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  • Maass Restaurant at Four Seasons, Fort Lauderdale

    “Can MAASS deliver a Michelin-level experience in the main dining room, or is the magic reserved for the Chef’s Counter?

    Fort Lauderdale has no shortage of expensive restaurants competing for attention. Beautiful dining rooms, ambitious menus, and eye-watering wine lists have become almost expected at the highest end of the market. What separates MAASS is that it begins with the confidence of a restaurant that knows exactly what it wants to be.

    From the moment you arrive, the details are largely correct. The room is elegant without feeling stuffy, the service polished without being intrusive, and the opening courses demonstrate the kind of creativity and technical skill that have made MAASS one of the most talked-about dining destinations in South Florida.

    Regrettably, while the evening began with the promise of something exceptional, it never quite maintained that trajectory. The experience felt as though it was building toward a memorable finish, only to lose focus when it mattered most.

    The à la carte menu is one of MAASS’s strongest assets. The selections are thoughtful, creative, and demonstrate a willingness to move beyond the predictable offerings found at many luxury hotel restaurants. Early in the evening, the kitchen showed flashes of the talent and precision that have helped establish MAASS as one of Fort Lauderdale’s most talked-about dining destinations.

    Sadly, one of the night’s most expensive dishes became a lesson in inconsistency.

    A guest at our table ordered the Wagyu steak, a selection carrying a price tag of approximately $200. At that level, expectations are understandably high. The steak arrived cooked to the requested temperature, but the first few bites immediately revealed a problem. While visually appealing, the meat was remarkably tough. Cutting through it required far more effort than should ever be necessary for a premium Wagyu offering, and chewing it proved equally disappointing. Temperature alone cannot save a steak when the eating experience itself falls short.

    To the restaurant’s credit, the staff responded promptly and professionally when the issue was brought to their attention. The steak was removed without hesitation, and a replacement arrived quickly.

    Unfortunately, the second attempt introduced a different problem. While the first steak was cooked to the correct temperature but lacked tenderness, the replacement arrived noticeably undercooked. Ordered medium rare, it presented much closer to rare. Even more puzzling was that it appeared entirely different from the original dish. The presentation, texture, and overall appearance suggested a different preparation method altogether, leaving us wondering whether we were even looking at the same cut of meat.

    The replacement was generously covered with a red wine reduction that, while flavorful, seemed to mask rather than complement the steak itself. By this point, the focus had shifted from enjoying one of the restaurant’s signature luxury offerings to trying to understand why two versions of the same $200 dish could be so dramatically different.

    What made the experience frustrating was not the initial mistake. Even the best restaurants occasionally miss the mark. Rather, it was the inability to deliver consistency on a dish that should represent the very best the kitchen has to offer. At this level of dining, guests are not simply paying for ingredients; they are paying for execution. On this particular evening, the Wagyu steak never quite lived up to either its reputation or its price.

    The inconsistencies were not limited to the kitchen.

    One of the hallmarks of truly exceptional dining is that every detail feels intentional. Early in the meal, small tasting plates were delivered to the table so guests could sample one another’s dishes. It was a thoughtful touch and exactly the sort of detail one expects from a restaurant operating at this level. Oddly, shortly afterward those plates disappeared without explanation. It was a minor issue in the grand scheme of the evening, but it left us wondering why they had been provided in the first place. The gesture suggested a level of attentiveness that was never fully carried through.

    The wine program presented a similar contradiction.

    To MAASS’s credit, many of the wines by the glass were reasonably priced, particularly considering the restaurant’s luxury positioning and Four Seasons address. The bottle list, however, told a different story. Our selection, priced at approximately $400, felt difficult to justify relative to its market value and pedigree. While premium markups are expected in fine dining, guests are generally willing to pay them when the wine itself feels worthy of the investment.

    The most striking example was a bottle of Opus One, one of my personal favorites. Seeing it offered was encouraging. Seeing it listed at roughly $1,900 was another matter entirely. Every restaurant has the right to determine its pricing strategy, but at that level the markup felt less like a reflection of rarity and more like a test of how much guests were willing to spend.

    What made the pricing stand out even more was the contrast with the food menu. The à la carte offerings were, for the most part, surprisingly fair. Many dishes felt appropriately priced for the quality of ingredients, creativity, and overall experience. The wine list, however, seemed to operate under a different philosophy entirely.

    None of these issues alone would define an evening. Yet when combined with the inconsistencies surrounding one of the restaurant’s signature premium dishes, they contributed to a lingering sense that MAASS came very close to delivering a truly exceptional experience but never quite sustained it through the final course

    Final Thoughts

    I genuinely wanted to love MAASS.

    I was excited to introduce friends to one of Fort Lauderdale’s most talked-about restaurants. The menu was thoughtful, the room beautiful, and the evening began with all the signs of something special.

    What disappointed me was not any single mistake, but the gradual erosion of confidence as the night unfolded. A poorly executed signature dish, several service missteps, and a wine program that felt disconnected from the otherwise fair pricing of the food left the experience falling short of its potential.

    More than anything, I left feeling as though I had let my guests down by choosing the restaurant. In reality, it felt as though MAASS had let me down.

    Will I return? Maybe. There is clearly talent here, and perhaps this was simply an off night. But first impressions matter, and it is difficult to recapture the excitement that existed before that first visit.

    In the end, MAASS wasn’t a bad experience. In many ways, that makes it more disappointing. It came close to being exceptional—and close, in this case, wasn’t quite enough.

  • The Truth About Gay Life in Fort Lauderdale (What No One Tells You)

    “Everyone thinks Fort Lauderdale is paradise…”

    Sun. Beaches. Endless summer. A place where you’re supposed to feel free, confident, and surrounded by people who get it.

    And then there’s Wilton Manors—the center of it all. The place everyone hears about. The place that, from the outside, looks like the answer.

    For years—like a lot of people—I would come here for a few days and think: this is it. This is where everything just works. Where life feels easier, people seem more open, and somehow… better.

    And for a while, it does.

    But 25 years later, what once felt exciting—almost like a spectacle—starts to feel… normal.

    Familiar. Predictable.

    I mean, where else can you be out at 7 a.m. and see a seven-foot drag queen, fully done, sitting at a bus stop like it’s just another Tuesday?

    The dance floors. The late nights. The constant rotation of personalities and identities—every version of the scene you can imagine, all packed into one place.

    And that’s the thing… whatever you’re looking for, you can probably find it here.

    The real question is—how long before finding it stops feeling like something special?

    When everything is available—all the time—something shifts.

    Access becomes expectation.
    Attention gets shorter.
    And connection? That starts to change too.

    When there’s always another option, people become easier to replace—and easier to forget.

    Effort drops.
    Conversations stay surface-level.
    Everything starts to feel… temporary.

    And that’s when it hits you—this isn’t just a lifestyle anymore, it’s a cycle.

    Always moving. Always looking. Always onto the next thing.

    But at some point, you have to ask—where does it actually lead?

    Because when everything is available, all the time…
    how do you hold onto anything that matters?

    With all that said, I’ve had more than a few encounters—and I call them that for a reason.

    At the time, each one felt like it could be something real. Like maybe this was the right person.

    But more often than not, what starts as excitement slowly fades into something else. Not because it was wrong… but because something new, or different, or just slightly more appealing comes along.

    There’s always someone more interesting.
    Someone with more to offer.
    Someone better looking.

    And that’s the reality most people don’t talk about.

    But you do learn from it.

    If anything, you learn to protect yourself—to keep your guard up. But at the same time, you also have to figure out when it’s worth lowering it, even just a little, and taking a real chance.

    Living here isn’t the problem. It’s just a place where everything is amplified.

    And if you don’t know what you’re looking for—or you’re not willing to slow down and recognize something real when it’s in front of you—it’s easy to get caught in the cycle.

    But if you can find that balance—between protecting yourself and still being open to something genuine—then maybe this place can actually become what you thought it was in the beginning.

    Because at some point, your perspective shifts.

    You stop chasing everything.
    You stop reacting to every distraction.

    And you start seeing the city for what it really is

    “Not perfect. Not fake. Just what it is.”

    .

  • BIG CITY TAVERN, Las Olas

    NOT SO BIG CITY ANY LONGER!

    Big City Tavern has been a fixture on Las Olas since 2001, but walking in today feels a bit like stepping into a restaurant frozen in time. The dark wood, brick walls, oversized booths and long bar that once gave it the feel of a classic New York or Chicago tavern now seem tired rather than timeless. Very little appears to have been updated since it opened, and the space has lost much of the energy and charm that originally made it one of Las Olas Boulevard’s signature spots.

    When Big City Tavern first opened, the concept was fresh for Fort Lauderdale. It brought an urban tavern atmosphere to Las Olas at a time when the area was just beginning to become a dining destination. The original idea was to create a bustling neighborhood restaurant with late-night service, comfort food, a serious beer list and the kind of lively atmosphere you would expect to find in a major city.

    In its early years, Big City Tavern stood out for dishes like lobster macaroni and cheese, burgers, steaks, late-night pizza and hearty American tavern fare. Combined with one of the better beer selections in Broward County, it became a destination and helped define the early Las Olas restaurant scene.

    Unfortunately, while Las Olas has evolved, Big City Tavern feels as though it has not. What once felt warm and classic now comes across as worn and dated. The concept is still there beneath the surface, but without meaningful updates, the restaurant no longer has the same appeal or character that made it special when it first opened.

    So on to the menu, While the Rigatoni Bolognese used to be one of my favorite things on the menu, somewhere along the way it appears to have taken a wrong turn and ended up in the canned pasta aisle. Years ago it was rich, hearty and tasted like the kind of sauce that had been lovingly simmered all afternoon. Now it tastes suspiciously like someone opened a family-size can of Chef Boyardee, added a sprinkle of parsley and hoped no one would notice.

    The sauce was oddly sweet, the meat had seemingly gone into witness protection, and the pasta was so overcooked it looked like it had already given up on life. I kept taking bites hoping it would improve, mostly because I was trying to justify the nostalgia. By the end, I felt less like I was eating dinner on Las Olas and more like I was reliving a disappointing childhood lunch from 1987.

    Still, I tried to give Big City Tavern the benefit of the doubt. Everyone has an off night. Maybe the chef was distracted. Maybe Mercury was in retrograde. Maybe someone accidentally switched the bolognese with SpaghettiOs.

    So on my next visit, determined to be fair, I ordered the Margherita pizza. At $20.50, I expected at least a little romance. Maybe not an authentic pizza from Naples, but certainly something better than what arrived.

    What came to the table looked like a pizza that had been assembled by someone who had only heard pizza described over the phone. The crust was pale and floppy, the cheese slid off in one large sheet like a bad toupee in a windstorm, and the few lonely pieces of basil looked like they had been added as an afterthought moments before the plate left the kitchen.

    For twenty dollars, I was expecting artisan pizza. Instead, I got something that tasted like a frozen grocery store pizza that had gone through a difficult divorce. By the second slice, I was no longer disappointed—I was genuinely impressed that a restaurant could make a Margherita pizza feel this joyless.

    In the end, I truly hope Big City Tavern finds its way back to what made it special. There is still something there beneath the worn-out décor and tired menu—a reminder of the restaurant that once helped define Las Olas. The place is still packed, but these days it feels less like people are there because the food is great and more because Big City Tavern has become part of the Las Olas scene.

    Unfortunately, that seems to be true of many restaurants on Las Olas now. They are busy, they are loud, they are full of people taking photos and making sure everyone knows they are there—but somewhere along the way the food stopped being the main event. Las Olas has become more about being seen than eating well.

    Big City Tavern used to be one of those rare places that had both: a fun atmosphere and food worth coming back for. I hope they remember that before they become just another crowded restaurant surviving on nostalgia, location and tourists who do not know how much better it once was.

    As always, this is only one person’s opinion. But if no one is honest, nothing ever gets better. Reviews are not meant to tear places down—they are meant to remind restaurants of what made people love them in the first place. Big City Tavern was once one of those places, and that is exactly why its decline feels so disappointing. Sometimes the harshest criticism comes from the people who remember when it was truly great.

  • Apt 9F (Wilton Manors) FL

    Wanted to start with a little background on Apt 9F, The building has had a long history of success. The restaurant current owners are (Carol Moran and Nancy Goldwin. A small, “unpretentious” cocktail/wine + small plates spot.

    Before Apt 9F, that storefront was The Naked Grape Wine Bar.
    The Naked Grape was in business for eight years. started around 2007– 2019. Pretty much the same type concept and had great success.

    Carol Moran and Nancy Goldwin are longtime partners in both life and business, with a history in Wilton Manors that goes back decades. The two reportedly met more than 25 years ago while standing in line at a bank, and have since built several hospitality ventures together

    Carol Moran, a native Floridian with a lifelong career in hospitality, opened her first bar in Wilton Manors called Kicks Sports Bar in 1999.

    She later became widely known as the longtime owner of New Moon Bar, one of the best-known LGBTQ venues on Wilton Drive, which she ran for many years and helped establish as a staple of the local nightlife scene.

    During this period Moran also became active in the LGBTQ community and philanthropy in South Florida, supporting organizations such as Broward House, the Trevor Project, and the Pride Center at Equality Park.

    One of the more interesting things about Apt 9F is how they manage to produce a menu of small plates despite operating with what is essentially no traditional kitchen.

    The space itself was never designed to support a full commercial kitchen, so the menu leans heavily into small-plate dishes that can be assembled rather than cooked in the traditional sense. Think charcuterie boards, cheeses, spreads, and simple tapas-style items that focus more on presentation and pairing than on complex preparation.

    It’s a concept that fits the size and layout of the space. Instead of trying to force a full restaurant operation into a tiny footprint, the menu stays within the limits of what the location can realistically produce. The result is a food program that feels more like elevated bar snacks meant to complement cocktails and wine, rather than a full dinner destination.

    The charcuterie and cheese boards are probably the most recognizable offering — a rotating selection of cured meats, cheeses, olives, nuts, and spreads that pair well with wine or cocktails. It’s simple, but done in a way that encourages sharing and lingering at the table.

    Another popular choice is the baked brie, typically served warm with fruit preserves and toasted bread or crostini. It’s one of those comfort-style small plates that works well in the cozy setting the space is going for.

    The menu also leans into flatbreads and lighter tapas-style dishes, which are easy to produce in a compact prep space but still give guests something a little more substantial than bar snacks.

    For brunch, some regulars gravitate toward the quiche and lighter breakfast plates, which fit the same theme of simple, approachable food designed more for socializing than formal dining.

    One of the real highlights of Apt 9F is the outdoor seating along Wilton Drive. It’s the perfect place to sit back, enjoy a glass of wine or a cocktail, and watch the energy of the Drive go by. On a nice evening, the patio really becomes part of the experience — relaxed, social, and exactly what Wilton Manors is known for.

    You can also see the amount of hard work and personal attention that Carol and Nancy have put into creating the space. From the décor to the atmosphere, it feels intentional and welcoming — more like being invited into someone’s living room than walking into a typical bar or restaurant.

    I could probably go on with a longer story, but what matters most is this: Carol is genuinely kind, the concept is unique for the Drive, and it’s clear that a lot of heart went into making Apt 9F what it is today.

    Apt 9F is definitely a must-try on Wilton Drive, and once you visit, don’t be surprised if it becomes a regular stop. Great job, ladies — I look forward to my next visit.

  • Proof, Wilton Manors, FL

    Read This First

    What follows is honest commentary—sometimes humorous, sometimes blunt—but never meant to be malicious. I’m not here to tear down restaurants or root against them. Quite the opposite. I want to see them thrive.

    These observations come from experience and from paying attention. If something sounds critical, it’s because pretending everything is perfect doesn’t help owners improve or guests make informed choices. Consider this an outside perspective, shared with good intentions and a sense of humor.

    This week’s review comes with a mix of curiosity, history, and a few raised eyebrows.

    Before we even talk about what’s on the plate or in the glass, it’s worth starting with the building itself. Both Proof and its next-door neighbor Ethos were constructed years before either space ever had a restaurant concept in mind. And honestly? For their time, they were very well designed—clean lines, modern proportions, and a look that felt far more urban than suburban.

    You could even say they were a little… ahead of their time.
    Maybe too ahead of their time for Wilton Manors back then—a small town that hadn’t quite decided it was ready for sleek, progressive architecture that looked like it had wandered in from a much bigger city. These buildings showed up early, dressed for the future, while the neighborhood was still figuring out the present.

    In other words, they were doing modern before modern was cool around here—and they’ve been quietly waiting ever since for the right concepts to catch up.

    Over the years, this building has played host to a revolving cast of restaurant concepts—Pinche Taqueria, Mind Your Manors, Chef Nate’s, and now Proof. Think of it less as a single address and more as a culinary witness protection program.

    Each concept arrived with its own vision, menu, and optimism, hoping to be the one that finally made it stick. Some stayed briefly, some hung on longer, and all left their mark in one way or another. If these walls could talk, they’d probably ask for a cocktail and a nap.

    Now, Proof steps in as the latest chapter, carrying both the opportunity and the challenge of a space that’s clearly not short on personality—or history.

    I think it note worthy to bring this up so we don’t get confused, You may notice Proof proudly mentioning a “#1 Chef” award. For clarity, this was a reader-voted honor decided earlier in the year—before Proof ever opened—and not an award based on this kitchen or its current menu. It also helps to remember that at Bubbles & Pearls, the chef most people associated with the food was Chef Josie, which longtime locals will recall.

    So think of this less as a culinary trophy and more as a community popularity nod. Perfectly fine for marketing—but, as always, the real proof is what shows up on the plate.

    Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s talk about Proof itself—because credit is absolutely due where it’s earned. The interior transformation is very well done. The space finally feels intentional, polished, and comfortable in its own skin.

    The color palette works beautifully, the design feels cohesive, and—perhaps most importantly—it no longer looks like it’s waiting for its next identity crisis. Everything feels thought through, from the tones to the textures, with just enough warmth to invite you in and just enough style to remind you you’re somewhere a little special.

    For the first time in a long while, this building doesn’t feel like it’s auditioning for its next concept. It feels like it knows who it is.

    Now time to eat !!!

    Let’s talk about the menu. Proof offers several categories: Small Plates, My Size Plates, Salads, and—last but not least—“Feeling Fancy.”

    Now, don’t get me wrong, I love options as much as the next person. But this is where things started to get a little confusing. I found myself staring at a menu that, honestly, made no sense at all. Small Plate I understand. Salad—fair enough. But My Size Plate? Feeling Fancy? At that point I wasn’t ordering, I was taking a personality quiz.

    After much internal debate, I landed on the Naan-Stop Curry Mussels, which lives in the “My Size Plate” category. It arrived with a side of bite-size pita bread, and to be fair, the mussels themselves were very well prepared—perfectly cooked, nicely seasoned, and with just the right amount of curry.

    That said… when you label something “My Size Plate,” expectations are set. And I have to say, eight mussels does not feel like my size. It felt more like a suggestion. Or perhaps “My Size, If I Already Ate Somewhere Else.”

    Delicious? Yes. Filling? Not exactly.

    My dinner guest ordered the Dumpling Pot Pie, also from the “My Size Plate” section. What arrived, however, was not what either of us would reasonably describe as “my size.”

    Instead, sitting in the middle of the table was a tiny little baby ramekin, topped with a delicate puff pastry, looking like it had somehow wandered away from its family. The look on my guest’s face went beyond surprise—it was the quiet realization that expectations and reality had just had a very brief meeting.

    Honestly, it made you want to pick it up, cradle it, and reassure it. There it sat, all alone, doing its very best, but clearly overwhelmed by the title it had been given. If this was “My Size Plate,” then apparently my size is closer to espresso cup than dinner entrée.

    Charming? Yes. Comforting? Possibly. Filling? Not unless emotional nourishment counts.

    Both dishes were priced at $16 each, which on its own isn’t unreasonable. But when the plates arrived, it quickly became clear that what we’d ordered felt less like ” MY SIZE PLATE” and more like a very polite snack.

    The food was enjoyable—but the portions left us with that familiar feeling of having eaten just enough to still be hungry. The kind of hunger where you start looking at each other and silently agreeing that this was the pregame, and now we needed to go somewhere else for the main event.

    At that point, the question wasn’t what to order next—it was where.

    Final verdict

    If you’re “feeling fancy,” you’ll be happy—if you’re feeling hungry, eat first. because the real proof should come on the plate, not in the marketing.

    Until the next time ” Take these thought’s with a light heart playful view ” Wishing Proof and staff all the best with their new venture.

  • Wilton Manors, What’s not happening on the Drive

    Recently, I was out with a group of people when the conversation turned—almost inevitably—to the Drive. This certainly wasn’t the first time I’d heard it, and it wasn’t the first time I’d participated in it either.

    The same questions came up. Why don’t places seem to last? Why does the area feel like it has so much potential, yet never quite reaches it? Why do some restaurants open with excitement, only to quietly disappear months later?

    What struck me wasn’t just what people were saying—but how familiar the conversation felt. It’s one I’ve heard from locals, visitors, business owners, and even industry professionals who genuinely want Wilton Manors to succeed.

    And as someone whose blog is focused on the improvement of restaurants and bars throughout Fort Lauderdale and the surrounding areas, this keeps catching my attention. Not as gossip, but as a pattern. When the same concerns surface again and again, they’re usually pointing to something deeper than individual success or failure.

    That night didn’t spark a new idea—it confirmed one. If the same conversation keeps happening, it’s worth asking why. And more importantly, it’s worth exploring what could change.

    As many may remember, several years ago there was a major push to “bring life” to the Drive—positioning it as the true heart of the city. There were meetings, presentations, and plenty of talk about transformation. An office was even opened, complete with renderings that showed what the Drive could become.

    The ideas were ambitious and, at the time, exciting.

    Plans included vertical parking to solve long-standing access issues. The Drive was envisioned as one lane in each direction to slow traffic and encourage walkability. There was even discussion of a trolley running down the center, making it easy for people to move from one end of the corridor to the other—creating a flow similar to what works so well on Las Olas Boulevard.

    The goal was clear: turn Wilton Manors Drive into a destination, not just a pass through.

    Here is what happened for those of you that may not have lived here that long.

    Property Owners & Some Business Owners

    Not all—but enough to matter.

    Primary concerns:

    • Fear of losing direct, front-door car access
    • Worry that customers wouldn’t walk if parking wasn’t “right there”
    • Anxiety that construction would hurt already-thin margins
    • Skepticism that Wilton Manors could pull off a “Las Olas–style” transformation

    For many small operators living month-to-month, certainty beats vision. On-street parking felt tangible and immediate. Garages and trolleys felt abstract and risky.

    Wilton Manors didn’t lose the vision because it was wrong.
    It lost it because no one was willing—or able—to carry the risk long enough to execute it.

    Retention Needs to Matter More Than Ribbon Cuttings

    Right now, opening a new place gets attention. Keeping one open does not.

    That’s backwards.

    A serious retention strategy could include:

    • Temporary rent relief programs tied to longevity
    • City-backed promotional support for businesses that hit 12, 24, or 36 months
    • Fast-track permitting for operators expanding or reinvesting
    Sidewalk Life Creates Momentum

    If we want people to move up and down the Drive—from the bridge to Five Points and beyond—we need to open the street up.

    That means:

    • Covered sidewalk seating
    • Café-style restaurants and small boutique food concepts
    • Shops that spill visually onto the sidewalk
    • Outdoor lighting, planters, music, movement

    People don’t walk toward blank walls and closed doors.
    They walk toward life.

    This isn’t about massive restaurants or big-box concepts. It’s about small, well-designed spaces that invite curiosity. The kind of places where people stop “just to look” and end up staying. I can count on one hand the restaurant’s that have taken this indoor/outdoor feeling, and guess what. These are the place that are working.

    We Have to Stop Thinking This Is a “Gay-Only Town”

    This is an uncomfortable topic, but it has to be said.

    Wilton Manors is proudly inclusive—and that should never change. But inclusivity means welcoming everyone, not unintentionally narrowing the audience.

    I’ve been part of this conversation more times than I can count, and I hear the same thing over and over:

    “We want our little town to stay the same.”

    The truth is, that way of thinking is slowly killing it.

    A town that doesn’t evolve doesn’t stay charming—it stagnates. Diversity in restaurants, shops, hotels, offices, and visitors doesn’t dilute identity. It strengthens it.

    The Bottom Line

    If the Drive keeps treating restaurants and shops like isolated businesses instead of parts of a living street, closures will continue. If storefronts remain closed-off and uninviting, people will continue to drive through instead of linger.

    But if Wilton Manors embraces outdoor life, sidewalk energy, diverse concepts, and smart growth, the Drive can finally become what it’s always promised to be—a place people don’t just visit, but experience.

    Staying the same isn’t preserving character.
    It’s preventing progress.

    This Is a Leadership Moment

    At this point, what’s happening on the Drive isn’t a mystery—and it’s no longer just a market issue. It’s a leadership issue.

    When restaurants and small businesses open and close at the pace we’re seeing, that’s not bad luck. It’s a sign that the environment they’re operating in hasn’t been designed for long-term success. And fixing that doesn’t fall on individual owners alone. It falls on the city.

    Wilton Manors doesn’t need another vision board or another set of renderings. It needs clear direction, consistent follow-through, and leadership willing to make decisions that look beyond preserving “how it’s always been.”

    The pressure to keep the town small and unchanged may feel comforting, but it comes at a cost—empty storefronts, constant turnover, and a Drive that never quite reaches its potential. Growth, when done intentionally, isn’t a threat. It’s the solution.

    This is the moment for city leadership to ask hard questions:

    • Are we designing streets for people—or just for cars?
    • Are we supporting businesses after they open—or only celebrating ribbon cuttings?
    • Are we inviting new visitors—or quietly discouraging them?
    • Are we planning for the next decade—or protecting the last one?

    The Drive doesn’t need to become something it’s not. But it does need to become something more.

    That means embracing outdoor life, walkability, diversity of concepts, and development that brings people here consistently—not just on weekends, not just to the center, and not just for one type of visitor.

    Wilton Manors has everything it needs to succeed. What’s missing is not potential—it’s commitment.

    And until leadership chooses progress over comfort, restaurants will keep opening with hope and closing with silence.

    A Choice Leadership Can’t Avoid

    What’s happening on the Drive isn’t accidental—and it isn’t just the market at work. It’s the result of decisions made, delayed, or avoided.

    When restaurants and shops open with energy and close within months, that’s not bad luck. It’s a signal that the environment they’re in was never designed for longevity. And fixing that doesn’t fall on individual owners alone. It falls on the city.

    Wilton Manors doesn’t need more studies, renderings, or nostalgia-driven caution. It needs leadership willing to move past “keeping things the same” and toward building a street that actually works—one that invites people in, keeps them moving, and gives businesses a reason to last.

    Preserving the past cannot come at the expense of the future.

    The Drive should be active, open, and alive—restaurants spilling onto sidewalks, storefronts that pull people in, and a corridor that functions as one connected experience from the bridge to Five Points and beyond.

    That outcome requires intention. It requires planning. And it requires leadership willing to accept that smart growth is not a threat—it’s the only path forward.

    Wilton Manors has a choice: continue managing decline quietly, or commit to building a Drive that thrives.

    Until the Next time – Happy Holidays

  • Fogo de Chão

     “Fire on the Ground “

    The concept of Fogo de Chão dates back to 1979, when it was founded in Porto Alegre, in southern Brazil, by two sets of brothers steeped in the gaucho tradition of “churrasco” — cooking meat over an open fire, the old-School way.

    So, when you go to Fogo, you’re not just eating steak — you’re stepping into a centuries-old Southern-Brazilian tradition, reimagined for the modern international diner.The Fort Lauderdale location opened on August 19, 2022, at 201 E. Las Olas Blvd, Suite 100 — on the corner of Southeast Third Avenue and Las Olas Boulevard, inside “The Main Las Olas,” a mixed-use development combining residential, retail, and office space.

    I have to say, I was very excited to try Fogo de Chão.
    Maybe my expectations were a little too high, but what unfolded ended up being one of the most disappointing — and expensive — dining outings I’ve had in Fort Lauderdale.

    Expectation vs. Reality

    Fogo is marketed as a polished, high-energy Brazilian steakhouse with a reputation for top-quality cuts, nonstop table service, and a vibrant dining atmosphere. Add in the prestigious Las Olas address, and you walk in expecting something memorable — maybe even spectacular.

    But from the moment I sat down, things started to miss the mark, and the gap between the expectation and the actual experience grew wider with every course.

    From the very beginning, the service set the tone for the entire evening — and not in a good way.

    Our server approached the table looking visibly nervous, almost shaky, and clearly overworked. It was obvious he had far too many tables to handle. Instead of the confident, attentive service you expect at a premium-priced churrascaria, we were met with someone who was already overwhelmed before we even ordered drinks.

    Cocktails, Calm Words… and Then the Bread Situation

    We ordered cocktails, and I even tried to put our server at ease — I told him we were in no rush, that we wanted to relax and take our time.
    Honestly, I thought those words would lift a weight off his shoulders.

    The drinks arrived (a small miracle given how many tables he was juggling), and a moment later a tiny plate of four Brazilian cheese breads (Pão de Queijo) appeared on the table.

    They were warm. They were delicious.
    But then… we all looked at each other with the same confused expression:

    “Wait… where are the plates?”

    There we were, sitting in a polished Brazilian steakhouse on Las Olas, holding cocktails like civilized adults, and suddenly we’re faced with a communal mound of cheese bread sitting in the middle of the table like it was the last appetizer at a Super Bowl party. At this point, we just gave up on the idea of plates entirely and picked the bread up with our hands — holding it like it was some sort of sacred offering from the gods.

    Honestly, we looked like a group of pilgrims who had just discovered carbs for the very first time.

    There was this dramatic pause before each of us took a bite, as if we were thinking:

    “Is this how Fogo wants us to do it? Is this part of the cultural experience? Are we… supposed to worship the cheese bread?”

    Pushing on, the server came back — still looking like someone had assigned him three extra tables while he was walking over — and he kindly suggested we head to the salad bar.

    I turned to my guest and repeated it out loud, slowly:

    “…The salad bar?”

    As if I was trying to process a plot twist I did not see coming.

    Now keep in mind:
    This restaurant is huge.
    And very, VERY loud — like airport-terminal-during-a-holiday-rush loud.

    So I glance to my right, and somewhere about half a mile away — honestly I think I could see a different climate zone out there — was the salad bar. And not just a salad bar… but a line to the front door.

    A line. For a salad bar.
    At a place that charges luxury-steakhouse prices.

    Now, I could go on, but I’ll try to keep this short.

    We all politely passed on the whole “Golden Corral Buffet Adventure” and decided to sit tight and actually order something.
    At this point, optimism was hanging on by a thread.

    We decided to share a shrimp cocktail — because really, what could be safer?

    Well… the shrimp cocktail arrived looking like it had been emotionally damaged by life.
    Four shrimp, arranged dramatically over a glass like they were auditioning for a retirement home brochure.
    They were cold… but not refreshing cold — more like “I’ve been sitting out too long” cold.

    But we powered through.
    Because hope springs eternal.
    Or stupidity — at this point it’s hard to tell.

    We placed our entrée orders at the same time. I’m not a meat eater, so I went with the sea bass.
    I thought: It’s sea bass. How hard could this be?

    Apparently, very.

    When it arrived, it was so dry I’m convinced it had been reincarnated three times before it made it to my plate.
    I took one bite and immediately understood what sawdust tastes like.
    Honestly, if I had thrown it on the table, it probably would have crumbled into powder.

    My guests ordered the signature Full Churrasco Experience, the big Fogo specialty.

    And all I can say is… they barely got any passes from the Passadores.

    It was like the gaucho chefs were avoiding our table on purpose, using us as the “ignore this section” training exercise.

    My Takeaway

    In the end, my overall impression of Fogo de Chão is simple:

    Overpriced. Overhyped. Over everything.

    I walked in with sky-high expectations — honestly, I was ready for a full culinary event, a “Las Olas night to remember.”
    Instead, I walked out feeling like I would’ve gotten more joy, gratitude, and eye contact if I had just handed my dining budget to a random person on the street.

    At least they would’ve appreciated it.

    Between the nervous server, the Golden-Corral-on-steroids salad bar line, the sawdust sea bass, and the lukewarm parade of meat that barely paraded… I can’t say I’ll be sprinting back anytime soon.

    If Fogo was trying to give me a memorable night, congratulations —
    I will be remembering this for a long, long time.

    Just… not for the reasons they hoped.

    Until the next time ! Bon Appetit

  • Tulio’s , A Mexican Fiesta in Wilton Manors

    Let’s start from the beginning

    Tulio Alas came to the U.S. from El Salvador, started working in kitchens (dishwasher, etc.), learned his trade, and eventually teamed with Brian Parenteau (and Doug Herbst) to create a restaurant/bar concept.

    The idea for Tulio’s Tacos seems to be: a place where Mexican-style (and Latin-influenced) food meets a lively bar/tequila-cocktail lounge, tailored to the Wilton Drive / Wilton Manors scene (which is known for its vibrant nightlife, dining, LGBTQ+ friendly atmosphere)

    Walking into Tulio’s Tacos & Tequila Bar feels like stepping into the love child of a modern Mexican cantina — but with lighting flattering enough that you’ll want to take selfies, order a margarita, and maybe find someone to buy you another one. One of the best things about Tulio’s is the way the place blurs the line between “inside” and “outside”—almost like the building couldn’t decide what it wanted to be, so it chose both (great decision, honestly).

    Large open fronts and wide doors pull the sidewalk right into the restaurant, giving you that breezy, easygoing sidewalk-café energy without sacrificing the comfort of being indoors. You feel connected to Wilton Drive’s constant parade of characters, nightlife, and energy—yet you still get the cozy, lively atmosphere of the dining room.

    It’s the kind of setup where you can sip a margarita while people-watching like it’s a full-time job. The open-air design lets the Florida breeze drift through, so every seat feels like prime real estate. Whether you’re inside looking out or outside looking in, everything feels like one seamless social space.

    It’s casual but chic, open but intimate, and honestly? It’s the kind of indoor–outdoor flow that makes you think, “Why don’t all restaurants do this?”

    Let’s talk about the food ( AKA: The reason I’m now emotionally attached to Tulio’s)

    First up: chips and salsa.
    The salsa tasted so fresh I’m convinced someone’s abuela is hiding in the back, chopping tomatoes with the precision of a brain surgeon. And the chips? Still warm — like they just came out of a spa treatment. Honestly, if chips could purr, these would.

    Then came my shrimp quesadilla, which was nothing short of culinary perfection. The shrimp were cooked so flawlessly I considered writing them a thank-you note. The whole thing was melty, toasty, and so good I momentarily forgot my own name.

    Now… the margaritas.
    Listen, these things are dangerously smooth. The kind of margaritas that whisper, “Don’t worry, you’re fine,” while your future self begs you to drink water. They go down so easily they should come with seat belts.

    In short, the food was excellent, the drinks were fabulous, and I’m still not entirely convinced I didn’t fall a little in love with the shrimp quesadilla. It was that good

    Final thoughts

    .If you’re looking for a high-quality, low-stress, “I-deserve-something-nice-today” kind of outing, then Tulio’s is absolutely your spot. It’s the perfect blend of good vibes, great food, and margaritas that should honestly come with a permission slip.

    I’m already plotting my next visit — and possibly my next margarita.
    Fantastic job, Chef! Whatever magic you’re doing back there, keep it up… my taste buds and I fully support this lifestyle.


  • J Alexander’s Fort Lauderdale FL

    Always feels like coming home

    Let’s start from the beginning, The Fort Lauderdale restaurant opened in 1995 at 2415 N. Federal Hwy. It was one of four new J. Alexander’s units the company (then still known as Volunteer Capital Corporation) opened that year as it expanded beyond its early Tennessee/Ohio footprint.

    The concept was—and remains—polished-casual American dining with a scratch kitchen and wood-fired grill, a formula the brand had been refining since its first restaurant opened in 1991 under the Nashville-based parent.

    In 2015, the company rebranded a group of locations (including Fort Lauderdale) to Redlands Grill—a sister concept with a slightly broader, “modern American” menu. The Fort Lauderdale unit later returned to the J. Alexander’s banner.

    The restaurant is once again listed by the company as J. Alexander’s – Fort Lauderdale at the same Federal Highway address. The brand has been part of SPB Hospitality since a 2021 acquisition.

    Now lets take a minute to talk about the interior, Walking into J. Alexander’s these days feels like stepping into a time capsule of comfort and mahogany. The vibe still whispers “Midwestern lodge meets steakhouse nostalgia,” complete with that soft amber lighting that says, “Yes, we take our martinis seriously.”

    But after nearly three decades of loyal service, the interior is starting to show its age—like an old friend who still insists on wearing their favorite corduroy jacket from 1998. The booths, once plush and cozy, now have all the support of a broken promise. You don’t sit down so much as sink into a conversation with your chiropractor.

    Still, there’s something undeniably charming about it. The warm wood tones and classic design feel like a hug from the pre–Wi-Fi era. You can almost hear the ghost of a waiter from 2002 saying, “Our prime rib is excellent tonight.”

    All that’s missing is a subtle update—maybe some fresh upholstery, a few modern light fixtures, and a whisper to the universe that says: “Please, someone bring me into the 21st century.”

    The Menu ;

    Browsing the menu at J. Alexander’s feels a bit like flipping through a yearbook — familiar faces, same smiles, and maybe just a touch more “well done” than last time. It’s comforting, sure, but after so many visits I could probably recite the menu backwards while blindfolded and still order the same thing.

    The dishes are as reliable as your dad’s old Buick: they start, they run, and they get you there — but no one’s mistaking it for a Tesla. Every plate is solid, consistent, and entirely devoid of surprises. Which, depending on your mood, is either culinary comfort… or gastronomic Groundhog Day.

    Part of me secretly hopes a rogue chef will slip something new onto the menu — maybe a rebellious truffle aioli or a daring vegan detour — just to see if anyone notices. Until then, I’ll keep ordering my go-to, smiling nostalgically, and wondering when “classic” officially crosses over into “vintage.”

    Now, before I sound like the grumpy critic who wants J. Alexander’s to serve edible art on a lava rock, let’s give credit where it’s due. Some dishes are so consistently good they could probably survive the apocalypse — and the Avocado Bomb is one of them.

    Picture this: hand-cut Ahi tuna mingling with a delicate crab salad, served with crispy wontons like a little culinary summit meeting. The plating is beautiful — greens, pinks, and golds so vibrant it’s practically begging for its own Instagram filter.

    The first bite? Pure heaven. The kind that makes you forget the booths have lost their bounce and that the menu hasn’t changed since the Clinton administration. It’s fresh, rich, and just bold enough to remind you why J. Alexander’s is still worth the visit.

    Moving on to the entrées, the Salmon remains the undisputed star of the show — cooked so perfectly you half expect it to stand up and take a bow. It flakes beautifully, it glistens just right, and it somehow manages to taste as if it has a personal trainer and a skincare routine.

    But then… there’s the cold orzo salad. Ah yes, the loyal sidekick that’s been tagging along since dial-up internet. It’s not that it’s bad — it’s just been sitting next to that salmon for so many years it probably qualifies for tenure.

    Visually, it’s like the chef plated the gorgeous salmon, stepped back, and said, “Hmm, this looks too professional — let’s add a random scoop of something beige for contrast.” The result: one side of the plate sings, the other side feels like it wandered in from a picnic.

    If they ever decide to retire that cold orzo salad, I might just throw a farewell party. Until then, I’ll keep ordering the salmon, quietly moving the orzo aside, and pretending it’s not judging me.

    And then there are the Crab Cakes — once one of J. Alexander’s crown jewels, the kind of dish that could make you daydream about your next visit before you even paid the check. But lately, something’s changed. The spark is… well, a little dim.

    On my last visit, the presentation looked more like “lunch rush” than “legendary.” The plating lacked the excitement it used to have — no flourish, no flair, just two modest crab cakes huddled beside what can only be described as a mountain of French fries large enough to qualify for statehood.

    Now, I love a good fry as much as the next person, but pairing them with delicate crab cakes feels like sending a ballerina to a wrestling match. The poor crab cakes never stood a chance. And to make matters worse, they’ve somehow shrunk over the years — like they’ve been through one too many budget meetings.

    The flavor is still there, faintly reminding you of their former glory, but it’s clear these beauties are overdue for a comeback tour. A little refinement, a lighter touch — and maybe just half the fries — could bring back the magic.

    Now, if seafood isn’t your love language, J. Alexander’s knows exactly how to make it up to you — with beef so good it could heal emotional damage. Two clear standouts: the Filet Mignon with Béarnaise and the Slow Roasted Prime Rib.

    The filet arrives looking like it came straight from a culinary magazine shoot — center cut, beautifully charred, and paired with a baked potato so generously loaded it should come with its own warning label. The Béarnaise sauce? Smooth, buttery, and just fancy enough to make you feel like you should’ve worn a nicer shirt.

    Then there’s the Prime Rib — slow-roasted, juicy, and unapologetically classic. The kind of entrée that doesn’t need to reinvent itself because it’s already nailed perfection. Served with smashed potatoes and au jus, it’s hearty enough to make you forget you ever doubted this place.

    Both dishes are cooked to perfection, dependable as ever — the culinary equivalent of that one friend who always shows up on time and never forgets your birthday.

    Final thoughts

    At the end of the day, J. Alexander’s still holds its ground as one of Fort Lauderdale’s most dependable go-to spots for a great evening out. From the smiling faces at the host stand to the servers who somehow manage to top off your water before you even notice it’s low — the service remains as polished as ever.

    Yes, the décor may be quietly whispering “renovate me,” and the menu could use a little creative spark, but there’s something to be said for a place that still delivers comfort, consistency, and genuinely good food in a world obsessed with reinvention.

    I still look forward to every visit — for the warm welcome, the steady quality, and that comforting sense that, no matter how the culinary world changes, J. Alexander’s will always be there, serving great meals with quiet confidence.

    It may be due for a facelift, but it’s still smiling — and honestly, so am I by the time I leave

  • Aquaplex , Oakland Park FL, The Show Must Go On (and It Does) But bring a life Jacket

    After 17 years of being known as ” Lips” they Closed, and was reborn as Aquaplex.

    The venue was acquired by Michael Barrett and Jonathan Barrett. They also own the original location of Aquaplex Key West.

    Driving up to Aquaplex Fort Lauderdale is like pulling into a tropical fantasy that… ran out of funding halfway through. You’re greeted — if that’s the word — by two heroic yet half-dead palm trees, bravely holding on like they’ve seen one too many drag brunches and just can’t anymore.

    They stand there, one drooping dramatically, the other giving “I’ve had enough of this humidity” — it’s basically The Real Housewives of Oakland Park: Botanical Edition

    renovation ? In one article, it is stated that under the previous ownership “for several years, [the venue] … ignored maintenance and put the day-to-day burden … on the queens” (i.e., performers). So: the baseline may have been quite run-down.

    While claims of “major cosmetic and infrastructure upgrades” are made

    Some patrons may feel that what was done appears limited to surface-level cosmetic touches rather than a full interior refit. It’s plausible that much of the existing furniture/fixtures remained in place (seating, tables, bar cabinetry) and what was changed were accent elements . That can give a sense of “used furniture / second-hand store” if the furnishings are older, mismatched or not fully consistent with the new vision.

    Now on to the food and service

    We came for the Aquanettes Drag Brunch — a dazzling $49.95 spectacle of wigs, lashes, and mimosa-fueled chaos. Our server was also part of the show — a glitter-drenched queen who served sass with a side of sequins. Honestly, she was the best thing on the menu.

    With the brunch special, we were promised bottomless mimosas — which sounded fabulous until we met them in person. The “sparkling” part was… sparkling something. Could’ve been prosecco, could’ve been Sprite — we may never know.

    Then came a pitcher of what appeared to be orange juice, though “orange” is doing a lot of heavy lifting here. It had the same shade as a traffic cone that’s seen better days and the flavor of Vitamin C’s distant cousin who dropped out of school to become a mixer.

    Together, they formed a cocktail that tasted vaguely like optimism and regret. Bottomless indeed — because after the first glass, you start questioning how deep that bottom really goes.

    I decided on the grilled salmon cakes, which I can only describe as… a cry for help in patty form. They arrived with what the menu called a creamy key lime sauce, though I suspect the “key” might’ve been to the janitor’s closet.

    Let’s just say, the drag was high art — the food, not so much. While our server was lip-syncing for her life, my salmon cakes were gasping for theirs.

    Now on to the show

    Now, the show — thank goodness for the show. It was an absolute blast: high energy, high heels, and higher hair. The queens served up glitz, glam, and glittery chaos with the precision of Vegas headliners and the humor of your most unfiltered aunt at Thanksgiving.

    There were multiple acts, each more over-the-top than the last, and by the second number, the crowd was living for it. Sequins flew, wigs defied gravity, and the lighting budget was clearly doing all the heavy lifting that the kitchen wasn’t.

    Because let’s be honest — the food wasn’t the star of this brunch. The queens were. They turned what could’ve been a sad salmon Sunday into a full-blown sparkle spectacular. If laughter burned calories, I’d have finally forgiven those salmon cakes.

    Final Thoughts

    In fairness, the show is what people come for — and it delivers. The queens are electric, the energy is high, and the laughter is contagious. It’s dinner theater meets drag cabaret meets “what exactly did I just drink?”

    The Aquaplex is less a full renovation and more a reincarnation — same bones, new wigs, and a healthy dose of glitter. It’s a place where you’ll have fun, make memories, and maybe reconsider ordering the salmon.

    But hey, that’s brunch in Oakland Park: part performance, part mystery, and 100% unforgettable — whether you want it to be or not.