The Bubbly Q

When I stepped out on the beach I ran into Carlos, one of the most handsome of South Beach's cops (and nice, too). He saw me with my ever-present camera and said, "Me? You want a photo of me?" Some day we'll have a private session, OK?

The BBQ by chefs around the country was exhilarating. I was asked this morning what I liked most about it, and I said the ability to sample so many different, extreme tastes. There was one valuable lesson learned: don't try to eat BBQ'd quail holding the plate and a glass of champagne; it doesn't work.

Another lesson (supposedly learned last year): don't wear black, Brooks Bros., cap-toed shoes on a beach unless you want to appear not to have thought out the night. Like any other event of this type, there were belly dancers, acrobats, and fire twirlers, but you really couldn't pay attention to the entertainment with all that gorgeous food around. There was so much it was embarrassing; you either gorged yourself and suffered the consequences or you maintained some decorum and felt cheated. I took the latter road and arrived home just in time to catch him sneaking out. Yes, no one could believe that I could tear myself away from the bacchanal and made plans to visit a friend for dinner. I momentarily considered returning--or at least going back to The Palace--when I heard the pitter-patter of rain that turned into a deluge. Those poor people on the beach, I smugly thought.