Tableau Vivante

My wife and I, we have an affinity for the beef.  So as the seventh day of our trip drew to a close, we sought out the Dolphin Resort wherein lies Shula’s.

We arrived at dusk, a bit early for our reservation, which gave us the time for a sunset walk around the lagoon.

As night fell, it was time to head back to the hotel.  Our table awaited.

There is a casual elegance about the Dolphin.  The canopied lobby was aglow primarily from its large central fountain.

From there, you enter the restaurant proper, a wood-wrapped, amber lit enclave of all things football and meat.

Yes, Shula is Don Shula of Miami Dolphins fame, the team he led to a pair of Super Bowl victories.  Hey!  Waaaaait a minute.  Dolphin resort?  I just got that…

As you might expect, Shula’s makes no bones (except maybe T-bones) about its status as a red-blooded American steak house.  And if you didn’t expect it, the cart full of Saran-wrapped slabs of supper they wheel up tableside will definitely set things straight.

I had an inkling this might be a worthy feed, so I thought I would go light with a house chopped salad.  What I got was more than just the tip of the iceberg lettuce.

My leafy Matterhorn came snow-capped with tangy, crumbling Bleu cheese.  Above the timberline it was diced red onion and leaning heavily on the side were two mammoth planks of Beefsteak tomato so fresh and rich they were sweet.  A light rain of balsamic and fresh-cracked pepper was all that was needed to bring life to the mountain.

My wife fared no better in her pursuit of temperance than I.

Her French onion soup arrived hermetically sealed beneath a caramelized cap of Gruyère.  Carving her way inside, she found a broth so thick as to be more aptly described “onion stew.”

With those starters cleared from the table, our waiter presented us both with gleaming serrated weapons whose purpose was clear.  We steeled ourselves to make war on the bovine species.

For me, rare is the only way to go with steak.  The better the cut and the more I trust the chef, the rarer I like to go.  When the waiter asked me how I wanted my filet done, I held up my hand and swept my fingers outward dismissively.  “Just have him walk it by the fire.”

What I got was pure meat fantasy in every butter-braised bite.  I hardly touched the dish of herbed Bernaise, though the side of sautéed onions and forest mushrooms was just the accompaniment.

To wash down the quintessential American bloodfest, you need a Napa cab.  I ordered a 2004 half-bottle of Darioush.  It was thick with dark berries and the firm tannins cut cleanly through all the fat.  A perfect match.

Khaledi Darioush is an Iranian immigrant who grew up in Shiraz, the place that lent its name to the grape and a wine growing region of Iran until the Islamic revolution.  Now Californians receive the gift of his passion for wine.

No good steak house dinner is complete without dessert, and cake follows meat like, well…meatcake.

I couldn’t fumble the camera out of my pocket fast enough to capture it in its pristine state.  My wife was all over this classic rendition of a chocolate lava cake like a bulldog on a meat truck.  Gutted and bleeding its molten chocolate innards, she dressed the carcass in vanilla buttercream sauce and had at it.

I think the only thing missing was a pair of wheelchairs to get us out of there after it all.

Thank you, Don.  It was both touchdown and extra point.

-inspector vino