They say you can never go home...Unless you take a trip to Fort Lauderdale, FLA

So now I'm back from that wedding. The abridged version of the story is that is was great to see a few college friends and the wedding itself was outstanding....Very well coordinated. The weather was great and I wish all the success to my friend Dan B and his lovely wife and new family. OK, for the longer version, read below....

After a short delay in HOU, Andrea and I arrived in Fort Lauderdale (I'll call it FTL) around 6pm. The arrival was uneventful, and we actually processed all the way through the dodgy rental car outfit (EZ Rental on the net?) and left the airport with the top down on our convertible. There were 4 Cornell guys on this trip, and I'd get to see 2 of the other 3 that evening.

The wedding was on a Sunday, so most people weren't going to be centrally located until Saturday night. We had a few hours to kill before meeting up with Scott G, so Andrea and I decided to hunt around for dinner options. We were staying in a Hampton Inn (I.e. No amenities - that's where they suggested to stay), so we would have to wonder around in the car.

The highways in this part of Florida are quite familiar. In fact, I grew up a mere 1300 miles north of there from Greenwich CT to FLD. I grew up within a few miles of both US1 and I-95. It seemed weird at the time.

Looking around for a place to eat was dire. You'd think that in such a touristy area, there would be loads of high-end places, but we just couldn't find them. We took the worst route possible north on US1 to Boca Raton, mistakenly turned toward the ocean (thinking to get off the service road and head for the ocean) and we didn't find a thing for 10-15 miles that wasn't a chain or fast food.

Reaching despair, we find a liquor store. I suggested to stop there, as I needed to fill the pinot grigio tank for the remainder of the weekend. As we make a U-turn (you cannot make legal U-turns in FLA and there is no provision to make a left turn at any logical point along the roads), we spy an Italian restaurant in a strip center and pull in. We have to valet the car, so we've effectively missed out on the pinot run.

The restaurant is called Rino Vesuvio....Sounds familiar.

We enter the place and it looks pretty good. There's a great patio (but a bit too hot), a small bar with a huge LCD TV and about a 1/2 full dining area. We ask about the wait and we are told a few minutes. We take a seat at the bar. There are many native Italians on the waitstaff and the proprietor looks like he's just gotten off the boat from Sicily.

When we order our first Pinot (after waiting about 10 minutes) we are served by a very nice, but sun-ridden older lady who is tending the small bar (and the whole restaurant), alone. During that 10 minutes, we see her struggle with Gin and Tonics, Chevas on Ice (what would you think is in a Chevas on Ice?) and some simple concoction with grenadine, vodka, and grand marnier. Thankfully, we are just ordering pinot, so we are served only after 2 waiters help her open a bottle. We're off to a great start.

During this amusement, we notice that many parties have been seated before us. I meander over to the reservation book, which looks lightly filled. Only a few more minutes, I hear.

Through those at the bar and those being seated, we notice something common....They all seem to be from NY/NJ (David would say, "What exit?"). Their accents are sharp and biting. Their patience thin. Their seating? Prompt. I've obviously become a naturalized Texan.

I really don't miss those accents. I love NY and New England, but there's a reason why I stayed down here....The tonals and lack of patience are biting and pervasive. I write it off as a random occurrence (foreshadow alert!)

We see fantastic dishes coming out of the kitchen. Veal, salads, canneloni, all looking near perfection.

We down another pinot.

My friends Scott and Ali are going to join us. We don't know if they are going to eat, but they will be close in another 30 minutes. We tell the hostess for a 4-top, but we implore her to seat us before their arrival (we didn't want to get stuck with a 2-top) so we could order some salads.

Pinot #3. I think I've seen back to back episodes of Law and Order SVU.

We are finally seated and greeted by a seasoned veteran server with, a bit of a strong Italian-native accent. We feel almost obligated to order by his choosing (you want split? I think you should - no, OK, Silvo, please just get us a salad). We start ordering by the bottle to eliminate the need for the bartender to struggle with the corkage.

In the end, I have to admit, the meal was fabulous. Andrea had a fantastic canneloni drenched in tomato basil sauce and I had a house specialty of veal medallions with artichokes and grilled peppers. Our friends joined us, we cleared them out of all the wine they had under $30/bottle, I remastered the intonnations of my long-lost demanding accent, and we figured that there was no way we could run into that sort of issue again. Our could we?

Only after arriving home and watching the Sopranos did I realize that their restaurant is also called Vesuvio's. Go figure.

We met up with the Groom and the many from the wedding party at a seaside bar after dinner. We missed this joint by 1-2 miles, which would have been a perfect start of the evening. Last call was a 2am, but we were shuttled out at 1:30am. It obviously wasn't Spring Break any more. Could we possibly be on a relatively tame weekend with college friends? No way.

Tomorrow, I'll address Saturday.