A recent week-long bout of the flu left my taste buds in turmoil. Hot tea with lemon or ginger ale tasted like a combination of metal and library paste. When I finally had enough of chicken soup or toast with jam, I developed a craving for pizza.
The American steakhouse has been a tradition since the mid-19th century. What I like about such a site is simple: you know what the menu will be, there will be a seafood dish or two, side dishes are extra and the cocktails are usually first-rate.
My first taste of Cuban food occurred many years ago when I took a bite of a sandwich at a restaurant in Miami’s Little Havana neighborhood. I loved the slight sweetness in the bread and the use of pickles and mustard layered between slices of roast pork, turkey and ham. The sandwich was pressed like a panini.