(Sunset from the deck at Kaya at Mile Marker 14, Next to Baby’s Coffee. All Photos Socotra).
I do remember what I imagined about White Street before I came down to the lovely Isle of Key West. I looked at Google Maps, of course, and saw that the apartment building was not quite a mile from where the action is on Duval and Whitehead Streets. I looked at Street View, and identified a dignified older frame building. I thought, therefore, it would be relatively quiet.
It is, to a degree, but the big trucks early in the morning and late, and the buses and the Tourist Trolley provide some colorful bangings-and-bumpings, and the high-pitched whine of the over-revved motor scooters and occasional rumble of the Big Bikes contribute a unique ambiance. Since everything runs at bicycle speed when cyclists are present, there is a considerable variation in tempo.
Which is in no way a complaint. It just makes conference calls on the balcony a little colorful.
So I have no huge issues for you this morning, and no death march of dozens of pictures. I decided to take a break from White Street and the hike downtown to venture out past Boca Chica and the Air Station to Mile Marker 14 and a traditional restaurant called Kaya. I watched an idle and lovely sunset from the deck and enjoyed the tuna sashimi. Delightful, but not exactly the epic span of history, from wrecked Spanish Galleons to exploding Battleships or picaresque outmoded fortifications near the site of a Nobel Laurate’s one-time home.
It was just plain relaxing, and as I contemplate flogging the Panzer north into the ice and snow, realized it was necessary.
I have not belabored you with tales of restaurant fare here. I don’t care much for fine dining alone, preferring to meet people at the bars. To keep expenses down, I have been doing my own cooking for the most part, but I can see the end of this larder and that will be it. There is too much good food out there not to comment on, and in fact there are so many places to consume it is daunting.
So, word of mouth is important here. I heard about this at Solo, an American Bistro, sandwiched between Scott and Marlow at the apex of the back side of the bar. They were doing salad, flatbreads and crab cakes. I had some interesting yellow fin tuna on circular wafers with some sort of Oriental greens and wasabi underneath.
I listened intently, since I am no more a Local than I am from the District, and the closest I can get on this trip is the equivalent of missing ship’s movement in some exotic port of call.
But Scott and Marlow qualify, and they were talking about something exciting: the opening of a all-new stationary food truck.
I listened with interest, always alert for local color.
“Michael Wilson just opened a food truck,” said Scott. “It is right around the corner from my house, and I tried their breakfast sandwich the other morning. They were still trying things out. Started great. They are going to try it without advertising, just word of mouth.”
Now, for those from uber-trendy Arlington, food trucks are no novelty. Well, maybe this winter they are, since the vendors would have frozen as they cooked. But this was an altogether new thing here in Key West, I think due to the limited amount of places to park and the hostility of the brick-and-mortar restaurants.
Marlow looked over at me, took a sip of a delightful cab, and said: “Mike and his wife Melanie run the best restaurant in Monroe County, bar none. It is over on the corner of Southard and Margaret. I think the patter goes something like ‘from first martini to the last sumptuous bite of the warm chocolate volcano, Michael’s will delight and satisfy,’” ending with an ironic flourish and a wolfish smile.
Scott laughed. “That sounds about right, but he has always wanted to crack the food truck mystique and now he has.”
“You said it was close,” I said. “Where is it?”
“Corner of White and Truman,” said Scott. “In the side lot of the gas station.”
“It’s far out. It isn’t a truck as much as a trailer- it is fixed in place. Looks like it has been there for years. Faded sign, off yellow color and old timey lights. Really retro and cool. Daily specials and all that.”
I marked it on my list of things to do on this trip, and it was not until this morning that I realized time was getting short. I had already dropped peppers and mushrooms and onions into the skillet and swirled them around in extra virgin olive oil, in preparation to fry up two of the last four eggs in the fridge.
Crap- three Most Important Meals of the Day to go, and I was going to wind up having to buy too many eggs. I went ahead and completed sautéing the mélange, and put it aside. I searched for a clean pair of shorts and t-shirt (a growing challenge) and stumped down the stairs to totter my way to the intersection of White and Truman.
I passed the Peruvian Restaurant- it is the closest, and I hear word on the street that it is good, but they are not open for breakfast.
The sun was bright and flushed out the lingering fog of the morning. Scott had not lied, and Marlow’s instincts were right on. The truck is battered and authentic. The food is local, and delightfully fresh. Two locals were inside cooking, and I ordered a breakfast sandwich special. The atmosphere was casual, friendly and approachable. No tables, just three battered ironing boards to put your plates on and eat standing up.
This was not a pre-made treat- it took a few minutes to cook up, but I knew this was the right place. They have only been open a little more than a week, and already the cops were parked there, ready for coffee and eggs.
White Street Station? That place is a winner. Marlow sent me a note, asking if I wanted to go back for lunch. Of course I said “yes,” but I don’t know whether to try the chicken Reuben, stuffed iceberg salad or the fish tacos. I am confident they are all dynamite.
I finished my breakfast sandwich and listened to the cop’s radio, which crackled with the news that the Finns had just crushed the Russians in ice hockey, eliminating them from competition. Only here, I thought, and realized just how much I am going to miss this place.
Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303