and my capellini piselli. It turned out to be so perfectly al dente, which is not easy to achieve with delicate capellini, that I felt tears of culinary joy welling in my eyes.

Everything was so divine, including the Baby Tuscan wine, that Rona, unprompted, said, “I wish we had a place this good and reasonably priced, back in New York.” So when we finished, we drove slowly down Delray’s main street making note of where the brokers had their offices (I spotted a Sotheby’s, Rona a Prudential). If there wasn’t a place this good and reasonably priced in our downtown neighborhood, well then maybe, just maybe . . .

Even the moon had risen, revealing its initial crescent, to guide us home; and we took this too to be a good sign and an affirmation of our choice of place to over-winter.

I must, though, in the spirit of total disclosure, in spite of how good we were feeling about the situation and ourselves and the moon, that nestled at Rona’s feet as we drove back to our place on the beach, was a Styrofoam box in which there were three left-over, still honey-glazed lamb chops (the portion had been a very generous seven) which Alfredo, ignoring our protests, had insisted on packing up for us.

“This is Florida after all,” Rona and I had said to each other, peering lovingly into each other’s eyes while lingering over the last sips of our Tuscan, and even at a place as sophisticated as Veri Amici they can’t help themselves. You know, When in Rome . . . And, we added, we don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Alfredo—we plan to return there for dinner, undoubtedly frequently, maybe even tomorrow, since we do not cook—we are actually “famous” among some of our New York friends since when there in a week we literally eat all 21of our meals in restaurants. We even had had our gas service disconnected! We want Alfredo to think well of us. Veri Amici does not take reservations for parties of fewer than six and we want to be able to depend upon him to take care of us when we show up on short notice. Over the years, we have learned that in addition to having a good internist who you can call at all hours, and a reliable personal trainer, it’s essential to get on well with key maitre d’s.

So, with the soothing sound of the nearby surf and the gentle rattle of the Trade Winds shaking the fronds of the palms surrounding our little hideaway, we both slept as if we had been transported back to childhood. We didn’t even turn on the 11:00 o’clock news, wanting to avoid anything that might break the spell that had settled over us—the results of the evening’s Republican candidates’ debate and other aggravation would have to wait for the morning. Also, I was trying to keep my head clear so I could remember which real estate agents’ offices looked most promising—which were likely to have the kind of places listed that we were already imaging ourselves inhabiting.

“I think, don’t you,” I offered, “that we should insist on seeing places that are situated as is our current rental? Close enough to the beach so we don’t have to put on shoes after waking in the morning and heading off, with a cup of coffee in hand, for our first beach walk of the day?”

And to that Rona, added, well, in fact nothing. Because all I could hear were the sounds of her contented, rhythmic breathing. Though I couldn’t see her face I knew she was smiling in her sleep and also that I was soon be joining her. Yes, I thought to myself, a smile beginning, a place just like this one. But with a second bedroom? That would be good. Someplace to . . . .

* * *

True to our New York form, after waking and taking that first barefoot walk--without coffee since there was only instant in the house--we headed to town to have breakfast at the Green Owl, a modest place we had noticed when we first arrived. It had the feel of being our kind of place—a luncheonette, really, that looked as if it had been there unchanged since at least the 1950s. And so it turned out to be.

We of course joined the “regulars” at the horseshoe-shaped counter—typically in places of this kind where the most interesting action takes place between and among customers and waitresses—and, pretending that we did not need menus so as to appear that we were returning to familiar territory, we both ordered scrambled eggs (soft) with extra-crisp bacon. Yes, with the potatoes we added, when asked, with a smile. Among other things we wanted to establish ourselves as customers who would order real food—not just a couple of cups of coffee—and thus would not only be running up a big check but would also likely be generous tippers. If we wanted to fit in and be welcomed, we should make it worth their while. This is, among other things, a tourist town where the shops and service workers need to do well during the season to help tide them over through the rest of the year. In our small way, we wanted to support that local economy. And, confessedly, make an impression.

While waiting for the eggs to arrive we tried to listen in on some of the banter that is characteristic of places such as the Green Owl, which serve more as gathering places every morning for a cross section of town worthies than a place for fine food. We quickly understood that there was a table by the window that was “reserved” for the former mayor and his cronies. Another table, on the other side of the room was set aside for the current mayor and whichever of his staff or supporters were allowed to join him. But beyond those provisions for the political elites and their hangers-on, the rest of the Green Owl seemed remarkable democratic—Sit wherever you want was the mantra the flitting waitresses sang out to all who arrived. Us included. Where a local lawyer was as likely to be perched next to the guy who runs the body shop as he is to a retired Fortune 500 CEO. Our kind of place indeed. And what eggs! Soft as we had ordered them and surrounded by clearly homemade crackling hash browns.

On the stool to my right was a former Republican congressman from Delaware who was whispering stories about Spiro Agnew. From the little that I was able to overhear it sounded that if he were willing to tell all the stories he knew in his memoirs he would be able to secure quite an advance from a publisher. I was so certain of that that I was tempted to offer to represent him, or ghostwrite it; but thankfully I was quickly restrained from doing so by Rona who jabbed me in the side when she sensed I was about to interject myself into the gossip he was sharing with his golfing partner and make a impetuous fool of myself. It was as if she were saying, We’ve been here less than 36 hours. Try to control yourself. I know you’re excited. But not everyone is from New York. Or Jewish. You wanted that, remember? Diversity. Not to be where there are only New Yorkers. And, remember, we’re in the South. Things move more slowly. The good news is that we’re here for two months. We’ll have plenty of time for everything.

And Rona also had an interesting counter companion. The substantial and well-tanned man on her left was a local real estate developer who was telling anyone willing to listen that no one should despair, he has seen downturns like this in the market before, and was investing heavily in new projects on the assumption that it is at these very times, if one has the capital, that it’s smart to buy up whatever you can so as to catch the crest of the next wave—“It’s the story of Florida,” he said. And added, with a wink in Rona’s direction as well as a glance down her neckline, “And of America.”

Seeing this as another sign confirming the rightness of our initial impressions of Delray and the fancies of the night before, Rona and I exchanged looks that said, Maybe we should in fact do some real estate shopping. What with the Veri Amici, the Green Owl, the invigoration of the walk on the beach, and a good real estate climate, maybe we should, maybe we just should take the plunge.

“But before we do,” Rona said, as if she had read my mind, “we need to stock up the house. So let’s go to Publix and do some shopping. As we said, if we’re considering living in a different way we should do some eating in. Even some cooking. How does that sound to you?”

“Excellent,” I bubbled, “You know I used to love to cook. Remember the meatloaf I used to make? From a Marcella Hazan recipe. But, yes, as we said, in Florida things will be different. So let’s make sure the gas is turned on at the house. We can’t go to Veri Amici every night.”

“It’s electric,” Rona said.

“What’s electric?”

“The stove,” she smiled, and I embraced her. Things can’t get any better than this.

To be continued on Monday . . .