MIAMI ON FIRE
The South Beach hotel fire alarm roused me out of bed at 3 a.m.
I was relieved that I smelled burning laundry and not the kitchen. Which made me realize I was hungry. And thirsty.
No room service at that hour and the firemen would not let me into the kitchen. Instead I found the mercifully-unlocked poolside bar, and the first prep cook just arriving for work.
“Stone crab claws, sir? You mean with your eggs?”
He called them “manitos de cangrejo.” No eggs yet, I said, “just the big hands.” Manos.
A plate of colossals arrived.