Reviewing Miami and then some. Gratuitous vulgarity included.

The Oceanaire’s Brunch

The most prominent things I learned throughout the various Black History Months I’ve experienced are: Rosa Parks wasn’t cool, because everybody knows all the cool kids sit in the back of the bus; George Washington Carver probably didn’t have a peanut allergy; and, of course, chicken and waffles.

In the past, I’ve reviewed the Oceanaire. But then I heard from a little birdie called “a newsletter” that they’re experimenting with brunch. I’ve made my love of brunch very well known multiple times in the past, so judging by how much I enjoyed their dinner, I figured I’d give brunch a shot.

My girlfriend and I showed up on Sunday afternoon, and like idiots, we sat inside. Sitting inside on a beautiful, warm, sunny Miami day is reserved for albinos and people in witness protection. But I wasn’t thinking. You can tell they just started this brunch shit, since we were the only people there. Hang on, let me amend that: we were the only people inside, because I’m a moron.

…because my love for it is the blackest thing about me besides dodging bill collectors.

The menu had your typical brunch items along with fishy things like crab cakes. Oh, wanna know how I know the chef is Caribbean? Because there’s a jerk chicken sandwich on the brunch menu. And also, he told me so a while ago. And I read it somewhere too. You know what wasn’t on the menu, though? Bacon. But we ordered it anyway, because we assumed they just forgot to add that in there. For my entree, I had the chicken and waffles, because my love for it is the blackest thing about me besides dodging bill collectors. iOS 7 finally made it easy to block a number from ringing, which means you’re never getting that $127, DirecTV. Dana surrendered herself to the French toast.

Before the meal, they brought out their typical sourdough bread and the ice plate with carrots, olives, and some other shit. The ice plate felt a little out of place for brunch, and we mostly ignored it. When it was time for our meals, my carnivore senses tingled. Something was happening, I could feel it, though I wasn’t sure what it was. Then it happened. They brought out the bacon.

What did it look like?

So thick it should’ve been dancing in a rap video.

I expected a plate with 4-5 slices of modestly-thick bacon. Instead, we got one giant slab of the boar that killed Robert Baratheon. The bacon was so thick, it gave me performance anxiety. It had to be more than 1/2″ thick. It was glorious. We ate half of it and took the other half home and made a stew with it. That last bit isn’t even an exaggeration.

The chicken in my chicken and waffles plate was crispier than a bag of Lays. It had the perfect Caribbean seasoning, and each of the two slices were actually thinner than the bacon. The waffle was fluffy and buttery. When the chicken, waffle, and syrup came together, I understood the meaning of life, which is “EAT MORE OF THIS FUCKING SHIT IMMEDIATELY.” If I died right now, Oceanaire’s chicken and waffles would be in the highlight reel, right after that time I saw the DVD logo hit the corner perfectly.

How special were those waffles?

If I ever have twins, one will be named Chicken, and the other will be named Todd.

Dana’s French toast was good, and she enjoyed it. They used Cuban bread for it, which was interesting, and she wondered if the Cuban busboys baked the bread in-house or if they picked it up at Presidente Supermarket every morning. I had just a bite, but I was too infatuated with my meal to give a shit about anything else. A part of me died when I was finished.

What about the French toast

It looks like three fucking steaks!

For dessert I ordered a key lime pie. Dana ordered nothing, because I DEMAND she keep her figure, and also she was full. The pie was approximately 3.14159265358979 times bigger than I expected it to be, and delicious. You know how most key lime pies are a little too zesty and thus not perfect? This one was perfect. I took half of it home and enjoyed it in my underwear at midnight.

Honestly, though, I expected all of that going into this; great food and flawless service. I’ve never been let down by Oceanaire before. What I didn’t expect was the price. It was actually reasonable. It cost roughly the same as a similar meal in Balans right across the street, and while Balans is good, it’s no Oceanaire. I’d suggest going ASAP before they realize their mistake and start appending zeros all over their menu.

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