The Banyan Tree

Since shacking up down here, I've become enamored of those crazy huge trees with a complex web of exposed roots that seem to illogically and impossibly emanate from tree branches, creating Dali-esque crutches and props for them.

They're called Banyan Trees, and they're actually, like lichen, a combination of two different life forms together - the weird extremities are actually what's called Strangler Figs, which are an epiphyte ("air plant") that attaches itself to any given tree and eventually just takes over. I'm perenially interested in life forms like this, such as dodder, Japanese knotweed, bamboo, and the Armillaria fungus.

There are numerous Banyan/Strangler Figs around St. Armand's Key, Siesta Key, Longboat Key, and Sarasota, and I've heard it said that these all spread from thirteen starts that Thomas Edison gifted to John Ringling from Edison's collection on his estate in Ft. Myers. (Newspaper clipping image below from the Lewiston Journal, April 9, 1984.)

Columbia Restaurant

You're probably too young to remember this, but in 1905 the greatest restaurant in the solar system - Columbia Restaurant - was founded in Ybor City. Today it has numerous branch locations around Florida, including St. Augustine, Tampa and Clearwater, but the one nearest and dearest to my heart is on St. Armand's Key. This was the first Columbia's I experienced, so I suppose I've been imprinted on this one.

(Yes, I am a habitual indiscriminate adder of apostrophe-S to places whose names lack them, at will. Sue me.)

If I could choose only one thing to eat for the rest of my life, dear reader, it would be Columbia's Steak Palomilla - and I think it might take a billion years before I began to get bored with it. Maybe two. It's a very holy thing, and words cannot convey the alchemical magic that occurs in this dish, so I won't even try. I'll just say that even if you don't take seriously any other opinion proferred herein on this blog about matters culinary, listen to me on this one. Columbia's is the alpha and omega of Florida foodiedom.

And then there's the drinks. I usually have a pitcher of Mojito or Sangria but sometimes indulge in random stabs like the Absinthe Sazerac (pictured above.) The server sets up a folding table beside you and mixes your drinks (as well as your salads) tableside while you watch. I still remember years ago, watching in awe the first time I ate here, as our server Cecilia squeezed the limes and poured the rum and conjured up a pitcher of Mojito that was more than the sum of its parts. You never forget your first time.

Did I mention that their black bean soup, covered in fresh cut onions, is worthy of being a meal all to itself?

And that their Crema Catalana dessert takes Creme Brulee to a whole new level?

Or that they have their own line of cigars, the mere mention of which has me twitching and jonesing even now? Must cut this short now and step out for a puff by the pool...

Spaghetti the Clown

You just never know what you're going to encounter walking the streets of Interzone. I rounded a corner on St. Armand's Key recently and came face to red-nosed face with none other than Spaghetti the Clown. He was performing some sort of routine in which he would hurl stuff up in the air via a rope, and then catch it again via the rope. Sounds boring when I tell it that way - and in fact you know it sort of is - but I had to admit there was serious hand-to-eye coordination going on here. He may be a clown but he gots mad skillz.

I did a little Googling when I got home, though, and learned that this is no mere clown-come-lately: his real name is Marcelo Perez Trascasa, and he's apparently quite a beloved fixture in Florida's formidable circus scene. Though I am a coulrophobe at heart, I found Spaghetti's act much easier to confront than Grandma the Clown, to say nothing of Grillo the Clown.

Crab & Fin

Many of my favorite Florida eateries just happen to be on my favorite island St. Armand's Key. Therefore, it was only by a rare juxtaposition of fate that I even tried a new place, but all my usual spots were packed with long lines waiting. (Hey, how many times do I have to be a frequent eater and big tipper at Columbia Restaurant before they start giving me VIP treatment anyway?) A date and I swanned into Crab & Fin, right across the street from my tobacconist Bennington's (okay, okay, they're all my tobacconist). I was lured over by the strains of hip piano jazz being be-bopped live on the patio, and though I came for the show tunes, I stayed for the steak.

As you probably are sick of hearing about by now, I'm always on the quest for the perfect Mai Tai - and Crab & Fin are in the running for my Top Five charts. Tell 'em I sent you by!

The Three Graces

Of the many statues that decorate St. Armand's Key, I'm fondest of the one that greets you as you first enter from the Ringling Causeway Bridge from Bird Key - Antonio Canova's The Three Graces. This one is a copy; the original is in the Hermitage Museum in Russia.

The Three Graces are the daughters of Zeus & Eurynome (his 1st wife): Euphrosyne (Beauty), Aglaea (Charm) & Thalia (Joy).

St. Armands Tommy Bahama

Let me just dash what little credibility I probably have left with some of you hipsters who cringe at how much I love Starbucks: I also love Tommy Bahama. Not just the awesome Tommy Bahama faux-Tiki-beachwear fashion or the Tommy Bahama colognes, but the Tommy Bahama restaurant. More specifically, its drinks. And even more specifically, the drinks at the one on St. Armand's Key. And even now, just the mention of it makes me want to start the car.

What you see pictured above, dear reader, is a photograph, captured for the ages, of the finest Mai Tai it has ever been the privilege to pour down the big hole in my unworthy face. Though I've chased the elusive Mai Tai spirit over hill and dale and through swamp and strip-mall, nothing I've ever caught in the wild can compare with this here elixir placed before me by one of Mr. Bahama's minions.

(The worst Mai Tai I've ever had, in case you care, was at Seviche in Louisville. It tasted like kool-aid and the waiter who we asked to take it back was rather ungracious about it. Since Seviche is otherwise perenially flawless in every other respect, however, I can afford to cut them slack on this.)

All the beverages on their dance card are fine, most notably the Painkiller, which I became enamored with at the Tommy's location at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. But it's that Mai Tai that tops them all, even the ones from my beloved Roy's Hawaiian Fusion (which run a close second.)

You know, I hear Tommy Bahama restaurants also serve food. I dunno.

Shoes of St. Armand's

Let's take a breather from such disquieting subjects as giant grasshoppers and giant snails, and appreciate these two examples of giant shoes, both spotted outside shops on St. Armand's Key.

Mosaic at Settimi's

Something about Florida inspires its dwellers to really excel at mosaic artwork, and here's a fine example: some of the great mosaic work outside Settimi's Gelato, a great ice-creamery on one of my favorite islands, St. Armand's Key.

Grandma the Clown

Among the many circus-performer tribute plaques on St. Armand's Key, there's one to circus clown Barry Lubin, aka Grandma the clown, on the "ring of fame".

Why are there so many tributes to clowns in an upscale shopping center on a tiny island in the Gulf of Mexico, you might ask? Because the island was once owned by circus magnate John Ringling, who purchased it in 1917 and deliberately had St. Armand's Circle constructed in a ring shape (a subtle nod to the circus ring.) When the Depression hit hard in the 1930s, Ringling decided he could no longer afford to maintain the island and so he gifted it to the city of Sarasota.

But Grandma, yeah. She frightens me. But then again, she's a clown, so, duh. And in drag, no less. According to Circopedia:

Barry created his Grandma character at the Ringling Bros. winter quarters in Venice, Florida. Not strong on physical skills, Barry had to come up for the show with character that could stand out by itself. The "little old ladies" who strolled the boardwalk in Atlantic City—including Barry's own grandmother—provided the inspiration. Thus Grandma made her debut on January 1, 1975 in The Greatest Show On Earth, where Barry performed until 1979 in both its Blue and Red units.

Barry was featured in the movies Big Top Pee-Wee and My Life and has appeared in several TV shows, including four appearances on the Late Show With David Letterman. His directorial credits include comedy segments for music videos on MTV, the Snappy Dance Company in Boston, and CBS's Circus of the Stars. He was also a creative consultant for NBC's long-running sitcom, Cheers. His proudest accomplishment, however, remains his successful headstand on a whoopee-cushion on the illustrious stage of Carnegie Hall in New York City.

Most of the Kilwin's-slurping tourists and their cotton-candy-chompin' offspring walk right past Lubin's plaque without even noticing it, let alone pausing to read it. And even if they did, they still wouldn't grasp the anxiety-inducing awesomeness of Grandma from the meager information (and lack of a picture) on the plaque. Well, now you know. No need to thank me; it's what I do. Sorry in advance for your nightmares.

Street Musicians of St. Armand's Key

Florida is a great place for one of my all-time favorite noble pursuits, that of street busking. I spent much of my "lost years" during the 1980s bashing out primitive Creeps Music on a cheap out-of-tune guitar for many bewildered passersby across this great nation, and Florida was one of the most welcoming states.

Submitted here for your approval, friend, are just a couple of examples.

Pictured above are The Garbage Men, a young band of primitive wild-boys eking out some of the most wonderful Creeps Music on the planet. There's a youtube video of them here performing what I think may be a free-jazz cover of "A Hard Day's Night" but it's hard to discern through the fog and the frenzy and the froth.

And then there's "Blues". That's his name. Just "Blues."

This street musician was playing some delightfully atonal Captain Beefheart-like avant-garde jams at St. Armand's Circle when I encountered him awhile back. I asked him his name and he said, "just call me Blues". I'm not sure if he has multiple pieces in his repertoire, or he just does the same skrawk-boing-kachunka routine all day long - he was flying high on the same riff for at least twenty minutes while I observed him.

I do believe it's time once again to put on my busking hat, obtain a license (like that ever stopped me before) and begin a new golden age of caterwauling at Canadian tourists. And maybe even bring my barely-ever-existed lo-fi lo-talent band The JSH Combo back to shambling life, powered that by especial bolt of lightning that the Sunshine State provides. Don't say I didn't tell you so.