The Good News is that I Can Save My Money From Now On.

My uncle and aunt like to go out to dinner with my parents from time to time.  But since my mother is now total care, and she still likes to go out, and I appear to be the only one of the "kids" who is willing to help out in this way, I "get the duty."  I could say I get a meal out of it.  But...

Last night, the five of us went to Cote, a French restaurant at 9999 NE 2nd Avenue in Miami Shores.  My uncle and aunt have been there before (my uncle estimates it has been about 4-5 times), and since they love French cooking, and this is French cooking, then they love Cote.  Also, the owner's name is Ivan, as is the middle child of my uncle and aunt.  So between one thing and another, Cote got the call.  At least it was better than Smith and Wollensky on the southern tip of Miami Beach, which is where we went last time we had this outing.

We arrived at about 6:30, and the place was empty.  It was more than half full about an hour later, so it seems we were just the early birds.  Ivan greets you, and his assistant brings you menus.  And water.  At some point, she brings you bread and some amuses bouche, which were modest pastries of no significant moment.

It doesn't take terribly long for Ivan to take your order.  The same cannot be said of fulfillment of that order.  And it seems Ivan knows what you're thinking, because the menu says "Fast Food is Not Good, and Good Food is Not Fast."  Were it only that simple.

The menu is not extensive-- why should it be, in a restaurant with seating for only about 20-30 people?-- but it's varied enough.  My aunt very fondly recalled Cote's carrot soup, but that item was not on the menu last night.  Not every dish survives the rotation.  There were more than enough other choices, though.  For people like me, who prefer to eat vegetarian, there was one item in the entrees: spinach raviolis.  If I refused to eat dairy, too, which I sometimes do, I would have been out of luck.  But I get ahead of myself here.

I was not sure how the bill would be divided.  My guess was that we would divide it in thirds.  I eat more than anyone else anyway, so I had no real complaint about paying a third.  And I don't order wine or dessert in restaurants, so I figured I was entitled to eat whatever I wanted.  Soups at Cote are $7.50 a serving, but they had a "trilogy" for $9.  Never having been to Cote, I thought it would be best if I tried three kinds of soup.  And it was so cost effective that I couldn't resist anyway.  So pea, lentil, and zucchini and potato it was.  The goat cheese salad, with apples and nice-sounding veggies, seemed irresistible, too, and I was willing to pay $15 for it.  My raviolis were going to cost $24.  My father ordered "what he's [I'm] having."  He eats a lot, too.  My mother ordered only beef tagine.  My aunt ordered onion soup and foie gras.  My uncle ordered the raviolis.  He's a light eater, so that was it for him.

To make a long, and not very happy, story shorter, the service was more than frustrating.  You can see that Ivan likes money, and he doesn't mind charging lots of it for the dishes he serves.  It seems he doesn't like to share the available money, though, so he's the only real waitstaff.  Only Ivan takes orders.  I guess that's his way of corraling most of the tip money, too.

Dishes come when they come.  And they don't come in any real order.  When I got my soups, my uncle got his raviolis.  My aunt got her onion soup.  At some point, my mother got her beef tagine.  We had to ask what happened to my father's soups, which should have been served at the same time mine were.  With this stimulus, my father's soups arrived.  Then, we waited.  My aunt got her foie gras.  My uncle was all but done. He was helping my mother, who has a difficult time feeding herself and was sitting next to him.  My father and I were wondering what happened to the rest of our meals, which supposedly then included salads and raviolis.  I told Ivan's assistant to cancel the salads, since it was getting late and we were just as happy to move it along and confine ourselves to the entrees. The result of the request to cancel the salads was delivery of the salads.  Ivan brought them, and I told him they had been cancelled.  He took them away.  But then I got to thinking.  When Ivan reappeared, I asked if the raviolis, those which had been served to my uncle some time ago, were almost ready.  If they weren't, my father and I would take the salads, and we would cancel the raviolis instead.  Yes, Ivan reassured, the raviolis were ready.  Apparently, they really weren't, but they came before anyone got more fed up.

We finished with profiteroles.  We got two orders, for the two couples (as I said, I don't do dessert at restaurants), and these two orders amounted to eight small profiteroles.  I have never understood profiteroles.  I have had them, and they are never better than a poor excuse for dessert.  They taste cheap.  And since no one had a stomach as big as his or her eyes were, except I always do, I not only ate some of them, but I ate more than I wanted.

The food was tolerable.  Maybe some of it was more or less good.  None of it was any better than that.  I had to finish my mother's tagine, and it was distinctly disappointing.  My soups were nothing special, and the raviolis were as good as they needed to be.  Portions were small, as is supposed to suggest high quality, or maybe rarity.  Absence might make the heart grow fonder, but it's not very filling.  Nothing at Cote dazzled.  Except the prices.

My uncle took out his credit card.  I took out mine.  My father, whose memory is worth, um, not that much, had forgotten his.  But he had an idea.  I (he) would pay for everyone, and he would pay me back.  I did mention my father's memory, right?  So dinner was on me, and unless I plan to remind him that he owes me $170, it will stay that way.

I won't be back to Cote.