Florida Fine

"Florida Fine" by Michael Murphy

Issue 3.12 | Fiction

Cover Art: L. Erickson

Helene Sharawi uses words like quadriller. She is mysteriously beige. Inscrutable. Stares at readers from her byline through cat eye specs and with deific certainty. Unreproachable. Isinglass. Macedoine. Jacquarding. Her judgment indisputable. Her taste truth.

Four out of four stars. A meal that defied expectation. Helene Sharawi does not deal in fours. Seminole squash velouté with peppergrass seed. She is, after all, from New York. Suwanee wild boar atop swamp cabbage patties. Her hitherto measure of perfection a 3.8.

—

Hearth is beloved. A critical hit. A top table for tourists and locals alike. Where Cypress Park’s gentry float watercolored and politick loafered and sockless. Where they gently debate Sunday sermons over bottomless mimosas. Where the Sugar Queen slices a sea bean and stone crab benedict into quadrants and frets over the disobedience of egg yolk. Where she feels free to say, “Drink up y’all, I have a nervous breakdown scheduled at four. No need to be sober for it.”

Fritz Kind’s nephew cackles before slurping down the last of his Bloody Maria.

A smile curls the lips of the little blonde thing as she swirls ice in a chalice and makes eyes with a table of teenage boys.

The son of Dave Mitcham Jr. waits.

“So, Hubby’s been making noises,” the Sugar Queen announces. “Noises like Agave Moon.” She pauses to accommodate eye rolls. “Agave Moon?” There they are. “Look, I love Hubby—love him to bits—but trusting him with choosing a restaurant is culinary malpractice.”

“The man loves his tacos,” says Fritz Kind’s nephew.

The Sugar Queen takes stock of her ragtag committee: a jellyfish, a shark, and its remora. The annual brunch to plan her annual brunch. The birthday surprise that had long ceased being a surprise.

Fritz Kind’s nephew spreads his arms. “We could do it here.”

There is no silence more silent than that which refuses to be filled.

Is it an appropriate time for the son of Dave Mitcham Jr. to interject? Yes. He taps the table with the prongs of his fork and asks Fritz Kind’s nephew, “You ever get that kink-free hose?”

“My hose has always been kink-free,” he replies, flattening the sleeves of his seersucker. The jacket is more baby blue than lavender, but there is a definite hint of lavender. It’s what makes it different. A linen and cotton blend. From Craig Philips.

The Sugar Queen gifts a groan, working her mouth into a smile-frown. It’s her trademark, according to Father Fine. “You’re awful,” she says. “Did the landscape guys take care of your hot spots?”

“You know the little blonde thing takes care of my hot spots.” When talking to the Sugar Queen, Fritz Kind’s nephew sparkles his veneers.

“Jesus, stop,” giggles the little blonde thing. Her nipple has been exposed for nearly seven minutes. It’s a pretty nipple, thinks the Sugar Queen. Well formed.

Fritz Kind’s nephew is id and sinew. A font of innuendo and investment babble. Hubby’s childhood friend. He uses phrases like human capital, asset mix, and cock sucker. He has slept with everyone the Sugar Queen knows. He has slept with the Sugar Queen.

In his dormitory bed, he called her honey tits. She recalls watching smoky exhales whorl toward the ceiling. Honey tits. Her naked body felt thick with sweetness—a sugary venom that would spring from swollen breasts. Giver and taker. Creator. Destroyer. A flesh-and-blood Fontana Delle Tette where her rotten toothed litter would suckle. The days of unhelpful thoughts.

Fritz Kind’s nephew introduced the Sugar Queen to Hubby at this table. At this walnut vineyard table conspicuously ensconced in the grotto. It was the day all became clear. The day her Florida Fine board seat became reality. That she stopped pretending to be sweet. At this sought after table.

The best tables at Hearth are al fresco—in the sprawling courtyard garden beside the bougainvillea where a tiered Italian fountain serves as centerpiece. Those disembarking Sunny Tour & Travel buses next to the garden gate often sneak in to snap selfies among the palms and disapproving stares. It’s no wonder. A glimpse of the fountain alone is worth the wrath of wait staff. It’s a dolce vita fever dream wrought in stone, towering ten feet high, infested with cherubs, gurgling loudly and without pause.

During season, tourists are largely treated to tables in the interior dining room—a cavernous space sweeping upward to its arched ceiling with stomach churning momentum. The ceiling is held aloft by cypress beams wrapped in egrets and angels, remnants of Hearth’s past service as Our Lady of the Lakes—the town’s first and last Catholic Church. The repurposed nave is a favorite of the Preservation Society, a guidebook darling, and largely shunned by locals. Reserved for those “with words on their shirts,” says the son of Dave Mitcham Jr. 

Alvaro appears tableside smiling like a lobotomite. He’s a thing the Sugar Queen doesn’t know. A mustachioed lapdog of a man, fond of eyeliner, shivering with nervous energy. It would come as no surprise if she were to look up from her bennie to find sparks shooting from his ears.

“Oh, my god. You people are on empty!” Alvaro sings. He snaps his fingers, pirouettes, and makes a beeline for the crowded bar.

The son of Dave Mitcham Jr. sips audibly as he watches Alvaro dance into the fray. “Brave,” he muses. “To leave his family and come here with nothing?”

“For fuck’s sake, he didn’t swim the Rio Grande,” says Fritz Kind’s nephew. “He flew from shithole Mexico to penthouse Miami. He’s a mail order bride.”

“Was a mail order bride.”

Fritz Kind’s nephew laughs. “Is, was. How’d you manage with the potted irises? The purple ones. You know you need to water them every few days in the summer or they’ll die.”

“They’re happy as can be,” says the son of Dave Mitcham Jr.

“Sorry, what?”

The height between fountain tiers has been calculated with careful intent. It’s a simple formula. Increasing the distance that water travels from lip to basin increases the volume of the resulting splash. The spacing effectively stems the flow of intertable chatter, ensuring the varied recollections of the Moncrief girl’s seminude stroll through Founders Park are lost in the gurgle and burble, and that details of Johnny-good-for-nothing’s most recent drug-fueled joyride drown in the reservoir. All part of the joy of dining at Hearth, according to Sharawi. Hearth is the freedom to be as you are. To breathe easy and speak freely. It is rare to find this level of comfort outside of one’s own home.

“Happy!” shrieks the son of Dave Mitcham Jr.

“Speaking of dying, did anyone go to the Havershams’ daughter’s fifth?” asks the Sugar Queen. Raising her voice to be heard feels unnatural. “Word is it was dismal. Party planner was a no-show and the kids went nuts. Lord of the Flies nuts.”

“No, out of town. Ophelia Island. Where do they live again?” Fritz Kind’s nephew resumes picking at his Jessup Farms pork jowl and collard greens with a sous vide poached egg. “What the hell is hominy? Corn?”

“They’re in the neighborhood next to the new fancy donut place.”

“Really? Fancy donuts? What’s it called?” The little blonde thing drops both elbows on the table and her chin between cupped hands, staring across the table expectantly.

“It speaks!” shouts Fritz Kind’s nephew, thrusting both hands, his knife, and a forkful of pork jowl in the air.

“Who knows. Dad calls it the fag bar,” says the Sugar Queen. “It’s across the street from the condo where that house cleaner was kidnapped.”

“Apologies, who had the Reverend Tipsy?” Alvaro has materialized. He formally presents a golden communion cup brimming with daisies and elderflower sprigs. “Reverend Tipsy?!” more loudly and with a panic in his eyes. The little blonde thing laughs, raises a hand, and wiggles her fingers. “King Key Lime, yes?” placing a chartreuse hued flute in front of the son of Dave Mitcham Jr. “Another Bloody Maria, sir, and your St. Augustine Gin and Jam, ma’am.” Alvaro is pleased with his punctuating rhyme.

“Sorry, I’d switched to iced tea, dear,” reminds the Sugar Queen. “Remember?”

“Tea? Terrible.” The little blonde thing’s mock disappointment is muffled by her cup. She’s making love to the good Reverend Tipsy. Her foraged nettle and sunchoke frittata with flavors of spring remains largely untouched.

“I’ll take that.” Fritz Kind’s nephew has fast hands. He slides the Gin and Jam across the table and shelters it under a seersucker sleeve.

Alvaro disappears. Alvaro reappears. “Your tea.”

The Sugar Queen opens a packet of Florida Fine and pours it into her glass. The paper, a milky green, is the color of the veil that hangs between her mind and memory. It shades Easter bowties and cotillion gowns, rehab lobby walls, ancient Oldsmobiles crossing cane fields in the summer heat. The color of the Florida Fines. She stirs and watches the white crystals dissolve in her tea.

The little blonde thing has disappeared into her iPhone. “Is there an emoji for ennui?” she ponders aloud, hands cradled, head bowed in prayer.

“Wasn’t she murdered?” asks Fritz Kind’s nephew.

“Who?” The Sugar Queen reaches for another packet.

“The kidnapped cleaner.”

Shrugging, the Sugar Queen rips, empties, stirs, and sips.

“God, I wish someone would murder our cleaner,” says Fritz Kind’s nephew, casually scanning the courtyard for familiar faces.

“Should we break out of the bubble,” the son of Dave Mitcham Jr. asks. “Put on the old traveling shoes? Harbor Village?”

Fritz Kind’s nephew sighs. “Potemkin village?”

“C’mon. It’s nice. Taverna Kalli’s there.”

“Sure, paradise,” he smiles. “Just don’t peek behind the facade. Chinese drywall and immigrant bones. Give it five years. It’ll look like a Balkan ghetto.”

“Really? Cheap building materials keeping you away?” The son of Dave Mitcham Jr. probes for underbelly.

“I don’t want to encourage it.”

“Like saying your shit soufflé is poorly plated,” says the little blonde thing, thumbs atwitter, to a semi-circle of raised eyebrows.

“Well, sure, there’s bigger problems.” Fritz Kind’s nephew shifts in his seat.

“Lack of authenticity,” says the Sugar Queen.

“Lack of authenticity,” nods Fritz Kind’s nephew. He clasps fingers behind his neck and, elbows akimbo, stares up into a cloudless sky. “So, no options? Nothing new under the sun?” As he speaks, a solitary turkey vulture sweeps a lazy circle overhead.

“Starved for choice,” says the son of Dave Mitcham Jr.

“Spoiled?” corrects the little blonde thing.

“Spoiled?” asks the son of Dave Mitcham Jr.

“For choice.” She looks up from her phone with a smile.

“Yes, we have no choice,” he exhales.

“Plus, Helene hates Taverna Kalli.” The Sugar Queen severs the thread.

The mention of Helene Sharawi forces the son of Dave Mitcham Jr. back in his chair. In his tenure as local food critic, he had only been taken semi-seriously. He used phrases like pretty good, worth a try, and not half bad.  He knew bearnaise from hollandaise and looked the part at the time; tweed jacket, manicured beard, and enough pale, doughy heft to suggest an appropriate familiarity with his work. But even among the appreciative ranks of his rapidly dying readers, his critiques rang hollow—bound together by a character flaw. An off-putting appreciation of all things.

The son of Dave Mitcham Jr.’s struggle to remain relevant—his efforts to elbow his way into the dim glow of social media starlight—only served to humiliate. At the opening of the Sugar Queen’s organic dog bakery Waggle, he live-streamed his enthusiastic gobbling of each canine treat while affixed to a bejeweled leash. @fatandhappy_23 called him old skool pathetic. @feudyfoody called him thirsty the dog faced man. The Sugar Queen called him Tom Woof. He was smitten. She was intrigued. His fawning was endearing to her. The residue of his minor fame and family connections doubly so.

As a boy, the son of Dave Mitcham Jr. was encouraged to fail upward. As a Mitcham, there was nowhere to fail but down.

The Sugar Queen gently pats the top of the son of Dave Mitcham Jr.’s hand before continuing.  “We’re thinking of investing in edible landscaping.” The clamor of a passing party prompts her to reinforce the words with mime. She picks fruit from a phantom vine and pops it in her mouth.

“Papaya, cranberry-hibiscus . . .” She begins counting them on her fingers.

The little blonde thing shields her mouth with a napkin and slides a hand underneath to discreetly fiddle with her teeth.  

“Don’t be prim. It’s just fucking nettle. Have at it,” says Fritz Kind’s nephew. He is distracted. Somewhere else.

“. . . banana, mango . . .”

Dropping the napkin on her plate, the little blonde thing stands and loudly clomps her espadrille heels across the saltillo enroute to the bathroom.

“Such,” Fritz Kind’s nephew pauses for effect. “Such a drama queen.”

“. . . avocado, lemon. The possibilities are endless.”

“Possibilities?” The son of Dave Mitcham Jr. repeats the only word he heard.

“Edible landscaping.” 

The son of Dave Mitcham Jr. falls silent. His tongue swirls inside his mouth. It’s a tic that tells the Sugar Queen he’s stewing. Fritz Kind’s nephew always rubs him the wrong way. 

“Who has time for edible landscaping?” asks Fritz Kind’s nephew.

“Everyone. None of us are busy. Like real people busy.” The Sugar Queen is back to competing with the din of cherub urine. “You know? Always doing something, never doing anything?” Emptying another packet of Florida Fine into her tea, she resumes stirring. Her movements have become exaggerated. The spoon clinks off the walls of her glass like a dinner bell.

Neighboring tables stare without staring. A silent blabber of glances. Behind menus. From the corners of eyes. They wonder. Try to interpret. To draw connecting lines. Because this assemblage of somebodies demands deciphering. It must mean something. This string of twinkling lights. This dubious constellation.

The son of Dave Mitcham Jr. rises from his chair and holds an index finger in the air before following the little blonde thing to the bathroom.

“Mister Do-Good, doing good,” the Sugar Queen serenades.

“Completely unnecessary.” Fritz Kind’s nephew leans into the Sugar Queen. “A vote for the soap opera.”

“He is who he is. She’s so pretty by the way. Who was her . . .”

“Former patron? The old guy on the billboards—the yellow hat guy.” Fritz Kind’s nephew doffs an invisible cap.

“Really? Him? Wow. How did he die again?”

“Fellatio induced heart attack.”

“No.”

Fritz Kind’s nephew closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Of course not.”

“You’re awful,” says the Sugar Queen, placing a hand on his. As skin touches skin, the face of Fritz Kind’s nephew locks in a knot.

“What the fuck?” Fritz Kind’s nephew swivels his jaw. Tilting forward, he spits a bloody molar into an open palm. “My tooth just fell out.” He thrusts it under the Sugar Queen’s nose—places a probing finger in his mouth. “What in the ever-living fuck?” he garbles, his face washed in a greenish pallor. Honeydew, the Sugar Queen thinks. Celadon. Sea foam. Old man’s beard. Fritz Kind’s nephew slides his chair back with a screech, stands and stumbles toward the garden gate.

“We could also plant lemongrass. It grows like a weed,” says the Sugar Queen to herself, signaling for the check. Before she can lower her arm, Alvaro has topped off the tea, placed an embossed leather sleeve on the table, and tactfully removed a bloody napkin from the top of the little blonde things’ half-eaten frittata.

Hearth’s excellence doesn’t end on the plate. The service is simply exceptional, writes Sharawi. Here, in this once sacred space, intuitive attentiveness is central to an experience that considers all the senses—that transforms the interaction between diner and environment into something deeper. There are patterns at work here that our ancient brains embrace. Hearth is harmony. Calm. Existential safe harbor. It is meal that is more than meal. It is communion with our essential selves. The four stars awarded here are not only well deserved, but perhaps insufficient.

Just above the slosh of the fountain, the Sugar Queen can hear the rattling of the garden gate. Fritz Kind’s nephew should know they keep it locked on Sundays. Brushing back the bougainvillea to retrieve her hidden purse, she touches the tip of her tongue to an incisor and feels it gently give way.

—

Michael Murphy’s fiction has featured or is forthcoming in Conjunctions, Notre Dame Review, and La Piccioletta Barca. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee and finalist for the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize. Home is currently Florida and formerly London, where Michael wrote a satirical column for the Hampstead Village Voice.