Topped Chef(26)

I moved away from the crowd and nibbled the fritter—hot and tender, not at all fishy, chewy, or heavy as I might have predicted. And the green sauce tasted like a rémoulade, with the faintest flavor of lime. I jotted a few notes, dumped my trash, and loosed myself into the stream of revelers headed toward our second stop. This was a crowd on a mission.

The next stop was Hot Tin Roof restaurant, two blocks away and tucked a stone’s throw from Duval Street. We passed through an outdoor eating area on the porch upstairs and went into the bar overlooking the water. Bartenders poured red wine as servers passed shrimp skewers al ajillo, which seemed to translate to “load on the garlic.”

I inhaled every spicy bite, set my empty plate and wineglass on the counter, and trotted downstairs toward Wall Street. Our next destination, El Meson de Pepe, a Cuban restaurant right off Mallory Square, had outdoor seating that ran the length of the alley leading from Mallory Square to Duval Street. Lively music, pitchers of margaritas, and inexpensive food catered to hungry tourists in their post-sunset celebration daze. I claimed my plantain cup filled with Cuban roast pork and had another glass of pinot noir thrust upon me, which I promptly poured into a potted palm. Any more alcohol and I’d have no business on my scooter. The pork was tasty, though also deep fried and rich.

By now I would have killed for a carrot stick, though what chef would choose salad or veggies as a showcase for his talents? I trailed the crowd to another upstairs venue, the Roof Top Café. With vaulted ceilings and twinkling lights, this restaurant appeared spacious and welcoming. I accepted another glass of white wine and ate half of a shrimp and crab cake; delicious, though drenched in butter. I could feel my cholesterol count shooting up as the evening progressed.

Feeling fat-saturated and close to exhausted, I marched off to our final and most exotic tour stop, dessert on a yacht. I checked my stroll cheat sheet to get the details: The Barefoot Yacht, docked at the Westin Key West Resort and Marina Pier, promised key lime–infused phyllo tartlets drizzled with a dark chocolate sauce. My mouth began to water.

I got in line to board the yacht, which looked to be about twice the height and length of Miss Gloria’s houseboat. It was tethered a stone’s throw from the Custom House Museum, at the slip near to the pier where the cruise ships docked. Why would anyone want to dock a boat here, even for a night or two? I would be embarrassed to sit out on the deck while tourists streamed by, ogling my indulgences and wondering why I deserved what most folks couldn’t even dream of. When we reached the gangplank, bouncers in green golf shirts instructed us to remove our shoes. As the woman in front of me argued that her rubber flip-flops would not leave marks on the deck, I shucked off my sandals and was helped aboard. A young man in a pressed blue shirt passed out flutes of champagne as we entered the living area.

While waiting for the dessert to materialize, I explored the yacht for a few minutes, first checking out the upper deck—spacious enough for a dozen sunbathers—and then peeking into the berths on the lower level, which looked like actual hotel rooms. Definitely roomier and much more extravagant than Miss Gloria’s tub, but not nearly so homey. There was still no sign of the key lime tartlets so I wandered down a passageway toward the bow.

A heavyset woman wearing thick makeup bustled out of the kitchen and blocked my way. “No admittance here, ma’am,” she said. “This is a working galley.”

I apologized and backpedaled quickly, but not before catching a glimpse of a man in chefs’ whites squirting chocolate syrup from a plastic bottle onto a tray of desserts. He had thick eyebrows, a mustache, and a ponytail down his back. It took me a minute to connect the dots. This pastry chef was Buddy Higgs, one of the contestants from the Topped Chef contest. Buddy Higgs? Plastic chocolate? For a man enamored of molecular gastronomy, that struck me as sloppy and lazy. Astonishing. I returned to the living room and watched a few minutes of basketball on the flat-screen TV that covered most of one wall.

Finally, the woman I’d seen in the galley emerged from the hall with a platter of pastries and passed them around. I took one bite of the dessert, which should have puckered my mouth with the tart flavor of key limes. Instead the custard’s sweetness made my fillings ache. Smothered in the saccharine corn syrup chocolate, the concoction was barely edible. I covered the rest with a paper napkin and slipped it into the trash. Then I abandoned my plastic flute of champagne on a shelf near the oversized television, and started for the exit. Enough was enough. I didn’t even want to think about the conflict of interest involved in panning a dessert made by one of the contestants from the Topped Chef contest. If only I hadn’t nosed into the galley, I scolded myself. Really, it was too late to worry.