Miami anecdote #283

In which I've been pronouncing the lunch place I go to wrong all this time

Earlier today, I met up with a friend for lunch at a cute little spot on Biscayne. And when I say “cute,” I don’t necessarily mean that to be cliche, but it’s one of those places where the exterior is pastel, and all salads have some sort of fruit in it, so all the food is super Instagrammable. That’s Miami: one big Instagram stock photo of beautiful people drinking cocktails to dancing to tropical house in a scene full of warm colors. The lunch itself was fine; good conversation, the salad had goat cheese, the couple the table over had their giant show dog lying on a blanket beneath them, one of those designer breeds that look like a poodle was put through a hormone injection program. I later learned the woman - sun hat, summer dress, and all - was feeding the dog scraps of raw meat. I’m going to assume she brought it from home, and didn’t, you know, demand raw meat from the kitchen to feed to her dog laying on the floor.

I wouldn’t be surprised if she did, though. Peak Miami, right t…