Last night’s dinner was the hotel restaurant, a Shula’s Steakhouse. They claim to have been rated among the top steakhouses in the country, although I have to believe the places they are rated are like the Who’s Who in American High Schools book – you pay to get your name listed, no matter what your performance or which heinous crimes you’ve committed. This is actually the same place in which I had breakfast, although the football aura was a tad more palpable, such as when they slam a fucking football on the table in front of you and explain that the entrees are written on the ball. The restaurant allegedly celebrates the Dolphins’ 1972 perfect season (perfect schmerfect – I’ll bet they still had at least one fumble and let the opposing teams score at least a few points, so therefore, technically, it wasn’t a perfect season, was it, Coach Shula? Hah! Of course it wasn’t.), as the bored hostess explained to me as she was walking away from the table. The guy who displayed the fake steaks, explaining what each one is (how can people still believe that ordering and consuming a 48 oz. steak is an activity worthy of celebration, and not a paean to American excess of the worst sort?), spoke so fast that all I gathered was they served beef and everything else costs extra. My steak was grossly underdone, the asparagus was tough, undercooked and topped with a bilious hollandaise sauce, and the mushrooms were spongy. The wine, however, was passable and the slab of chocolate cake I indulged in was the dessert equivalent of the 48 oz. steak – I expect to see my name on their website any day now.

Tonight I am having room service dinner, where the prices are about half those in the restaurant. I will, however, miss the football.

Later...
I ordered shrimp cocktail for an appetizer and salmon for the main course. I received the shrimp, and another plate of shrimp and pasta. Sigh. Never order seafood in a landlocked state.