2006-03-01
tropical wine
Did you know that Miami boasts its own winery? I couldn't imagine making vino out of bizarre tropical juices like lychee and carambola--the yellow-gold fruit that you cut into star-shaped slices. It sounded like a tourist trap.
We took my aunt there last weekend. Drove down to homestead, past the U-pick strawberry fields and empty pastures spread like tines on a garden rake. Dark-skinned workers bent toward the ground, as if praying under their straw hats. I rolled down the window and smelled green things growing, horse manure and dust. A sour breeze choked my throat. I caught a glimpse of something crumpled on the side of the road, dappled like a cow. No, a dead dog swarming with flies.
The winery didn't look like the pictures in my Tuscan travel guide. No wine barrels parked out front like ammunition. No vines twisting in the fields. Just a gravel parking lot and a ranch-style house.
Inside I saw a crowd of middle-aged husband and wife teams in matching cargo shorts and baseball caps, munching on Saltines inbetween swigs of purplish liquid.
The blue-eyed man behind the counter reminded me of a sailor, all sunburned and smiling. He was talking about grapes, how it took thousands of years to perfect the recipe for wine. Mama said it would take that long to get his passionfruit wine as smooth as cabernet. She took a sip and winced as it burned down her throat. Not a smooth finish, she said. Too sweet. Not enough legs or bouquet or whatever.
I ditched the tasting in favor of a walk. On the other side of the building I found a waterfall crashing over a manmade concrete lagoon.
A tent was pitched nearby, as if waiting for a wedding. I studied the plants sprouting in the diamond-bright heat, including a pineapple growing out of a pot, fruit on a stick, waiting to be diced.
Driving home, we stopped at one of those Mexican cafes beside US-1. Some don't look any better than shacks. We chose the one with the most trucks parked out front--Puerto Vallarta. I could hear music before I swung open the door. A man dressed like a spangled matador was warbling lovesick ballads under a mural of New York (before 9-11).
The diners turned and stared at us gringos, the only pale-skinned people in the place (which I took as a good sign). I ate everything off my fajita, including the soft brown beans that I usually push to the side.
It tasted so fresh, instead of coating my tongue with salt and grease in a Taco Bell kind of way. The waitress kept smiling and piling more plates on the table until we ran out of room.
Everyone wanted coffee on the way back. So we stopped at Starbucks in Pinecrest. As I sat at a table in the middle of the sweltering parking lot, sipping my iced latte and listening to the sea-sound of traffic, I couldn't help thinking of the strawberry fields, how they stretched farther than I could see, father than I would ever walk.
f-i-n at 11:50 a.m.