Reviewing Miami and then some. Gratuitous vulgarity included.

Hollywood Chillbar

Chillbar is weird, and we’ll get to why in a second, but first let me tell you that the food is awesome and I’ll be going back. It’s kinda like how you’ll watch a trashy reality show and think, “this is strange”, but you keep watching shamelessly because you’re entertained. Replace trashy reality show with food and “watching shamelessly” with “eating gluttonously” and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Or whatever.

First off, this place is in Broward, which is a giant “fuck you” in my eyes. To me, Broward is just this place with black people, gay people, and wide roads. That’s not why I hate it, though (black people are cool, gay people are cool, gay black people are THE BEST), I hate it because everyone is so nice. You can’t trust randomly-nice people in South Florida. If we were in St. Paul, Minnesota or one of those southern cities that is simultaneously considered openly racist and teeming with southern hospitality, then yeah, sure, you can trust those nice people. But not South Florida nice people. You can’t be three I-95 exits from the rudest people in the Western Hemisphere and not have some of that shit rub off on you. If Florida is America’s cock, Broward is where the smegma coalesces. What I’m saying is, fuck Broward, with all their expansive green lawns perfect for one thing.

What’s that?


If you feel like taking a drive up there, you’re going to show up to a farmer’s market a block or two from the highway and wonder if you’re at the right place. As it turns out, you are. Chillbar is conveniently located inside a farmer’s market that you’ll have trouble parking at. On our way to the restaurant, Dana saw some plants she wanted to buy. When the lady said, “we don’t take credit cards, only cash,” I wasn’t fazed. However, when we got to the restaurant and I took a cursory glance at the ambiance, I started wondering if these people even took cash, or if they traded strictly in quinoa grains and patchouli.

Chillbar is conveniently located inside a farmer’s market that you’ll have trouble parking at.

There was a sign that read something like “Please Wait for the Empress to Seat You”. I saw a lady with a tiara and flagged her down, called her the empress, and she said, “Oh, no, I’m the princess.” Of course she is. She seated us, and a few moments later a lady flies over with her mosquito/fairy wings and starts taking our order, but not before openly flirting with my girlfriend. I’m cool with that, I’m not really bothered when someone brazenly hits on Dana unless their jaw is chiseled or they’re one of those guys from one of those bullshit vampire shows she likes to watch.

I just now tried looking up the exact names of what we had for brunch, but their website is erroring out on the menu page. I had some eggs with salmon, croissant, and salad. I think it was called the “chill eggs” or something like that. Dana had French toast with a side of unwanted, mild sexual advances. It was a serious French toast, so my compliments to the chef. We also had some strawberry lemonade that made me wish I had taste buds on the roof of my mouth just so I could savor more of it. I wish I had more of the menu to list out, but since I don’t, I’ll just mention some things I’m pretty sure you can order if you ask:

  • LGBT bumper stickers
  • PETA flyers
  • NPR t-shirts
  • Homeopathic remedies (we received this when we asked for water)
  • Weed
  • Chakra?

Your mileage may vary.

With that said, I fucking love this place.

So where the hell is it?
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