So, I have decided to claim my new favorite restaurant in Miami. Coconut Grove, to be exact. Right in the heart of the skin-tight, neon-colored clothes and cut-off shorts sits a glitzed out diamond (well, maybe a CZ) in the rough. We went to Lulu for brunch, sipped sweating glasses of crisp Prosecco (really, we gulped so that every sip could actually stay cold because it’s hotter than the surface of the sun there right now) and indulging in some of the quirkiest breakfast renditions I’ve had to date. My omelet came out green, but simply delicious with the rich and unexpected combo of pesto and parmesan cheese. Sounds like an Italian family dinner, right? But no, it was just freaking amazing. So amazing, that I think I ate the foot-long egg burrito in four bites, but I can’t say without a doubt, because it really went by too fast. And to be honest, it was so hot that really I just remember not being able to sit my napkin in my lap because it kept sticking to my legs. (yes, I know, I am making a face too).
This also marked the first restaurant meal that I ordered a bagel instead of toast. (Note that I often order bagels, but usually toast at a sit-down place is just out of this world. They didn’t offer rye, though). It was the size of a dinner plate and I took it down without a second thought. In addition, I managed to snag a few of the crisply delicious shoestring fries off Carole’s plate, a roasty toasty potato off of my mom’s and threw in a couple pieces of my fruit to round out this semi balanced meal.
One would say that I worked up a sweat with how fast and much I ate, but because we were inside a human greenhouse, the true origin of my perspiration cannot be determined.
It’s always fun to find a place that serves great breakfast. Especially since I am not really a fan to begin with. I’d rather eat pizza or dessert any day than have pancakes for dinner and eggs made by anyone but me usually gross me out to the core–but a gem like this makes an imprint on the nugget of my brain that is culinary-crazed and always hungry. And because Carole, or my mom will surely call me out if I don’t say it, the experience was enhanced farther due to our super-cute, non-Miami waiter with charming manners, the up-close-and-personal with Mr. Miami Heat himself (the coach, not Lebron) and the constant eye candy for my undeniable staring dysfunction. (Sweaty butt cracks–some thonged, others not, greasy hair that puts a new meaning to “heat wave,” and women that are competing with their men for beefiest member of the relationship.) I know I am generalizing here, but not by much.
A special thanks to Carole for her fantastic visual tour of the city, through rain, shine or wind.