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.